Date: 2021-03-10 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy
Description: A rolling gnome gathers no moss. The kobolds’ Core has been destroyed. The Grotto is safe once more, and the gnomes are finally beginning to regroup. But when a greater threat rises, their only hope of survival is to embark upon a monumental exodus, abandoning everything they’ve built and striking out across the surface in search of a new home. As the god of gnomes, Corey must place more faith than ever before in his denizens - and a few unexpected allies. Driven from their underground realm, the gnomes’ skills and resilience will be tested to their limits by deadly terrain, vicious wildlife,
Publisher: Portal Books
Rights: Copyright 2021 Demi Harper. All rights reserved.

Exodus of Gnomes

God Core #2

Demi Harper

Contents

God of Gnomes — The Story So Far

God of Gnomes — Abilities

Prologue

1. Double Sight

2. Whack a Mole-Rat

3. Hunter

4. The Menagerie

5. Thank You, Electric Mouse

6. The Grotto

7. All Hail the Spider God

8. Cold Feet

9. The Lair of the Enemy

10. Trust Nobody

11. Bacon Butties

12. Scavengers

13. Too Easy

14. From Any Direction

15. A Core Named Corey

16. Tremble

17. Filthy Betrayer

18. A Holy Box

19. Professor Knox

20. Just One

21. Burst Its Banks

22. Aloof

23. Hammer Smash

24. Exodus

25. Interlude

26. Going Overground

27. Wet Dreams

28. Freedom

29. Council

30. Gnomads

31. Kidnapped!

32. Kind of Monster

33. The Librarinth

34. Hoot-Hoots

35. Too Many Cooks

36. Risk and Reward

37. Fury Badger

38. Not Crying

39. Seed

40. Finger Flingers

41. Stay on Topic, Old Man

42. Mr. Stiff's Sword Sharpener

43. Gno Man's Land

44. Frogs

45. Out of the Woods

46. The Marsh Zolom

47. The Jaws of Death

48. Creature Intersection

49. Bear Necessities

50. The Crossing

51. Red Water

52. Uldrazir

53. Disciple

54. A Knife in the Netherdark

55. The Only Way is Up

56. Unscorched

57. Not Part of the Plan

58. Misconceptions

59. Cannot End

60. Gardos

61. Lila

62. Trogloraptor

63. Control

64. Let There Be Light

65. No Time

66. Enough

67. Epilogue

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God of Gnomes — The Story So Far

After a long period of oblivion, Corey awoke with no memory of his former life to find himself in a cave beneath the ground. Accompanying him was a sprite named Ket, who explained that he was now a God Core: a soul trapped within a gem and forever tethered to whatever denizens the universe had assigned it to protect. In this case, those denizens were gnomes—a fact that impressed Corey not one bit.

Ket hastily brought him up to speed on the basics of being a God Core, including the fact that he would only really be able to influence denizens who became ‘Faithful’—in other words, who trusted their new god enough to begin actively worshiping him. As a fledgling Core, he only had one Faithful denizen—the gnome who’d unearthed his gem from among the roots of a mushroom tree, and whom Corey had dubbed ‘Gneil’ when he subsequently fell to his knees in worship—and would have to work hard to help the gnome tribe flourish in order to gain their loyalty.

Instinctively rebelling against these obligations, Corey struggled to adapt to his new role. The Augmentary—a handy interface that superimposes extra information upon reality and allows God Cores to manage their resources—gave him access to god-like magical abilities, which would become more powerful with each god tier he Ascended to. After a rocky start, Corey resolved to embrace this path of power—not to help the gnomes, but rather as a means to eventually escape his new (and unwanted) responsibilities and return to his former life.

However, to Ascend, Corey first had to gain the Faith of more of his denizens, which meant ensuring the Grotto was safe from harm. One of his abilities—Creation—allowed him to make ‘god-born’ defenders by splicing existing creatures together. The first of these—a fox-squirrel hybrid called a forrel—became Corey’s avatar, whom Ket named Ris’kin.

The first sign of real trouble came when a raiding party of kobolds invaded the Grotto, catching the gnomes unawares and kidnapping several of them—including Gneil. Terrified of the possible consequences of losing his only worshiper, Corey sent Ris’kin beyond his Sphere of Influence, where she was able to overcome Gneil’s kidnapper and return the lone acolyte to the Grotto. Gneil’s rescue, along with Ris’kin’s majestic presence, finally inspired the Faith of more gnomes—including Granny, Gneil’s rather stern and difficult-to-please supervisor.

But the rest of the kobolds’ victims didn’t fare so well. Using the Observe ability, Corey was able to locate his missing denizens just in time to witness their brutal sacrifice at the altar of a crimson God Core. Gaining this knowledge was almost the death of Corey; his overuse of Observe consumed most of his mana, prompting a very distressed Ket to explain that if he allows his mana globes to empty, he will literally shatter.

Corey was further shaken when a sinister voice intruded telepathically upon his mind, introducing itself as the kobolds’ core, Grimrock, and threatening further violence should Corey dare resist him again. Fearing another attack, Corey focused on building up his god-born army and increasing his own strength by any means possible, eventually reaching a high enough god tier to unlock construction-based abilities. These enabled him to allocate professions to his Faithful gnomes and assign them to work on various new buildings within the settlement. The construction of proper homes and other amenities gained Corey even more worshipers—and, more importantly (to Corey), more powerful abilities.

His newfound confidence was shattered when another pack of raiding kobolds—much more numerous and aggressive than the first—entered his Sphere of Influence. Corey threw the full strength of his god-born against them until they finally retreated, but not before Ris’kin was killed by Grimrock’s monstrous avatar. In the aftermath, to make matters even worse, Ket fled the Grotto after Grimrock revealed Corey to have been a dark elf in his former life.

Racked with unexpected sorrow and guilt, Corey finally committed himself to becoming the god the gnomes needed. With no sprite, no avatar, and no time to waste, he nonetheless managed to rally his denizens to continue their efforts to make the Grotto defensible—a task made all the more crucial by the completion of the creche, which housed a number of infant and juvenile gnomes. In spite of Grimrock’s latest ultimatum—that Corey must admit defeat and allow the kobolds to continue taking a monthly tithe of gnomes for sacrifice or face complete annihilation of the tribe—Corey refused to admit defeat.

His reformed attitude and newfound protectiveness prompted Ket to return. The sprite apologized for her earlier harsh judgment of Corey and confessed that she had been the gnomes’ former Core—and that a failed Core becomes the sprite for whoever comes after. With renewed determination, Corey and Ket enacted a dangerous ritual that succeeded in resurrecting Ris’kin, much to the gnomes’ improved morale. With nothing left to do but await the kobolds’ return, Corey and his allies did everything within their power to make the gnomes combat-ready and prepare the Grotto for a battle.

Grimrock flung the full might of his kobold army against them, but Corey was ready. After a near-disastrous deception that devastated most of Corey’s god-born in the initial assault, the gnomish warriors rallied to turn the tide of battle. With the timely assistance of three humans from the Adventurers’ Guild—Benin, a mage; Coll, a warrior; and Tiri, a scholar—they managed to drive the last remaining kobolds from the Grotto in a resounding, yet costly, victory.

Many brave gnomes lay dead on the blood-soaked battleground, and a grieving Corey decided enough was enough. He sent Ris’kin to accompany the three adventurers on their mission to destroy the wicked mind behind the kobolds’ invasion—Grimrock himself. But their intervention turned out to be unnecessary: when they arrived at the red Core’s lair, it was just in time to witness the few surviving kobolds turn against their god and shatter his Core themselves.

Though the gnomes still mourned their fallen brethren, Corey prepared himself to rebuild and move forward, and the humans departed with a promise that they would keep the Grotto’s existence a secret from the rapacious Adventurers’ Guild.

The Guildmaster, however, had other ideas…

God of Gnomes — Abilities

Insight

Tier 1 ability

All Cores have the innate ability to comprehend and store the blueprints of any non-intelligent life form that enters the Sphere of Influence.

Growth

Tier 2 ability

Mana-based

Enhances and accelerates the growth of vegetation, including fungi.

Creation

Tier 3 ability

Mana-based

Create god-born creatures by splicing the blueprints of identified life forms. (Corey can create up to five species at a time, to a maximum of thirty individual creatures.)

Observe

Tier 4 ability

Mana-based

Using a denizen as your target, extend your vision to see beyond your Sphere of Influence for a short time. This ability consumes a small amount of mana per second.

Scout

Tier 4 ability

Mana-based

Instruct denizens to leave your base in search of new resources.

Raid

Tier 4 ability

Mana-based

Instruct denizens to leave your base and attack a rival faction.

Divine Inspiration

Tier 5 ability

Inspire a truly Faithful denizen to attempt to perform a specific action (e.g. create an item).

Evolution

Tier 6 ability

Mana-based

Upgrade or evolve an existing life form. (Each evolution uses a Creation slot, reducing the number of creatures Corey can have in existence at the same time.)

Double Sight

Tier 8 ability

See through the eyes of your avatar, even outside of your Sphere of Influence. (Note: this does not allow for direct control of the avatar.)

Possession

Tier 8 ability

Mana-based

Assume direct control of a single denizen. (Constantly depletes mana. Only usable on denizens who are within the user’s Sphere of Influence.)

Prologue

The needle pricked his arm. A drop of darkness seeped into the tiny new hole in his flesh. When there was room for no more, the ink welled up on his skin’s surface, black liquid mingling with the watery crimson that had leaked from the wound since the procedure began.

Probably shouldn’t have drunk that pitcher of mead last night. He knew all about how alcohol thinned the blood; his familiar warned him about it every time, yet still he’d drunk more heavily than he was wont to the night before, as if to prove the creature wrong. As if to prove the world wrong.

As always, he’d failed.

Guildmaster Varnell watched his familiar, Limpit, wipe blood and ink from the tattoo area with a damp rag before continuing its steady progress with the hollow bone needle. When healed, this new mark would turn indigo like the others – another notch in his belt, so to speak. Seeing the collection expand usually made for an extremely satisfying reminder of his own prowess and ever-increasing power.

However, this particular trophy came with murkier connotations, since the conquest it marked had been entirely unintentional. It also had potentially deadly, far-reaching consequences.

The needle bit into a particularly sensitive spot and Varnell sucked in air through gritted teeth.

“Careful,” he growled at his familiar.

The creature clacked its mandibles, not looking up from its work. Limpit’s sharp fingertips dug into Varnell’s arm as it used two of its hands to stretch the skin it was tattooing. Varnell frowned. Had it ever needed to do that before? Was his skin growing looser? Wrinkling with the ravages of age?

To distract himself from that depressing line of thought, he said, “When we’re done here, I want you to check again that no evidence has been left behind. And be very thorough. We cannot be too cautious here. And beware impatience, for it is the enemy of discretion,” he added, though he struggled to heed his own words.

Two weeks. Two weeks since he’d caught that trio of upstarts sauntering away from a new Core – after absconding from the Guild against his direct orders, no less. That they’d failed to report to either him or the Arch-Academic in the intervening days only confirmed what he had suspected: they’d disobeyed his commands and destroyed his old ally Grimrock, then aligned themselves with this new purple Core. But had he hunted them down and punished their disobedience – nay, their treachery? No. No, he hadn’t. He’d done nothing.

Not that he had a choice in the matter. If past experience had taught him anything – and it had – it was that he should follow his patron’s instructions to the letter. Even when those instructions were to await further instructions. The inaction chafed; it was bad enough that his role as Guildmaster required him to spend most of his time in his tower office. The added frustration of being unable to send agents out to deal with those who’d wronged him made the waiting near unbearable.

Not that he had many agents left. He’d been forced to remove most of them over the years, cutting out the dead wood and trimming the loose ends until only one remained whom he could trust. Two, he corrected himself. Another had recently come back to him, damaged but still useful, and he’d sent them out once more with a final job to complete.

Even so, he knew the Arch-Academic would be sneering at his apparent indolence. Varnell felt his face flush with anger at the thought of the old toad's smug superiority. The man hadn't left the Academy in a decade for 'health reasons' – which Varnell suspected were related to the fact that the width of his doorframe could no longer accommodate him for egress – yet he saw fit to criticize Varnell’s leadership at every monthly council meeting. Which invariably left Varnell cursing the day the old king had decreed that the Adventurers' Guild and the Academy be merged, with their respective leaders sharing the responsibilities of co-rule.

He took a deep breath and let it out heavily through his nose, attempting to quell his inner turmoil. His patron cared little for his frustrations, and even less for mistakes. And things would go very badly for Varnell if that fell entity caught even the slightest hint that he’d failed him on that count already.

Suddenly paranoid, the Guildmaster twisted in his seat to ensure the mirror on the western wall remained safely covered. His elbow knocked the rickety stool beside him; it teetered sideways onto two legs and then righted itself, but not before the ink bottle toppled off the edge and smashed against the stone floor.

“Limpit, you dolt!” he cursed, swatting at the air near his misshapen familiar. It ducked its head in silent apology, though he sensed the emotional equivalent of an eyeroll from the creature as it scuttled over to the mess Varnell had made, deftly plucking shards of crystal from the spreading pool of ink.

In spite of his irritation, Varnell couldn’t help but admire the dexterity of its chitinous fingers, the appendages – along with the rest of its current form – granted by his own magic just a few years ago after he’d realized he could no longer rely on his human subordinates. His patron had shown on many occasions that he was willing and able to use them to spy on Varnell, after all.

But not Limpit. Their Bond prevented that. Formed of desperation and then cultivated and nurtured over the following decades, the mage-familiar Bond between Varnell and Limpit defied interference. It was unbreakable. Limpit’s thoughts, its emotions – its very life and death – were inextricably intertwined with Varnell’s. The creature was completely faithful. Always had been, and always would be.

A whiff of burning flesh drew his attention back to the present, as did the sudden searing pain in the center of his chest that accompanied it. Familiarity did nothing to lessen the sensation – if anything, it grew more intense with every year that passed – and he gasped and clutched at the pendant embedded in the scarred skin above his breastbone. The heat of it contrasted jarringly with the icy dread now trickling down his spine.

Once again came the paranoid suspicion that his patron could be summoned by his thoughts. He shook off the urge to look over his shoulder and tried to think positively.

Finally, here were the instructions he’d been waiting for.

But first…

Shooing Limpit away from the mess on the floor, Varnell drew on the dark font of his power – which was, reassuringly, as physically distant as ever – and channeled a sliver of magic. It was barely even a trickle; his patron wouldn’t notice. Which was more than could be said for the spilled ink and smashed glass were he to leave it there in plain sight.

His patron definitely wouldn’t detect such a minor use of his magic. Would he?

Varnell hesitated, then sighed and let go of the magic. It slithered back to its source like a silverfish retreating from sunlight. Heart beating frantically against the burning amulet, he hurriedly dragged a nearby antique rug over and dropped it down over the spillage, broken glass and all. There was a chance the ink would soak through and ruin the red-and-gold design on the rug’s surface, but he wouldn’t grieve for it. He hated that rug.

Finally, he made sure to roll his sleeve down over the half-finished tattoo. Satisfied that the evidence was now hidden, he hurried into the next room – his private study – and over to the far wall behind the desk, where a heavy velvet curtain was draped over something large and rectangular. Varnell tugged the corner of the curtain free from the mirror’s face and stepped back.

It was an ugly thing. Its gothic frame was hideously ornate and tarnished, and the whole fixture was far too large for the wall of his small study. Like the rug, though, it had belonged to his predecessor, and Varnell had ever clung to the notion that he was more likely to be accepted in his current role were he to adopt the same aesthetic choices of the previous (though regretfully tasteless) Guildmaster.

Varnell glared at himself in the glass, one hand still clutching the velvet cloth, the other fingering the now-fading source of heat on his chest. His reflection glared back at him, dark brows drawn together in a scowl. Slightly pointed eartips peeked rebelliously out from underneath his hair – not quite angular enough to mark him as a full elf, but enough to distinguish him as other than human. Enough for him to be looked down upon by the members of both races.

He pulled at his hair in a futile attempt to cover the offending sight, then winced when it revealed a hint of silver at his temples. Ninety-two years old and already my body is failing me. Pathetic.

His eyes slid away from his hated reflection to stare at the wall instead. But he didn’t see red brickwork. Instead he saw the broken shards of the crimson Core, now colorless and empty and scattered across the floor of some deep, godsforsaken cavern. He saw the three whelps who’d returned to him under suspicious circumstances, their party leaders mysteriously vanished underground; saw the warrior’s confusion and the other two’s outrage as Varnell commanded them to leave Grimrock for him to “deal with”; saw their cocky strides after they disobeyed his direct orders and meddled in affairs they did not and could never understand.

And he saw their greatest betrayal of all: the purple Core, whose existence they’d kept from him even as he looked each of them in the eye and asked if they’d anything else to tell him.

Those little—

The tower’s chimes struck the hour, breaking his furious reverie, and Varnell forced his gaze once more to the mirror. A shiver snaked from the back of his neck to the base of his spine when he saw a pair of violet eyes staring coldly back at him.

“Hello there, little warlock.”

The umbral face in the mirror smirked as Varnell instinctively shot a terrified glance at the doorway behind him. Of course nobody was there to eavesdrop – the wards he’d placed around this entire floor would take care of that, as would the numerous bolts and padlocks on the elderwood main door – but still. If just one person heard the word warlock… if just one of them learned his secret…

“Master. Greetings.” Varnell bowed his head to the mirror. When he straightened, he caught another shadowy glimpse of his reflection, obscured as it was by his patron’s visage, and once more habitually covered his ears with his hair.

Scorn radiated from the looking glass.

“I see shame still smolders within your heart,” said the voice coldly. “Interesting; your former elven clan shunned your very existence from the day of your conception, yet still you persist in aping their ancestral rituals with your own clumsy attempts at trophy-mark scarification.” There was a dangerous pause. "Is that a new one I see?"

What?

Oh. Oh, damn. He’d covered the tattoo-in-progress with his sleeve, but watery blood and ink had begun to soak through the grass-green fabric. Ice trickled through his veins as he fought to maintain his composure – and conceal his guilt.

"Curious," the entity murmured. Its voice was glacial, riming the very air with deadly threat. "I was sure I ordered you to report to me any time you so much as located a new Core – and for you not to take any action without first consulting me."

From the adjoining room, he heard Limpit gulp.

Oh, damn. Think, think!

He forced a tight smile and waved a hand at his leaking forearm and ruined sleeve. "This? No, no, not a new one. No new Cores. No new tattoos. Just touching up the older ones, is all. Limpit was—”

“I could not possibly care less about the extracurricular activities of either you or your absurd familiar. However, you might consider making more prudent use of your spare time. When last we communicated, your servant had failed to return from the investigation of a promising new tunnel network. However, her expendable yet unexpectedly resilient traveling companions reported sighting a new God Core – or so you informed me.”

A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Varnell’s neck as he cursed himself yet again for his over-eagerness in reporting to his patron. The pressure had been on him to locate more Cores, and he was desperate to send word of any kind of progress. But when he took the time to properly read the adventurers’ debriefing notes, it was obvious he’d made a grievous error. The Core they’d found was obviously Grimrock: Varnell’s secret ally – and his patron’s thrall.

The entity was still awaiting his response. Varnell wiped his sweaty palms on his robes and tried not to hyperventilate.

“My lord, there was no Core.”

There was a dangerously heavy pause. Then: “No? But you seemed quite certain of their conviction at the time.”

“Conviction is no substitute for actuality. I’m afraid they were mistaken.”

“I thought experience had taught you how I feel about mistakes.”

The threat in the voice seemed to coalesce into something physical, a fist-like pressure around Varnell’s heart.

“Remember that I can cause you agony beyond reckoning with the merest twitch of my finger. Remember, too, that you owe me – for your life, and for the vengeance I enabled you to enact when first you found me. And remember that any more failures on your part will result in the forcible removal of your free will.”

A horrible sensation of being pulled by invisible strings like a puppet. His limbs twitched involuntarily, then a moment later released him. “Consider yourself fortunate you remain my servant, and not my thrall. For now.”

The amulet against his chest seared, and the invisible fist tightened. He gasped for breath.

“My lord!” he gasped. “I have only ever served you—”

“Then serve me now!” snarled the voice. “I do not ask for miracles. Yet here you are, another member of my flock too incompetent to fulfill my commands.”

“Master, I—"

“I tire of this conversation. One of my oldest thralls appears to have slipped my grasp. When I find him – and I will find him – his punishment will be an example. I trust his disappearance is unrelated to your mistake. If it emerges that any of my servants had a hand in his release, those found guilty will suffer the full extent of my displeasure. And when I am once again whole—”

The voice cut off abruptly, as though the entity had said something he hadn’t intended to. Something – a long-held suspicion in the back of Varnell’s mind – clicked, but he would have to follow the thought up later.

“When next we speak,” his patron was saying now, “I expect to hear that you and your incompetent underlings have managed to locate at least one new Core.”

‘When next we speak.’ And when will that be, I wonder? Their meetings had always been entirely at his patron’s whim. Days, weeks, even months could pass between them without pattern, leaving Varnell in a state of nervous tension at nearly every hour of the day and night, anticipating the telltale burning against his chest that heralded the coming of his so-called master.

As if that wasn’t pressure enough, his patron’s parting words chilled him to the marrow: “And for your sake, there had better not be any more mistakes.”

With a dark swirl in the mirror the presence was gone. The heaviness in the air – like that before a thunderstorm – immediately began to dissipate, but Varnell could not so easily relax.

Someday, that tension would not dissipate but rather come to a head like a clashing of elemental forces. The day was coming; he knew it. But knowing doesn’t give me much of an advantage if I can’t find a way to make it count.

He rolled his shoulders, the tenseness of his muscles making his neck ache, and threw the cloth back over the hated mirror before retreating into the central solar once more.

Limpit stood just inside the doorway, cringing and looking as though it wished to disappear into the wall it was pressed against. Varnell could sympathize; he felt much the same way, though he couldn’t show it lest he risk his patron’s disgust.

Limpit’s huge black eyes – all four of them – stared piteously up at Varnell, who sighed, nodded and wearily held out his half-tattooed arm. With a whimper, the familiar reached for it. As it did, the creature’s waist-high bipedal body shifted. Its limbs retracted, sliding smoothly away into a shrinking torso which instead began to sprout short spiky legs from either side of its segmented centipede-like body.

Now barely two feet long, Limpit skittered up Varnell’s outstretched arm and curled around his neck like a peculiar scarf.

Varnell was long past being repulsed by the creature’s odd combination of fur and chitinous scales – on the contrary, the scolodrake’s gentle weight on his shoulders was reassuring. He even found it pleasing to feel the number of legs that scritched against his skin and caught on the fabric of his robes. There were many more pairs of the little limbs than when he’d first found Limpit as a grub; the creature had been through many molts in the decades they’d been together, and come out of each stronger and larger than ever.

But Melakor reduced it – reduced both of them, Varnell thought bitterly – to a shivering terrified mess. And while there had never been much that Varnell could do against him, he knew the time was coming where he’d no longer be able to stand his current existence. Whether or not he’d truly found the means to weaken his “master” and break free of his influence, he had to try. After all, what did he have to lose?

One thing is certain above all, thought Varnell, gently stroking Limpit’s quivering form.

The purple Core must be destroyed.

One

Double Sight

Corey

The tunnel stank.

Sour and filthy and… ugh. Just ugh.

The musk of my enemies was foul beyond words. It was as though a thousand stink-badgers had sharted into a blanket then left it in the sun to ferment. Now we’d come along and unwittingly trampled it, releasing its skunky effluent to crawl up into my sensitive nostrils to sting my sinuses and make my eyes water. Or at least it would have, if the body I was currently borrowing had been in possession of tear ducts.

“How is it that you always manage to find a way to complain about everything?” came the disembodied and sleepy-sounding voice of Ket, my sprite.

I’d left her watching over things back in the Grotto. The sun was setting; the skylight in the ceiling was limned with its hazy orange-red light, the evening shadows were long and deep, and the fireflies were just beginning to kindle. Ket was a morning person – the relentless and annoying kind, because of course she was – and this time of day always made her drowsy, yet she still managed to not only detect my emotions from a distance but also berate me for them.

“Always look on the bright side, Corey,” she added with a yawn. “And take care of Ris’kin, all right? That resurrection ritual is still on cooldown and will be for a while yet.”

Seemingly satisfied that she’d sufficiently irritated me, she withdrew her presence, returning once more to whatever she’d been doing. Surveilling my gem for even the slightest change in color that signaled my mood, apparently.

I rolled my eyes at her advice, though I could hardly argue with its soundness. And, truth be told, it was easier to focus on the positives these days.

There might be limitations to this form – through no fault of its owner, I hastened to add in response to the flash of disgruntlement from my gracious corporeal host – but it sure beats being a floating chunk of invisible nothing. Or a rock.

It was true; at least I had a body, for the time being anyway, and it came complete with all five senses and the capacity to once again experience the wonder that was gravity. And it was glorious.

Well, mostly.

Muzzle wrinkled against the tunnel’s odor, I padded along the passageway, claws sheathed so that my feet made no sound on the rough stone.

In the days after I first learned the Double Sight ability – which allowed me to view the world through the eyes of my forrel avatar, Ris’kin – I’d made use of it as much as possible, taking great delight in not only seeing the world outside my Sphere of Influence but also smelling, tasting, hearing and touching it too. Even better, this method of travel did not drain my mana like some of my insidiously dangerous other abilities did.

After many hours of its extended use, my Augmentary had dinged with the most delightful notification I’d had in days: my bond with Ris’kin had leveled up, unlocking a new feature called Double Insight. This gave my avatar access to my Insight capabilities so long as the two of us were sensorially connected via Double Sight.

I’d squealed almost as loudly as Ket, and immediately taken my avatar out beyond my Sphere of Influence again to try out this new combined ability (though not too far; neither of us wanted to leave my denizens alone for too long so soon after the battle that destroyed much of their home). Sure enough, any living creature or plant to fall under mine and Ris’kin’s combined scrutiny offered up the fundamental secrets of its biology, and the flowing lines and symbols that represented their genetic makeup were permanently added to my Augmentary as blueprints ready for the Creation process.

Weeks ago, when I’d first awoken as a God Core and begun Ascending in god tiers and expanding my SOI, I’d focused mainly on collecting blueprints for bugs and beasties I could combine to create into god-born defenders for my Grotto. Now that I was no longer being hounded by a megalomaniacal enemy Core and its army of stunted lizard-people, I was starting to pay attention to the subtler aspects of my environment, and it turned out nature could be pretty neat.

Being situated so close to the surface, the Grotto and its immediate surroundings were primarily adorned with sun-loving species of plant life, like ferns and photosynthetic mosses. Down here, though, not so much.

I let my gaze sweep over the rocky surfaces, taking in the subterranean flora that adorned the tunnel walls. Spiky hook-moss and gnarly nailwort clawed the air at ankle-height, while garlands of ghoul’s beard hung from the ceiling like – well, like ghoulish beards. (Fun fact: ghoul’s beard had psychedelic properties when ingested. Even funner fact: it could emit spores that caused paralysis in small mammals, and subsisted by feeding on bats foolish enough to roost near it.)

Lurking among the ghoul’s beard was a sprig of deadly black amaranth (also carnivorous), its heart-shaped leaves leaking dark fluid. To my left, a patch of messiah moss rearranged itself into a wonky eight-legged shape, exhibiting its bizarre tendency to take the form of whatever it thought its audience wanted most to see. I paused for a moment to examine it critically. This particular specimen’s composition skills were in dire need of refinement. Or maybe it was just going through a cubist phase.

I shook my head and moved on. Yes, fine, they were just mosses and liverworts. Not the most exciting things I’d encountered beneath the earth – not even in the top hundred – and even pre-noon Ket had to fight back a yawn whenever I tried to share my fun facts about them, but these nuances of the underground ecosystem were something I was finally beginning to appreciate.

Being the god of a society of (allegedly) intelligent beings was fine and all (though I’d still rather be able to set things on fire at will), but there was just something about being able to feel the flora’s soft dampness, smell its wholesomely earthy scent, and hear the whispering of air through the dangling fronds of ceiling plants as we passed beneath them.

The only reason we weren’t spending hours admiring it all was my avatar. Ris’kin was as indifferent to her surroundings as she was toward me and my new-found wonderment. She never lingered, simply assessing, cataloging, and moving on, her senses constantly alert for signs of danger. Though I was slightly miffed to have my sightseeing curtailed, it was probably for the best, considering we were meant to be scouting for signs of whatever creature was responsible for my missing gatherer.

A scuffling sound echoed from the darkness, sending our pointed ears twitching to locate the source. The fingers of our hand-like forepaws tightened around the haft of our weapon – a kobold spear, a jagged thing of flint and obsidian snatched up during the heat of battle and retained as a trophy of victory – then relaxed when we realized the noise had come from the small band of gnomes creeping along behind us.

“Creeping” was a generous word to use for a group that were about as stealthy as a herd of sheep wearing stone shoes. True, this particular handful of gnomes had grown more adept at their role over the past fortnight – so much so that they’d unlocked the ‘Scout’ vocation, which, once assigned, eliminated the mana cost of the active ability of the same name – but they still had a long way to go.

The circumstances that had necessitated their on-the-job training were actually pretty grim. A couple of days after the battle for the Grotto, I’d sent a pair of gnomes out beyond my SOI to gather materials as well as keep an eye out for lingering kobolds. The enemy Core might be destroyed – at the hands of its own denizens, no less – but who was to say some of its former minions wouldn’t seek revenge?

When only one of the two scouts had come back, I was a tiny bit concerned for the missing one, but not all that surprised. I’d once seen it try to eat a rock that was shaped like a fish, and I suggested the returning gnome had probably bumped off its companion in annoyance for the crime of being too stupid.

That did not go down well with Ket.

Nor did my decision to send out more scouts the following day, though this time I had chosen to send a whole group of fighters, including the only two surviving members of the Grotto’s militia. They didn’t find the missing gnome, but they did find something else.

I’d done a double-take at the sight of their leader, Longshanks, who’d returned wearing the bloody wrinkled skin of a creature I’d as yet failed to identify (Insight only worked on living things, and this thing was clearly as dead as they came). The ragged-edged ensemble even came complete with glassy-eyed head-hood, making the warrior-scout appear like some kind of snack-sized serial killer.

Once I’d gotten over my initial disgust at this new and unwelcome fashion statement, I looked more closely at the material of the scout’s outfit and realized it was entirely hairless. Why the little idiot had shaved this mysterious creature before donning its skin – or possibly after; who could fathom the inner workings of his dense gnomish brain? – I had no idea, but the result made him resemble a pickled scrotum with disproportionately long legs.

Like the bipedal lemmings they were, the other scouts had followed suit, returning from subsequent trips wearing the mangled hides of their slain enemies as trophies in the tradition of primitive warriors everywhere. At some point the tribe’s armorer, Shuck, had inserted herself into the proceedings, which was why several of them were unfortunately now sporting matching jackets, trousers, or shoes – sometimes all three – made from pale wrinkly skin. One advantage of the hide’s… unusual texture was that the folds of flesh provided plenty of built-in pockets, perfect for the traveling gnome on the go. The downside was that they looked utterly horrific.

“They’re just expressing themselves, Corey,” soothed Ket when I voiced my disgust for the fiftieth time.

“Expressing themselves” would be taking up an instrument, or learning to paint, I thought grumpily. This? This is a crime against gnomanity.

The scouts were wrinkling their noses as they followed behind Ris’kin, and not just because of their proximity to their own stinky days-old skin-suits. The tunnel’s stench had intensified to almost unbearable levels. Moreover, the moss on the walls was disturbed in places, as though scraped by the repeated passage of bulky bodies. And it had gone quiet. Too quiet.

Adrenaline pumping, I scanned the walls and ceiling and realized that all the local creatures and insects – which had until now been providing an ambient underground soundtrack of chirps and croaks, chitters and skitters – had fled, leaving behind only heavy, ominous silence.

We must be getting close.

As I bent to investigate the spoor, the moss curled away from the light of the scouts’ illumishroom torches, as though in pain. I was so fascinated by its behavior I almost missed the hulking silhouette of a four-legged figure that lurched out of the gloom of a crevice to one side.

Thankfully, despite letting me move freely and decide our direction, I was never anything more than a passenger in Ris’kin’s form, though she granted me the illusion of holding the reins. Our bond may have allowed her to anticipate my wishes and respond accordingly, but my avatar retained complete autonomy over the squirrel-fox body I’d granted her on my first day on the job (and upgraded several times since).

So while I’d been mentally drooling over the feel of cobwebs on my face and the sensation of foliage beneath my fingertips, Ris’kin was somehow able to compartmentalize all that and had instead been paying attention to her innate survival instincts. Now, she detected the onset of danger and twisted just in time to meet it head-on.

Whatever it was.

What in the name of all the unholy hells is that?!

Two

Whack a Mole-Rat

Corey

The creature looked like a pale pink sausage with teeth and four legs, and I immediately recognized its kind as the driving force behind my scouts’ recent testiclesque fashion choices.

Its naked body – tubby, hairless, and more wrinkled than a waterlogged Shar-Pei – wasn’t much longer than the average gnome was tall, and its bared incisors were blunt like a squirrel’s. However, those teeth also happened to be the length of a finger, and they were gnashing furiously just inches away from my avatar’s face.

On instinct as unconscious and reactive as soiling myself – which, incidentally, I would definitely have done had this body belonged to me and not Ris’kin – I activated Insight.

Dire Naked Blesmol

Mammal

Also known as a ‘mole-rat.’

I couldn’t help but snigger a little at the name before rapidly recalling the gravity of the situation.

Focus, damn it.

I blinked away the Augmentary’s text, applying what little I’d learned to the much more pressing situation at hand.

So, not only was it a combination of two useless creatures – a mole and a rat – but it was a naked one at that. I actually felt sort of bad for the little monster. Unlucky for it.

Unlucky for me, I amended, as it dove right at us.

Ris’kin and I barely got our weapon up in time, raising the spear’s shaft to block the blesmol’s lunge.

Big mistake.

What I’d mistaken for fat on the creature’s podgy-looking frame was actually muscle. It barreled into us with the force of its momentum – or rather through us, knocking Ris’kin’s lithe form flat on her back and half-trampling her before managing to halt its charge and lumber around to see where she’d gone, gnomes scattering in its wake.

Flinching at the flare of pain from fresh-bruised ribs, my avatar raised herself into a crouch and jabbed upward with her spear to meet our opponent’s second charge. Shock jolted through us both as the stocky creature reacted faster than either of us anticipated; it reared back from the attack, front claws slashing at the air as its forelegs flailed like an outraged horse with a penchant for dramatics.

Recognizing her own imminent future as a red-furred pancake, Ris’kin launched into a roll, narrowly avoiding the blesmol’s front feet as they came crashing down where she’d lain just a moment ago.

Up close, the smell wafting from its underbelly was almost unbearable. Forget shart-blankets, this thing reeked like weeks-old cheese. The kind you’d have to wear goggles before consuming, and that leaks milky fluid when it’s ready to eat. A filthy cocktail of aromas.

Thankfully, my avatar had no gag reflex, though she was still clearly perturbed by the stench because her next attack fell well wide of its target. After stabbing at the air where the creature’s second head might have been had it had one, she ducked its retaliatory snapping jaws, reversed her grip on the spear, and stabbed down into the thing’s foot.

I expected it to shriek, to recoil, and maybe even retreat a little bit. But the blade barely penetrated its hide, and the creature let out nary a squeak. Ris’kin might as well have poked it with a toothpick for all the effect it had.

The sounds of more combat behind us reminded me that we weren’t alone here, for better or worse, and it was with no small surge of anxiety that I realized we might just be out of our depth. I needed to assess the situation.

I need to see.

Quickly, I urged Ris’kin to withdraw the speartip from the blesmol’s bald foot. The small spray of crimson as she yanked it out reassured me these creatures did bleed, so that was something positive. We dodged another lunge, then scrambled up the craggy tunnel wall, the slender spear haft held tightly between Ris’kin’s thumb and palm as she worked every muscle in her fingers and toes to ascend out of melee reach.

We reached a rough ledge – just a few inches wide, but it was enough to take some of the strain off my avatar’s arms and legs. Forcing down a pang of guilt for not doing so sooner, I took stock of how the gnomes below were faring.

My denizens were under assault by multiple mole-rat ambushers. The creatures kept launching quick, aggravated attacks in rapid succession before scurrying away into the crevices they’d come from. They would then lunge out of a different hole a few moments later, which made it hard to tell how many there were. Perhaps only a handful, but their strikes were fierce and bold, unsurprising given that they were on home ground and clearly loving the advantage it gave them.

My gnomes had apparently learned from past experience not to even attempt to block the brawny creatures’ attacks. Instead, those with shields angled them expertly, deflecting incoming blows without having to withstand the full force of them, while those with spears did their best to parry and dodge, taking advantage of their weapons’ reach and keeping out of range of slashing claws and gnashing teeth.

The spear-gnomes soon maneuvered themselves behind the shield-wielders, who had formed a constantly-shifting half-circle, and at coordinated intervals – heralded by Longshanks’ shout – the shields would drop momentarily, allowing the spears to shoot out, the gnomish warriors’ reach fully extended as they directed their strength into mighty thrusts aimed at the blesmols’ (presumably) more vulnerable faces.

In short, they were giving it the best they’d got without risking getting caught up in close-quarters engagement, though it was proving impossible in such, well, close quarters. They were demonstrating surprising competence. I couldn’t help but be impressed.

However, their foes were even more impressive. And by impressive, I mean appalling. True, the ugly creatures flinched back from each spear-jab to the face, unlike when Ris’kin had impaled one in the foot, and one of them even let out a yelp when Longshanks managed to score a deep gash right underneath its eye. A scar near its other eye, along with the fury with which it had been focusing on the elusive spear-wielding warrior this whole time, suggested this wasn’t the first time the two had met in battle.

But in spite of this, the creatures kept coming. They appeared as monstrous silhouettes in the wavering light from the dropped torches, as though the tunnel were the scene of some grotesque shadow-puppet show. No, forget shadow-puppets; they looked like hand puppets, but only if the puppeteers were wearing the skins of much older hands as costumes. I shuddered at the image.

Having seen the gnomes’ smart tactics in the face of adversity, Ris’kin was raring to get back down there and help them out. They were now also being harried by the biggest of the bunch, the one that had first attacked Ris’kin and me. Its size and aggression were beginning to turn things in the blesmols’ favor.

Unacceptable.

I sensed Ris’kin’s agreement, and together we decided on our next move: to stay out of reach, out of sight and (hopefully) out of mind, and maneuver our way along the tunnel wall until we could drop down behind the big mole-rat alpha, stabbing it hard enough to get its attention. Then we’d draw it away from the gnomes, leaving them to deal with the weaker enemies. Ris’kin might be small, but she was the nimblest creature I knew; she’d outrun the mole-rat and lead it on a merry chase until the others had fled or the enemy keeled over from exhaustion.

I’d grown so used to using Double Sight by now that I’d learned to trust her instincts and go along with them, though this was the first time we’d been tested together in combat. If Ket were here she’d have been yelling at me to get out of there and let my avatar do things without my interference, or better yet, for both of us to flee, leading the gnomes away from danger and back to the safety of the Grotto.

Speak of the devil-sprite…

“What is it? Corey, what’s happening?” came Ket’s voice, sounding much less sleepy than before. She’d obviously sensed my distress, just as I could now sense her worry and frustration at being unable to leave my Sphere of Influence to come and investigate.

“Nothing!” I reassured her, cursing my inner voice for somehow sounding out of breath. Ris’kin and I scaled the wall sideways in a series of awkward shuffle-hops, fingertips stinging, arms beginning to tremble with the strain, until we’d maneuvered ourselves directly above the gnomes’ defensive formation.

“Are you sure?”

Unlike the one time I’d used the Observe ability – draining almost all my mana and nearly shattering myself in the process – Ket could not see what I saw through Double Sight. Thank goodness, I thought, wincing as the scarred mole-rat Longshanks was fighting lunged inside the reach of his spear, closing its jaws around one of the gnome’s long legs.

Okay, change of plan. Help Longshanks first, then go after the alpha. Hurry, I urged Ris’kin, who’d already begun to speed up, putting hand over hand and seeking toeholds in the rough rock as quickly as she could. But as we were above the gnomes’ defensive half-circle, the hand holding her weapon lost its grip on the stone, and our precarious balance was shattered.

Time seemed to slow as we fell, and despite the danger I couldn’t help but marvel in the sensation of having reflexes for days. Though Ris’kin instinctively yelped, her body was already twisting, muscles shifting to align her posture for the safest landing on where her inner ear told her the ground was.

Or would have been.

One of the shield-wielders heard her yelp. He brought his shield up to intercept her, so instead of a graceful landing on all fours, she thudded side-on into the gnome’s upheld shield. The angle was such that rather than squishing the well-intentioned fool, her weight simply sent him staggering back, shield dropping so that Ris’kin rolled to the hard ground in a heap.

Our elbow hurt from where we’d landed on the shield, and this latest tumble had made the pain in our ribs from the mole-rat’s trampling flare up to near unbearable levels, but at least we were where we needed to be. Ris’kin hauled herself to her feet and immediately took off in the direction of my beleaguered lead scout.

As Ris’kin and I tried to fight our way through the press, stabbing and jabbing and slicing at enemy flesh along the way, I realized I’d never replied to Ket’s last question.

“Corey, are you sure everything’s all right?” Ket sounded urgent now.

“Fine! Everything’s fine,” I sang. Ris’kin and I swerved around a rearing enemy, ducked beneath a whipping tail like a massive earthworm, then drove our spear two-handed into a dirt-smeared flank. It was like piercing tough leather. The creature squealed as we yanked the spear out again with barely a trickle of blood from the puncture wound.

“Everything’s fine,” I said again, thankful Ket couldn’t hear what was going on either. The blesmol we’d just stabbed backed into one of its fellows, instinctively turning to bare its teeth in warning before realizing it was an ally, and Ris’kin and I used the distraction to dart away in the opposite direction.

“If you say so,” said Ket uncertainly. “Have you found anything yet? How about Shanky? Is he okay?”

I cursed silently. “Shanky” was Ket’s affectionate nickname for Longshanks, who was of course currently propping open his opponent’s jaws on the far side of the melee. Trust Ket to focus on the one thing that was going wrong, even though there was no way she could have known.

The creature holding on to my lead scout shook its head fiercely—Longshanks’ cries ululating in a way that might have been comical were he not about to become mincemeat—and began backing into one of the hidden crevices the blesmols had come from, dragging my scout along with it into the darkness.

“He’s fine!” I lied brightly. Ket started to voice yet another question, but I cut her off. “Sorry, Sparky, I think we’ve found something. Give me a few minutes to concentrate?”

Yes, I’d recently given Ket a nickname of her own. And she hated it. If there was one thing guaranteed to make her stop talking to me, it was calling her “Sparky.”

Sure enough, the sprite fell quiet, and I breathed a mental sigh of relief as I focused instead on plotting a course through the confusion.

The mole-rats should not have been allowed to move so quickly. By my count there were five of the creatures, but it felt more like twenty-five. They darted in and out of crevices and tunnels with almost as much dexterity as my teensy skelemanders. Every time Ris’kin or the gnomes drove one back, another would pop out of a nearby crevice, then another, and another.

Their sustained speed and aggression were alarming, and Ris’kin’s lightning-quick reflexes were starting to make me dizzy. I almost deactivated Double Sight, relinquishing my hold on my avatar’s mind, then realized just in time that this would have pinged me right back to the Grotto. If that happened, I’d still be able to use Observe to view how things were going—for the grand total of a minute or so, anyway, until my mana ran out—but I’d no longer have any control over the battle, since my connection with Ris’kin could only be re-initiated once she was back within my SOI.

After parrying a swipe of our current opponent’s claws, we twisted out of its reach, then were immediately forced to duck into a crevice to avoid another flailing mole-rat. It was trying to pull away from the two gnomes it was attached to by lengths of rope they’d pulled from somewhere.

I took advantage of no longer being in mortal peril to bring up the blesmol blueprint I’d recently gained (thankfully only I could see the Augmentary overlay; it did not impede Ris’kin’s vision in any way) and skim-read the rest of the Augmentary’s information on our ugly rivals.

The blesmol might be short-sighted, but its sense of smell is incomparable, albeit unorthodox. Millennia of digging underground mean it’s evolved with nostrils fused together, and can only sense things through the nasal cavity in the roof of its mouth.

Though mammalian, this fossorial—(burrowing)—rodent regulates its body temperature in the manner of an ectothermic—(cold-blooded)—creature, allowing it to thrive in the extreme conditions of its native desert habitat—

Desert? Buddy, you are very, very lost.

I hurriedly sifted through the information in search of something useful. A bullet-point list of known weaknesses would have been handy. Instead, all I found were overly long words and depressingly superpower-esque strengths.

In addition to its thermoregulatory capabilities, the naked mole-rat is astoundingly resilient to physical pain, and can survive for hours with minimal access to oxygen.

Okay, so not only was their hide as tough as teak, but they were immune to pain and could survive basically anything, including not breathing.

Not that I was planning on trying a chokehold or anything.

Add to that the fact they were smart enough to spring an ambush, and it would appear they were unstoppable. How are these things not the apex predators of the underground realm?

Frustrated, I flipped back to the blueprint image and scanned it for weak points. The gnomes had managed to kill several of these creatures on their past expeditions; how had they done it? And why weren’t they doing it now?

I narrowed my eyes at the useless information in the Augmentary, then swiped it away.

Ris’kin was raring to throw herself back into battle; I could feel her urgency, like her entire body was a coiled spring waiting to be released.

Ket had gone quiet, for once heeding my request for peace, and perhaps sensing my need to focus. Still, I could almost hear her voice in my head urging us to retreat. I knew deep down that this was a fight we were not going to win.

But the thought of running away left a bitter taste in my mind. I was done being the victim. Done being naught but a desperate defender. And I could tell the rest of our little group were too.

Besides, Ket would kill me if we came back without Shanky.

I gritted fox-sharp teeth, then relaxed into Ris’kin.

Go, I told her.

Three

Hunter

Corey

My consciousness had barely formed the word “Go” before Ris’kin sprang back into the fray like an arrow from a bowstring. Nearby, the two gnomes who’d lassoed the mole-rat were picking themselves up from the ground, wincing at the rope-burns on their palms. My avatar leapt over them and sprinted after the disappearing Longshanks.

My lead scout was being dragged backwards into a side-tunnel. He looked about ready to pass out with pain, and with good reason. He’d been stabbing his half-spear up beneath the blesmol’s chin, but had achieved nothing much except to accidentally impale his own leg, trapped as it was by his captor’s wicked incisors.

The weapon, now abandoned, remained lodged in his calf, until a particularly vicious shake of the blesmol’s head loosened it enough to send it clattering further down the tunnel, accompanied by yet another yell from Longshanks.

“Corey…” came Ket’s voice again.

“Not now, Ket,” I growled.

The mole-rat had yet to notice Ris’kin—yay for its species’ short-sightedness, I suppose—and so we began to ascend the wall once again. If we were quick, we could scramble above the creature, then drop down onto its back. Surely not even the toughest of hides would protect it from a spear thrust to the top of the skull.

I hoped not, anyway.

As Ris’kin shimmied sideways, black-furred fingers gripping a narrow shelf of rock near the ceiling, Ket’s voice came again.

“I can sense your anxiety, Corey. Seriously, what are you doing? Are you okay? Is there anything I can—”

“NOT. NOW.”

My sprite’s hurt feelings washed through me, as did the sour taste of her own anxiety, but I let my irritation sweep it away. Ket always presumed the worst about me. Why did she assume something must be going wrong right now? Didn’t she trust me at all?

An agonized whimper from Longshanks below made Ris’kin push herself harder until we were almost in position above the mole-rat. I barely noticed. I was still seething about Ket’s lack of trust. And trying to ignore the fact that my defensive anger felt a lot like guilt.

Seriously, though. The sprite was always lecturing me from the high ground. Or was it her high horse? However the saying went, she was always high when she lectured me. She was—

Wait. That was it.

Stop!

Ris’kin, about to drop down onto Longshanks’ captor, resisted her instinct to ignore me and maintained her grip on the rock, though I sensed her frustration and confusion.

We have to get higher, I told her. Just for a moment.

Thankfully she obliged, hauling herself just a few feet higher, toward the dark patch I’d spotted on the rock.

Higher, higher, right up towards the ceiling—there. Got it.

Her forearms were trembling, both hands now clutching items in addition to holding on to the rock, her spear hand in particular beginning to cramp with the strain.

All right, Ris’kin. Now!

She let go, body twisting in the air once again as she plummeted downward. This time, there was no well-meaning idiot to get in her way, and she landed exactly where she intended—right on top of the mole-rat with the scarred eye. Her feet thudded down an instant after the tip of her spear drove into the back of its neck, where it embedded itself between two vertebrae—and stubbornly stayed there.

The creature let out a horrifying shriek and shook its head even more violently than before, whipping Longshanks’ limp form from side to side. The scout managed a squeak of his own before his head smacked against an outcropping, knocking him out.

He’s having a really bad day.

The mole-rat still hadn’t let go of his leg. In fact, the amount of blood now pouring from the limb was frankly alarming.

After one more attempt to yank free the spear, Ris’kin abandoned the weapon, instead reaching forward to take hold of the overlarge front teeth and try to pry the jaws apart.

Ris’kin was made for dexterity, not strength, but she was no weakling. I’d made sure of that when I created and evolved her. But the blesmol’s jaws were on a whole other level. They were clenched around Longshanks’ leg in an iron grip, and wouldn’t budge an inch, no matter how much my avatar strained.

That was, until Longshanks regained consciousness. With an awareness of his surroundings that was impressive for someone who’d just been beaten against a rock like a dusty carpet, the scout groped for his fallen weapon. Gritting his teeth against what must have been agonizing pain, he heaved himself forward and jammed the blade into the mole-rat’s eye.

A normal animal would have had the decency to drop dead. This one, clearly being spawned from the pits of hell, opened its jaws wide and let out a bone-rattling screech, but stubbornly refused to die. However, Longshanks’ well-timed recovery allowed two things to happen.

First, the mole-rat finally let go of Longshanks’ leg, freeing the scout to make his triumphant escape. Well, not so much triumphant as boneless, and not so much an escape as simply lying where he’d fallen, clutching his ruined leg and moaning, but still, it was an improvement on his previous situation.

Secondly, the sprig of ghoul’s beard—harvested from the ceiling a few moments ago, and somehow still clutched in my avatar’s fist—disappeared as Ris’kin shoved it inside the mole-rat’s mouth.

She snatched her arm free just in time. The jaws snapped shut, and the creature bucked fiercely, forcing Ris’kin to reach backward, toe-claws digging into wrinkled flesh, and held on to the still-embedded spear for balance. Who would’ve guessed the blesmol’s tough hide would work in our favor?

Unfortunately, the spear’s shaft was less tough. It snapped in half with a crack, sending us tumbling nose over tail to the hard stone floor for the second time that day.

She landed on all fours—shiny new reflexes for the win!—though my avatar’s bruised ribs continued to scream their objections at this continued rough treatment. She spun around, broken spear in hand and held defensively before her, but the mole-rat was no longer attacking.

In fact, it no longer seemed to care about anything.

The psychedelic moss had done its job, and done it well. The blesmol’s tiny eyes were now entirely pupil. They stared off blackly into the distance, looking at the tunnel wall but seeing… well, gods only knew what they were seeing. Pink elephants, perhaps? Something as colorful as it was terrifying, anyway.

Thank you, ghoul’s beard.

I sighed with satisfaction at having resolved the situation without anyone’s guts ending up on the floor. Then I realized the sounds of combat from back down the tunnel had fallen quiet. Had my gnomes successfully defeated their foes, or were their gnomish intestines even now decorating the ground just out of sight? Dread clenched at my subconscious. Ris’kin sensed it, and we began to hurry back toward the rest of our party.

Then Longshanks lurched to his feet. Before we could even think about restraining him, he stumble-hopped toward the drooling mole-rat and stabbed it in the eye again and again until finally its legs buckled and it collapsed forward, dead.

My Augmentary dinged, but I barely noticed. Breathing heavily, face almost purple with exertion, the furious gnome turned to face Ris’kin and me. We both felt a flash of panic as we registered the intensity of his expression and the weapon still clutched in his now-bloody fist. Then it became clear his attention was on something behind us.

We whirled around, then flattened ourselves against the wall just in time to avoid being trampled. The other four mole-rats—including the extra-large one I’d mistakenly assumed to be the alpha—were charging down the tunnel toward their fallen leader.

No; not charging.

Fleeing.

They ran right past the corpse of the scarred mole-rat, barely even bothering to skirt the spreading pool of blood and skull-juice, until they’d disappeared into the darkness.

The rest of the gnome scouts followed a few seconds later, yelling triumphantly and jabbing their weapons at nothing, as though they’d been the ones to drive the creatures away. Longshanks raised his hand to high-five them, then toppled sideways, unable to stand any longer.

Two of the scouts dashed forward to inspect their leader’s mangled leg. The other three made a beeline for the leg-mangler’s corpse.

As they pulled out obsidian hunting knives—formerly belonging to kobolds; we had a whole stockpile back in the Grotto, looted from our fallen enemies—and started to get to work sourcing more material for future outfits, a flashing dot in the corner of my vision caught my eye. I gratefully looked away from the grisly proceedings below and expanded the Augmentary.

Now that it overlaid my entire field of vision, I saw that there were actually two flashing symbols. Both of them were above Longshanks.

The first was self-explanatory: a red droplet inside a red circle, clearly denoting the gnome’s critically injured status.

The second symbol, however, simply looked like an exclamation mark, again inside a circle.

Well, that’s not helpful. What’s that supposed to mean? That Longshanks is surprised, perhaps?

That was fair enough. If a creepy naked monster had bitten most of my leg off, I’d be surprised too.

When I investigated further, however—focusing on the little icon and willing it to explain itself—I was greeted with an unexpected message.

Advanced vocation unlocked!

Hunter

The life of a hunter is dangerous, yet rewarding. After days of tracking, stalking and sleeping rough, what better feeling is there than finally bringing down your bestial foe and mounting its head above your fireplace?

Oh, and providing your people with meat and materials, obviously. You rugged hero, you.

Prerequisites: Scout vocation, 1x creature rivalry (basic)

Oooh. A new vocation! And a noble one at that.

An image of Longshanks viciously stabbing the hallucinating mole-rat pushed its way into my mind. I blinked it away and was instead treated to the sight of the other scouts skinning its dead body while nearby their bloody leader grinned deliriously from the ground.

Okay, maybe “noble” wasn’t the right word. But any new vocation was a step in the right direction, wasn’t it? Gnomish hunters would be useful, especially if the tribe’s population continued to expand the way Ket and I had planned.

I was extremely tempted to assign Longshanks the hunter vocation right now, but I hesitated. There were a few things I’d need to unpack first—“creature rivalry,” for one thing—and which I knew my sprite would want to discuss before I made the decision. Besides, having spent the last few minutes focused on the Augmentary, I was already missing the sights and smells of our blood-infused surroundings.

Trying not to think about how psychotic that last part made me sound, I mentally blinked my Augmentary out of existence. Another blink and I was once more looking out of my avatar’s eyes.

Ris’kin was surveying the tunnel, alert for danger as always, and her nose was twitching at the foul odors emitted by the bloody mole-rat carcass.

I sensed revulsion from my avatar, which was unusual. At first I assumed it was in response to the sight of the gnome scouts rolling up the ragged strips of freshly-skinned pelt and stuffing them in their backpacks. Then I realized her disgust was actually directed at the mole-rats. Ris’kin was almost angry at the creatures’ lack of intelligence, the way they’d all run off the instant they lost their leadership.

More interestingly, my avatar felt sullied for being involved in the killing of something so brutal and basic, and I got the sense that she craved a real challenge, one that would stimulate her tactically as well as just physically. A rival of her own, perhaps.

I was also surprised to discover that a good portion of her disgust was directed at Longshanks. Something about the way he’d killed a helpless enemy didn’t sit well with her, or perhaps it was simply that she felt he’d stolen her kill.

I felt a rush of warmth toward my avatar as she pushed those feelings down and went to help Longshanks to his feet. When it became clear he could not walk by himself—partly from blood loss, partly because his left leg was dangling uselessly, attached by only exposed bone and sinews—she handed her spear to one of the other gnomes, then bent to pick up their leader as carefully as she could.

Holding Longshanks in her arms, Ris’kin led the way up the tunnel as we began our journey back to the Grotto. The rest of the scouts hurriedly finished packing away their newly-acquired skins, then collected their fallen torches and followed, the dead mole-rat now just a shapeless mound in the growing darkness behind us.

Four

The Menagerie

Benin

“Why are we here, again?”

“For the thousandth time, Coll, keep your voice down. Your feet are making enough noise already. No need to get your mouth involved too.”

The sound of Coll’s footsteps ceased, then resumed at the same volume, except now he was clearly walking on tiptoes. His question came again, this time in an exaggerated whisper that somehow managed to be even louder than the first time.

“WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?”

From one of the cages nearby came an alarmed gobble and a rustling of feathers. Both men froze momentarily before continuing on.

Benin bit back a frustrated reply and instead took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose before hissing, “Every self-respecting mage needs a familiar. I can’t get one without having a license—which, given our current situation, is not likely to be forthcoming.” He had to swallow a surge of bitterness. “Ergo, here we are.”

“Stop calling me Ergo.”

Benin let out a strangled sound. “I wasn’t. It means—”

“I know what it means. I was kidding,” the big man huffed. “And I get why you want a familiar. I’m not an idiot. What I mean is, why did we come here?”

“What?”

“Well, aren’t there other menageries in other regions?”

“Probably. Like I said, though, to get a familiar from any of those I’d need a license—”

“To break in and steal one?”

Benin stopped. Of all the Guild menageries in Kelaria, why did I insist we break into the one under the jurisdiction of the psychopath who apparently wants us dead?

He was prevented from pursuing that line of thought when Coll walked right into the back of him.

The warrior was approximately twice Benin’s mass; the collision sent Benin stumbling into a stack of empty cages, yet somehow the big man kept his feet, grabbing a fistful of Benin’s robes and hauling him upright with a mumbled apology.

One of the cages on the top of the stack was now teetering precariously. Benin lunged forward and managed to stop it from falling, but the metallic disturbance had already roused the inhabitant of the enclosure beside them, and the rattling of the cages gave way to rattling of a different timbre as the flat head of a huge snake rose into view.

The serpent’s eyes were glowing yellow, the pupils vertical black slits, and a leathery hood snapped into view, spreading to frame the head threateningly. All Benin could see of its shadowy body was the outline of coils in the shape of an alarmingly large beehive, and a dark bulky tail. The latter was vibrating vigorously, presumably with the snake’s outrage at having its slumber disturbed by a pair of idiot humans.

Unthinkingly, Benin activated Arcane Sight.

Hamadryad

A venomous hybrid of the rattlesnake and king cobra species.

Primary element: earth (poison)

Primary class: reptile

His shoulders slumped in relief at seeing the information overlaid onto his vision, along with the acid-green aura now surrounding the hamadryad. For some reason, Arcane Sight hadn’t worked on any of the bizarre creatures they’d encountered while hunting Cores underground, and he’d been beginning to worry the ability was somehow broken.

Or worse, that he was broken. As a single-element sorcerer, and a pyromancer at that—the rarest kind, yet also the most often mocked for their typically short mortality rates—the others already made him the subject of their ridicule most of the time. How much worse would it have gotten if he could no longer even identify familiars?

Nearly all his peers had their own familiar; had gotten theirs years ago, in fact. The thought of them all as bright-eyed young apprentices queuing up with their family’s gold in their hands to buy their licenses made him sick. Mostly with envy—not that he’d admit that to anyone.

He’d dealt with that particular disadvantage the same way he dealt with every other: with a sneer on his face and a shrug of his shoulders. The best kind of armor, on the outside anyway. Most of his classmates believed he genuinely didn’t care about being the odd one out, that not having a magical animal companion was a choice rather than a cruel twist of fate. As if anyone in their right mind would choose not to have one.

The only way Benin would ever afford a license was via sponsorship from one of the Guild’s high mages. But given his most recent predecessors’ track record of early, conflagration-related deaths, nobody wanted to patronize a pyro—or ‘hothead’, as they were commonly known. It would literally be like burning money.

And so Benin was now forced to resort to desperate measures.

He scowled at the snake. It scowled back, an impressive feat for a face without eyebrows. Belatedly, he realized that instead of metal bars or wire mesh, the walls of the serpent’s enclosure were made of thick glass. As the creature’s head rose to eye-level, Benin found out why.

With a lightning-quick movement he’d have missed if he blinked, the snake jerked its head and spat. A wad of thick clear-white substance splattered against the transparent surface. It was probably venom. He hoped it was venom, and not just that the snake was pleased to see him. Either way, he was glad for the protective glass barrier that separated them.

Behind him, Coll flinched backward.

“—ing cobra!” he cursed.

Benin was impressed the warrior had recognized one of the creature’s component species. “How did you know?”

“What?”

Benin rolled his eyes. Okay, maybe not.

Coll gave the hamadryad’s tank a comically wide berth, then asked, “So what kind of animal are we looking for? Owl? Cat? Toad?”

“Haven’t spent much time around mages before, have you?”

“Well, no. Just you, actually, but my dad once told me a story about a wizard who…”

Benin shook his head and tuned him out, focusing instead on examining the next exotic caged creature: an antlion, which was an impractical hybrid if ever he’d seen one.

As he moved on to the next enclosure, Coll’s voice filtered back into his awareness.

“—kind of animal are we looking for, then? You never answered me.”

I’m not sure. I have no idea how any of this works. I think… I think I’ll know it when I see it?

Benin replied, “Something unique. Not a cat, or an owl, or a gods-damned toad. I won’t know until I see it, but it will definitely be something you’ve never seen before.”

“So, not all that familiar after all?”

Coll waited, mouth open in an expectant grin, and it was all Benin could do not to smack him. Why did I bring this utter fool along again?

“This. Is. Serious,” he managed to say without shouting. “All the high mages agree that the best kind of familiar is one with a primary element that complements its owner’s.”

“Complimentary… you want something that tells you how great you look in those robes? Because I can do that. Ben, you look great in those robes.”

Benin ignored him as he scanned the cages, occasionally glancing back at the dark doorway to make sure their presence had not been discovered. “The hamadryad would work,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Its earth-based abilities would complement my fire nicely without opposing it, and the poison could have interesting possibilities. But… it’s a dirty great snake. Who wants a dirty great snake around them all the time?”

“You know, that’s exactly what my last girlfriend said to me the first time she saw me without pants.”

“Yeah, no snake. If I could find a different earth-based creature, though, maybe…”

Coll sighed heavily. “Trying to make you laugh is like trying to get blood from a stone. Or milk from a minotaur, as my dad used to say.”

Benin rolled his eyes so hard he swore he glimpsed brain. No way he could let that one go by without comment. “Except minotaurs are all male. And males don’t lactate, do they, Coll?”

“I think that’s kind of the point? I dunno though. I’m no beastiologist.”

“That’s… not a thing.”

He frowned. “Is too. It’s what Tiri is.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is!”

“Nope.”

“All right, what is she, then?”

Benin sighed and looked up from his inspection of what looked like an electric mouse to give Coll a withering stare. “Tiri is a…”

Ah. What is it again? Something about crypts. And insects.

“She’s a crypt… a crypt… ugh…”

“Oh yeah! A crypty-antologist.”

“Something like that.”

Benin shook his head, tuning out Coll’s latest inane muttering about undead bugs and zombie spiders and returning to his assessment of potential familiars. He discounted the yellow mouse-thing crackling with lightning—Benin’s own element, fire, was quite volatile enough, though there was no denying he and the electric mouse would make a formidable team—and moved on to the next row of enclosures.

He bypassed several more mildly interesting yet wildly impractical possibilities, including a massive segmented worm with rock-like flesh, a turquoise turtle with what looked like an enormous onion bulb on its back in place of a shell, and a tank containing what was apparently nothing more than a regular carp which Arcane Sight explained would be ineffective if removed from water.

He was beginning to lose hope of ever finding the perfect familiar—until an orange flicker in the far corner caught his eye, and Benin found himself staring in wonder at one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever laid eyes on.

The little animal was curled up asleep in a corner, its nose tucked beneath a bushy tail that covered most of its body in a softly glowing blanket of deep red-lit fur. Benin couldn’t stifle a gasp at the sight of that tail; the fur was shifting, slowly and gently, but not like fur in a breeze; rather, like slowly flowing magma. There were patches that alternated between darkening and glowing so seamlessly it was as if he were watching the embers of a campfire waiting to be stoked.

This tiny beast was about as perfect a thing as he’d ever seen.

“Ben?” Coll sounded nervous. “Ben, you’re making grabby hands. Why are you making grabby hands?”

At the big man’s overly loud voice, the fiery fox’s pointy ears twitched and its eyes blinked slowly open.

Benin’s older brother used to joke that his sibling’s first words were, “Burn it with fire.” While this probably wasn’t true, he did have a natural affinity for that finest of elements, and as a pyromancer he found himself drawn to it like the proverbial moth. Even had this not been the case, though, he would still have been mesmerized by the thing before him.

Sleepy sunset-orange eyes assessed him from across the enclosure. For a long moment they just stared, set to glowing by the reflected light of the tail they were peering over. Then the tail unfurled, revealing it to actually be three tails, joined together at the base like the curling prongs of a wrought iron fence. The creature stood, yawned, stretched, and then padded delicately over to him.

Entranced, Benin inched closer to the bars, easing himself down into a crouch so he could admire it more closely.

The more the creature shook off its sleepiness, the brighter its trio of tails glowed, until the deep red embers began to flicker more brightly. Orange flames licked along the tails, crackling softly. As it approached, its glowing aura illuminated the sign attached to the front of the cage.

Emberfox

Endangered and dangerous.

NOT FOR REASSIGNMENT.

(Element: fire)

Benin didn’t need the sign, or Arcane Sight, or even regular sight, to see that last part. Even if he’d been as blind as an elderly blesmol, the heat radiating from the emberfox was akin to that of a clay oven, and it smelled like… well, he couldn’t quite put it into words other than it smelled like warmth. He reached a hand toward it.

“Ben?” Coll stomped closer. “I think I just heard—”

“This is the one,” Benin whispered, his gaze locked on the emberfox’s. The creature was sitting down again, barely three feet away, tails curling neatly around its feet. It tipped its head to one side, as if it were waiting.

Waiting for him.

His fingertips were just inches from its coal-smudge nose. It sniffed the air, tensing, and Benin froze too, not wanting to alarm it. Not wanting to be any further away from it than he already was. Ever again.

“Ben—”

“Shhh!”

But it was too late. Perhaps responding to the note of urgency in Coll’s voice, the emberfox flinched and started to back away, flaming hackles now burning a dangerous yellow-orange.

“Inside voices, Coll!”

“Sorry!” he shouted, hands raised. “But I definitely heard something from outside. We should go. Now.”

To the right, a massive enclosure rattled as something huge moved within. In the rising light from the emberfox’s fur, Benin saw a hulking shape throw itself against the bars again.

More noise was beginning to come from other directions. Disgruntled growls, rattling cages, angry yowls—all around were the rising sounds of discontent and fury. The Menagerie was waking up.

And now there were voices coming from outside, accompanied by the light of alchemical globes.

Guards. Shit.

Five

Thank You, Electric Mouse

Benin

Benin fumbled with the lock on the emberfox’s cage. It was seemingly just a regular old-fashioned padlock, so he clutched it in one fist and activated Molten Palm.

Nothing happened.

He did it again. The heat emanating from his hand was such that the metal should have glowed red and then white before melting away entirely with a molten sizzle.

The padlock didn't even glow.

Benin cursed. Of course a cage containing a fire elemental would be constructed from heat-proof metal.

He cut off the flow of mana to his hand, ending the ability, and began to look around instead for something with which to pick the lock. Where's Tiri when you need her? That woman was uncannily adept with a hairpin. Probably from a lifetime of breaking into libraries after hours.

Behind him, Coll was hopping from foot to foot like a cat on a barbecue, both hands gripping the haft of his hammer. Benin had forbidden him from bringing his shield for fear it would impede the man's already abysmal stealth, but the warrior had refused point-blank to part with his hammer. "Hurry, Ben! Hurry!"

Benin stood straight and rounded on him. "Never, in the entire history of tense situations, has saying 'Hurry!' ever helped the person trying to hurry to actually hurry. Do something useful for a change!"

Coll glanced between the lock and Benin. "Stand aside."

He did, but not without rolling his eyes. "Not every problem is a nail, Coll. A hammer can't solve everything. The lock is heat-proof; it's probably barbarian-proof as well—"

The head of the hammer smashed into the padlock, breaking it into pieces which fell to the floor with a satisfying clatter. The emberfox whined, cringing away from the noise.

Outside in the hallway, the approaching voices rose in confusion and annoyance. Benin heard running footsteps, then a shout as one of the guards caught sight of the open door.

The emberfox had heard the shout too. It had stopped whimpering and was now glaring towards the door, teeth bared, a growl rising deep in its throat. Benin glanced in that direction too. He instantly regretted doing so. He had to squeeze his eyes shut against the near-blinding auras of all the creatures he'd examined with Arcane Sight.

What had before been relatively faint colored auras were now a blazing rainbow that shone with the strength of the creatures' emotions and the flaring of their abilities. Benin was forced to half-close his inner eye so as to still be able to see anything else.

When he looked again, two armored figures had appeared in the doorway. One carried a short sword held out in front of them. The other held an alchemical globe, its eerie white light an unnatural contrast to the vibrant auras of the caged creatures.

The figures immediately split up and began to prowl the aisles in search of intruders.

Benin swung the cage door open. He crouched once more, reaching out a hand toward the emberfox. "Come on, beautiful," he whispered. "We have to leave. Now."

He almost pulled his hand away when the creature turned its attention back to him. Its teeth—small and sharp like little pearl triangles—were still bared, and it was still growling softly. The waves of warning heat emanating from its fur would have been unbearable for Benin to tolerate, were he not a pyromancer.

Fire is in my blood, as it is yours, little one. We're meant to be together, you and I. Come.

He willed it to come closer. Looking past its snarling heat, he saw its pupils were wide with fear, and it broke his heart a little to see it in such an animal.

"Whatever they've done to you, it will never happen again," he swore. "I'll protect you with my life." He felt a little embarrassed saying it out loud, but as he spoke the words, he knew them to be true. He would do anything for this creature.

The emberfox did not retreat from the passion in his voice. Its eyes met his, and for a moment he could see nothing but those burning coals. His eyes began to heat up in response. When the heat grew nearly intolerable and he was sure his eyes were about to melt, it mellowed and moved down to his chest, filling it with the luxurious warmth of a hearth fire on a winter morning.

It expanded and grew hotter, rolling and spreading to his stomach, his loins, along to his fingertips, then all the way back up to his head, where it pooled in his eyes once more before releasing across their invisible connection and back into the emberfox.

The next thing he knew he was on the ground, gasping. Tears streamed down his face from the power of his connection with the emberfox, and more fell from his closed eyes when he felt the sudden cold emptiness of that connection's absence. He groaned. What happened?

A gentle weight on his arm made him open his eyes.

He was lying on his back in front of the open cage door. The emberfox had one foot on his arm, testing its firmness. Apparently satisfied, it proceeded to climb on to Benin's chest, treading over him casually as though he were nothing more than a human stepping stone to freedom.

It stopped beside Coll, who was peering around a nearby row of enclosures. The warrior looked down. The emberfox raised its chin in greeting. Coll gave it a nod in response, then addressed Benin.

"There are two of them. I could easily take them—"

"No!" Wiping his face, Benin climbed to his feet and hurried over. In the next aisle, one of the guards—the one with the short sword—flinched back from a sudden burst of sparks in a nearby enclosure. She cursed and rubbed her eyes.

Goodbye, night vision. Thank you, electric mouse.

"We need to get out of here without being seen," he whispered to Coll. "The Guildmaster can't know we came back."

He frowned. "What's the big deal?"

"Oh, come on! How many times must we go over this? The Guildmaster will punish us for disobeying his last orders. He might even have us killed. Or worse, exiled from the Guild."

"But aren't we basically exiling ourselves by staying away?"

"For now, yes. He can't officially banish us if we're not there for him to do it, can he?" Benin tapped the side of his head. "Think."

Two more guards appeared in the doorway. After calling out to the others, one of the newcomers made their way down the central aisle. The other remained to guard the doorway.

Shit.

Distracted by the new arrivals, Benin almost didn't see the guard closest to them preparing to round the next aisle. At a gesture from Coll, they bent over a little and tiptoed around the corner of the cages. The emberfox followed at their feet, its flames barely visible, as though it somehow understood the need for stealth. Benin longed to touch its glorious fur, ached to reclaim that bond they'd shared for a fraction of an instant, but he was afraid he'd drive the creature away. Besides, now wasn't exactly a good moment for him to risk passing out again.

"I know you're in here somewhere," the guard muttered. She sounded as nervous as Benin felt. The butterflies in his own stomach felt ready to burst out in the form of vomit; he hated this sort of sneaking around.

But desperate times called for desperate measures. If he was to become a high mage regardless of his standing with the Guild, he needed a familiar. And any sympathy he might have felt toward the nervous guard—who was just doing her job, after all—vanished when he recalled the terror in the emberfox's eyes at the sentries' approach.

"We can't be caught," he whispered aloud, half to himself and half to Coll. "They'd put the emberfox back in its cage. I’ve promised I won’t let that happen."

The big man looked from the gently glowing fox to the silhouette of the guard in the doorway. He nodded slowly, jaw set. "Okay." His hands tightened on the haft of his hammer. He jerked his head toward the door. "On my signal, go."

"What?" What was the idiot talking about?

But Coll was already striding out into the open space of the central aisle. The still-blinking guard there jerked back in surprise and opened her mouth to call out to her companions. Coll beat her to it.

"Oi!" he yelled, hefting his hammer and lashing out with it to knock over the pile of empty cages he'd almost toppled earlier.

The deafening clatter of metal provoked more shrieking from the Menagerie’s inmates until the cacophony crowded the room like a physical presence. The two guards in the other aisles immediately abandoned their searches and made straight for the new disturbance. The one blocking the doorway turned around, standing on tiptoes to see what was going on, but did not leave his post.

That was, until Coll swung his hammer again. It smashed into the stone floor with the full force of both his arms. The sound of the concussion made all the guards flinch, even the one over in the doorway.

Benin watched as though in slow motion as a ring of shimmering force—like a solid heat haze—pulsed out from the point of the hammer's impact and spread in ever-expanding circles around the idiot who'd caused it. It sent them all staggering—first the guard in front of Coll, then Benin in the next aisle, then the other two guards. The emberfox screamed, its claws scraping on stone as it scrabbled away from the noise. Even the man in the doorway seemed to experience the shockwave to some extent; he uncrossed his arms, drew something—a wand? A very small knife?—from a pouch on his belt, and left his post to investigate.

Finally.

Stunned by the impact, hands still covering his ears, Benin glanced down at the emberfox as it ducked behind him. But before he had a chance to reach comforting arms toward it, it began climbing.

Hot little claws pricked his skin through his clothes and Benin swallowed a yell as the creature scrambled up his legs and back to latch itself, trembling, atop his shoulders. Waves of near-intolerable heat washed over him and he smelled burning hair, but he gritted his teeth and bore it. He'd promised to take care of this animal, and that's what he'd do. Even if it meant losing all his body hair and skin in the process.

Coll was still standing in the aisle, hammer raised threateningly once more. As the guards converged on him, Benin shook his head, muttered a curse at his companion's folly, then began to wind his way back through the outer aisles toward the now-clear doorway, making sure to stay low and keep his fiery little piggy-backer hidden from view. It was a mercy that the guards' yelling and the racket from the caged creatures covered up the emberfox's growling and Benin’s own lack of finesse; clearly neither of them were made for stealth.

As he reached the doorway to freedom, he couldn't help but glance back. All four guards were now surrounding Coll, shouting at him to drop his weapon. One of them was still holding a short sword, but the other three were armed with alchemical globes in one hand and what looked like small tubes or pipes in the other.

What, are they planning to serenade him into submission? Good luck. That idiot is likely as tone deaf to actual music as he is to everything else.

Coll glanced in his direction as though he'd heard him. Seeing Benin and his four-legged hitchhiker in the doorway ready to make their escape, his shoulders relaxed, and he let his hammer drop to his side.

Unfortunately, the sudden movement triggered the guards’ trained reflexes. Already on edge, they flinched back, and one of them instinctively raised the hand containing the strange tube to their face, cheeks puffed out.

The others shouted at him, and a second later he dropped the tube on the ground guiltily.

Coll looked around, confused. The guards seemed confused too. They started yelling at him again to drop his hammer. Coll yelled back, explaining that if he dropped it, it might cause another shockwave that could hurt them. All the while, he was jerking his head oddly toward Benin.

Belatedly, he realized Coll was urging him to leave. But he couldn't seem to drag his gaze away. Should he help Coll? Could he help Coll? It seemed unlikely.

The guards took the decision out of his hands. Apparently reaching the end of their patience with the big man's refusal to comply with their orders, another of them raised their tube—a blowgun, Benin belatedly realized—and blew a second dart at Coll. It stuck in his neck.

He swayed, but still didn't drop. Benin couldn't help but be impressed.

It sounded as though the guards were impressed, too. He heard one of them muttering about "Bloody constitution builds," while another speculated that their opponent had some advanced version of the Stone Body ability.

Then Coll swayed again and dropped his hammer. It didn't cause any more shockwaves like he'd warned, but it did make quite the racket. On Benin's shoulder, the emberfox flinched and dug its claws in deeper.

The guards, already jumpy, finally lost it. All three of those with blowguns raised their weapons to their mouths and shot simultaneously.

It seemed Coll's formidable constitution had finally reached its limit. The big man stumbled, falling against a hutch containing a giant neon-blue butterfly, but somehow remaining on his feet.

"Wha' d'ja do 'at for?" His words were slurred almost beyond recognition, and he sounded genuinely offended.

Turning around slowly to take in all four guards—who'd backed away again, though this time it was clear they were just making room for him to fall—he pointed a wobbly finger in front of him.

"You shouldn't've shot me, y'know. I wasn' harming 'nyone." He stared at his own finger, bringing it closer to his face in fascination as he teetered on his feet. "I was jus' causin' a dishtraction. Tha's all."

With that, Coll finally lost his battle with both consciousness and gravity. Without any change in his expression or posture, he toppled sideways and crashed to the ground like a felled oak.

The guards breathed heavy sighs. Then they—and Benin—registered the meaning of Coll's last words.

All four guards spun to face the exit, one of them already raising their blowgun. For a terrifying instant, Benin's feet remained frozen—an especially uncomfortable sensation for a pyromancer. Then the emberfox yowled and dug its claws into his neck. Heat and adrenaline surged down through his body and he twisted away from the doorway.

The dart hit the doorframe and bounced off, but Benin and his new familiar were already gone, leaving Coll alone and unconscious in the lair of the enemy.

Six

The Grotto

Corey

“’Everything’s fine.’” Ket sounded dangerously angry. “’Everything’s fine.’ That’s what you told me, Corey. In what universe is this ‘fine’?!”

The sprite sort of had a point. Though Longshanks was still alive—in other words, "fine," by my definition at least—he most certainly was not okay.

The other scouts had bound his injured leg with makeshift bandages during the journey back. But seeing as the limb in question was partially severed, and given that the gnomes were about as proficient in first aid as an ostrich was at arm-wrestling, they'd left a trail of blood all the way from the battle site to the Grotto, and now my wounded lead scout was looking dangerously pale. His head lolled senselessly over the crook of Ris'kin's left elbow, and his bloody leg dangled loosely over her right.

Even though I'd prepared Ket for what she was about to see, she'd shrieked in horror when the otherwise triumphant procession re-entered my Sphere of Influence. I'd endured her accusatory remarks about my definitions of "slightly hurt" and "a bit scratched-up" without comment, and I'd listened silently to her diatribe about my negligence in letting Longshanks get into such a state.

Now, though, she'd started on my lack of communication and the less-than-honest nature of my reports from beyond my SOI, for which I genuinely did feel a bit guilty.

At the escalating outrage in her voice—not to mention its rising volume—I'd fled higher up than our usual haunt in the center of the Grotto, and was now hiding amid the fur of Binky's back in the skylight far above my gem. I could still hear Ket, of course, but not as loudly. For some reason, Binky still made her uncomfortable; she always gave his adorably fluffy eight-legged form the widest of berths, making him the perfect refuge from the volume, if not the content, of her current tirade.

I was actually quite glad to be so far away from what was going on down below. The moment Hammer and Graywall, my two drill sergeants, had caught wind of their injured comrade, they'd sent a pair of their warriors-in-training to commandeer some equipment—from the lumberyard, of all places. As soon as I grasped why exactly they were making off with a spare axe and one of the improvised saws, I suddenly wanted to look anywhere else except down at Longshanks, held down by Hammer on a makeshift pallet while Graywall forced some kind of mushroom-based concoction down the semi-conscious scout's throat.

I knew some of the fungi in the shroomeries had anesthetic properties; I hoped the warriors' potion was made from those and not from the deadlier kind, though I wouldn’t have put it past them to confuse anesthesia with euthanasia. Either way, Longshanks would be in less pain, so that was... good.

Ket seemed just as horrified as I was, and had fallen mostly silent. To distract us both from the procedure going on below, I focused on Graywall and brought up his personal details in the Augmentary.

"Huh," I said. "Did you know Graywall has the Improvised Medicine skill?"

She huffed. "Of course. All the gnomes with combat-oriented vocations have that skill."

"Well, I didn't know."

"Think about it. It makes sense. How else would they have managed to patch themselves and each other up after the big battle?"

"I thought they just... did it. I didn't know it was an actual skill, like my abilities."

Now I thought about it, it was a miracle we’d survived this long without an actual healer among the tribe. Time to remedy that.

I chose one of my non-vocationed gnomes at random and assigned him the “Medic” profession. He immediately leapt up from where he’d been gathering mushrooms, cracking his head on an outcropping of rock and falling straight back to the ground. I sighed and assigned a second medic, who promptly scurried over to tend to the first one.

“Oh!” I remembered. “Speaking of new skills and things—take a closer look at Longshanks."

I felt Ket cringe.

"Will you see if it's safe first?"

I sighed, but steeled myself and risked another look. To my immense relief, Graywall was wrapping bandages around the stump of my lead scout's leg. The operation was over, and Longshanks was still alive.

"It's all right, Ket. You can look. Longshanks is fine. Actually fine. Though... I guess we should call him Longshank now, no?"

"Corey!" If she and I were corporeal, she'd definitely have just punched me on the arm.

"What? I wasn't joking!"

She muttered something about me being insensitive. "You could just call him Shanky," she told me.

I sighed again. "I'm not doing that."

Down in the barracks, Longshanks—no, Longshank now, I reminded myself—groaned and began to stir.

“Poor Shanky.” Ket moaned in sympathy.

“That’s still a stupid nickname,” I told her, hoping rehashing the argument would distract her from her concern (and from blaming me).

It worked.

“No, it’s isn’t," she snapped. "Anyway, I don’t care what you think. It's what I call him. If he could hear us, he'd tell us how much he likes it. And if you try to tell me one more time that it sounds like a ‘cutesy assassin’ name…”

I thought back to him stabbing the mole-rat over and over again. Perhaps Shanky wasn’t such a bad name for him after all.

"Ket, I take it all back. There was nothing cute about the way he dealt with that mole-rat."

"Really?"

"You should've seen him. It was brutal."

"Hmm." She didn't seem to like the sound of that. I rolled my eyes. Gods forbid I ruin her opinion of her precious "Shanky."

"So what was it like?" Even as she asked, she was pulling up the blesmol's blueprint. "Oh, it's actually kind of cute!"

"Are you blind?!" I abandoned my refuge on Binky's back and zoomed over to give her a mental poke. "How can you say that thing is 'cute' but still be frightened of poor Binky?"

Binky followed me down, bless him, descending slowly on a spool of silken thread until he was dangling just above my gem. Ket shuddered and hurriedly relinquished her favorite spot atop it.

"A fear of spiders is rational, Corey. You're the weird one here. Not me."

She went back to examining the mole-rat blueprint. I zoomed over again to point out certain things—like how disproportionately huge and disturbing the teeth were. After I'd described fighting an entire herd of them (yes, I may have exaggerated the number), she agreed that fine, maybe they weren't all that cute after all.

Done scanning the new blueprint for information, Ket was now flipping back through the other recent blueprints we'd acquired. "So how did you manage to beat it?" she asked.

"You'd have been so proud," I told her. "I actually used the Augmentary to help us. It was really difficult, but—"

"Ooh, was it the ghoul's bush?" she interrupted, still flipping through blueprints. "That's what I'd have done. Found a way to get its mouth open and—”

"Beard."

"What?"

"It's ghoul's beard, Ket. Beard! Not bush." I was already grumpy that she'd figured it out so much quicker than I had. And I'd told her about ghoul's beard on multiple occasions now, yet she still couldn't remember its proper name?

"Do ghouls even have beards?" she pondered.

"The man ghouls probably do. And I imagine lady ghouls have bushes—"

"ANYWAY," she said loudly. "What were you saying before about new skills? Why did you want me to look at Shanky?"

I smirked and stayed quiet.

"You big tease!" she scolded. "Fine, fine—let me have a look..."

There was a pause while she brought up Longshank's Augmentary profile.

“’Hunter,’” Ket read aloud. Then she squealed as she read it again. “Shanky gained a new vocation?”

“He did,” I confirmed proudly. “It’s a specialist class scouts can attain by fulfilling certain prerequisites. In this case, murdering a mole-rat while wearing ballbag armor.” Damn, it felt good to be the one who knew things for a change.

“That’s… gross, and not quite how it’s worded here.”

I could tell she was reading it more closely now because she’d stopped flitting around all over the place and was instead perched once more atop my gem, her wings occasionally fluttering and giving off showers of microscopic sparks.

"Aw, Sparky, I haven't seen you this excited in ages."

“How many times do I have to ask you to stop calling me that?”

“At least once more, Sparky.”

She rolled her eyes. I could tell she also wanted to rustle her wings in annoyance, but was very deliberately trying not to lest they give off more sparks and prompt further teasing.

“You know my wings have always done this, right? Why wait until now to start mocking me for it? Surely it would have made sense to do that when we first met. Gods know you antagonized me in every other way you could think of.”

“Think of it as a compliment. In some societies, earning a nickname is a mark of respect. Be proud.”

“You know, Corey, it never ceases to amaze me that despite no longer having an anus—assuming you did have one in your former life, that is—you still do a very convincing impression of someone talking out of theirs.”

“Rude.”

“Anyway, quit deflecting. You were telling me all about this new ‘hunter’ profession. You say Shanky gained it automatically? You didn’t have a choice in the matter?”

“Um…”

The sprite fixed me with her glowing stare.

“Fine! The class-up was optional. I was going to wait until later so we could look at it together, but I got impatient. Also the trip back here was really boring, what with Ris'kin having to carry Longshank and all that."

Assuming Ket had eyebrows—she was so tiny the only features even I could make out were shining eyes and glittering wings and not much else—I could tell they’d just risen all the way up into her hair. “You were going to wait? For me? You?”

“It’s the thought that counts, right?"

She trilled sarcastically. “Sure. So, about this prerequisite. ‘Rivalry,’ you said?”

“Right. I looked into it on the way back here. Apparently, Longshank formed a ‘Basic Creature Rivalry’ with the mole-rat species when he killed that one in the tunnels today.”

“But they've killed mole-rats before. How else would they have gotten all that darling armor?" I could hear her smirking, but didn't rise to it.

“Well, it was the armor that did it, you see," I replied loftily. "The previous kills must've been made by gnomes not wearing the new armor."

"Interesting. Maybe it's a rite of passage for them to only wear armor from something they've killed?"

I mentally shrugged. "Maybe. Anyway, it seems the double whammy of skin-wearing plus stabby death is what unlocked the official rivalry, which in turn unlocked the new vocation.”

“Look at you, doing your research, taking your job seriously.” She beamed. “I’m so proud of you. So, what does ‘rivalry’ actually do?”

“Um…”

Ket sighed. “Aaand we’re back.”

Ket's excitement at all this new information had made her forget all about Binky. My beautiful furry spider guardian had grown fascinated with Ket, in spite of—or perhaps because of—the fact that she disdained him at every turn. Right now he was abseiling closer and closer to the gem on which my sprite was perched, and I amused myself by imagining what would happen if he managed to successfully land on top of her.

Then I realized he was about to land on top of her.

Oh, no.

It would be like an enthusiastic Labrador attempting to curl up on the lap of a newborn baby—adorable, yes, but also potentially disastrous.

"Ket..."

"Hmm?"

"Look up."

Seven

All Hail the Spider God

Corey

There was a pause as Ket tore her eyes off the Augmentary. Then she squealed and streaked away from my gem in a trail of sparks, like a firefly shot from a blowgun.

Poor Binky's legs drooped in disappointment, and he shot me a look that said “Traitor.” Still, he kept descending. I watched apprehensively. This was a big moment for Binky. He was usually shy and came down only for food, or when I had other instructions for him, like during the battle when he and Flea the badger had bravely defended the children in the Refuge from the attacking kobolds.

As he touched down atop my shrine, the two acolytes there—who, until that point, had been very steadfastly continuing to worship as though nothing were happening—finally gave in to their fear and fled down the hill and into the shelter of the nearest gnomehome.

Binky ignored them. Focused on the new surface underneath him, his furry greenish legs danced deftly on the stone as he turned in circles. One of his hook-toed feet nudged my gem, which teetered a little but remained in place, and eventually he settled his bulk down atop it, despite clearly being far too large. Now he was simply like a Labrador trying to make itself at home in the bed of a much smaller puppy; tragic in its own way, but mostly harmless.

"And you're just going to leave him there, are you?" said Ket.

"Why not? He looks adorable."

She spluttered. "He looks like a broody hen, only a million times more terrifying."

Binky shuffled his weight a little, as though trying to get more comfortable. He did look like he was planning to hatch an egg. Broody… hmm. Perhaps it was time for me to make him a lady-spider companion...

I snorted as I imagined Ket's reaction to having two spiders in the Grotto, laying their squishy eggs in every corner to eventually hatch into hundreds more tiny spiders, which in turn would breed more spiders...

"What's so funny?" the sprite asked suspiciously, sensing my amusement.

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

From the doorway of the creche—a large circular structure surrounded by gnomehomes at the base of the hill—darted a very small figure, perhaps drawn outside by the sounds of the fleeing acolytes. After looking around for the source of the disturbance—and for any sign of an adult, no doubt—the gnome child raced up the hill toward us. She stumbled a bit on the uneven surface—the gnomes had yet to build a proper path, and I had little faith it would make the journey to the top smoother even if they did—but eventually the girl reached the summit.

She ran forward but then halted suddenly, foiled by the little ditch (which Ket generously referred to as a moat) that surrounded the pedestal of my central altar (which was really just a pile of flat stones). She reached grabby hands in Binky's direction, whining pitifully when she realized she still couldn't reach him despite him being tantalizingly close—much closer than usual.

Binky watched her impassively, unmoving. Then, at a mental prompt from me, he used his chelicerae to start cleaning his fangs, just like a cat using a paw to clean behind its ears.

The young girl clapped her hands together, letting out a delighted noise that was so high-pitched it made even Ket wince. She stayed there for several moments, transfixed by Binky's antics, until one of the older juveniles slouched over to retrieve her.

Ideally, it should have been one of the nurses who'd come to find her. However, the requirements for the creche building had specified only one nurse for every ten juveniles. This had seemed reasonable to me at the time of building. Now that I'd had plenty of opportunity to witness what a handful most of these kids were, though, that ratio seemed frankly ridiculous. It was almost as though the building’s prerequisites had been set by someone with zero experience of children.

Pfft. Gods.

The teenage gnome cast a surly glance at Binky but otherwise ignored him. After some persuasion—and a bribe involving several blueberries skewered on a stick—he and the little girl left us, hand in hand, the latter casting longing looks back over her shoulder until they were out of sight.

"You know, those denizens born in the creche are so much more comfortable around my god-born than those who were here first," I mused. "I wonder how much of it is an age thing?"

"That's an interesting point," said Ket. "Younger generations generally are more adaptable, it's true."

"And more accepting of things that are a bit different from themselves," I added pointedly.

"It isn't that I don't accept Binky! I'm trying, you know I am."

"I know. I'm teasing. I just can't comprehend how anyone could be frightened of spiders. Although," I conceded, "when the spider in question is several times larger than you, I suppose it makes sense. Still, it hasn't stopped the young ones from learning to like Binky. Perhaps the older gnomes—and you, Ket—just need longer."

"Perhaps not," she replied softly. "Look!"

The pair of acolytes who'd run away had re-emerged from their home looking rather sheepish. After much bickering, they made their way slowly back up the hill, taking it in turns to push each other ahead, presumably so the one behind would have time to escape if Binky decided to snack on the one in front.

They reached the top and stood there, cringing. Binky stared down at them. He didn't look hungry; he'd stopped cleaning his mouthparts at my command, and was now still as a statue as he regarded the two acolytes before him. They gradually relaxed.

The acolytes stood there as though waiting for instructions from my eight-legged guardian. For my own amusement, I had him wave one leg at them, as if to say "Proceed."

They glanced at each other, then back at Binky. Then they shrugged, knelt, and bowed their heads.

Cerulean lines, visible only to Ket and me, flowed across the space between the acolytes' bodies and my gem. As always, my denizens' active worship provided me with mana, which was stored in my gem ready to be used when needed. A visual representation of my mana level was always visible in the right side of my Augmentary: eight translucent globes, each narrowly connected to the next by a narrow line, like a long bulbous hourglass.

Eight globes, one for each god tier I'd attained during my time as the god of gnomes. At the moment, every globe was full, pulsing slightly with the glowing blue mana they contained. Many of my God Core abilities required the use of mana; however, on this latest expedition the only one I'd made use of was Double Sight, which cost me nothing.

Just because my mana was full didn't mean the acolytes’ worship was fruitless. When the flowing blue lines reached my gem, instead of drinking them in thirstily, the purple crystal glowed almost imperceptibly, gently rejecting the excess mana and redistributing it to our surroundings. Up until the battle for the Grotto, I'd been so busy creating god-born and using my new abilities to otherwise inspire and provide for my denizens—not to mention defend them against our enemies—that a full set of mana globes had been a rare sight indeed.

Lately, though, I'd had little on which to spend my mana once I was done regrowing the shroomtree fields and replenishing my fallen god-born creatures. The excess mana provided by worshiping gnomes instead spread out to rejuvenate the nearby environment. My moss was lusher, my shroomtrees taller and stronger. Bugs and fish were more plentiful, and even the badgers became more compliant.

In turn, all of these things gave off more ambient mana than usual, a reflection of their general wellbeing which spread out further to enhance the life in an even wider radius, like a happy plague. I'd begun spotting plants and insects I'd never seen before, in the outer tunnels as well as in the caverns close to the Grotto.

The Grotto itself had never looked so green and vibrant. It was a far cry from the state in which I'd first found it. My SOI was flourishing—as were my denizens.

The gnomes' morale was higher than ever, and they had more energy, which meant things got done faster than usual. Even my god-born creatures seemed livelier, and appeared to be growing very gradually larger and stronger without the need for my Evolution ability. Ket assured me all of this was very much the point of being a successful God Core with a flourishing Sphere of Influence; the less I needed to use my god-like abilities, the better a job I was doing. Still, I couldn't help but feel it was a bit of a waste.

If only that excess mana could somehow be converted into Faith instead. I'm so close to Tier 9!

I glanced yet again at the inverted triangle at the bottom of my vision. The bottom half of it—the smaller, pointy half—was close to being filled with shining green. A closer look at the triangle would reveal it was marked with horizontal lines. The lines divided it neatly into twenty sections, evenly spaced so that despite being the same width, the sections grew larger the further up the triangle they went—a somewhat depressing reminder that each god tier was much, much harder to attain than the ones before it.

The bottom eight segments of my triangle were full, with the ninth segment on the verge of becoming so. The number "8" was overlaid atop the entire triangle, a constant reminder of how close and yet how far I was from reaching god tier nine.

It felt like such a long time since I'd tiered up. I craved the addictive sensation of power flooding into me, the ecstasy of knowledge racing through the incorporeal veins of my consciousness...

"Corey."

I sighed. "What?"

"Can't you do something about that?"

Ket sounded as though she were physically pained by something. It took me a moment to work out that she was referring to the two praying acolytes. With Binky's fluffy form currently dwarfing my gem, it looked as though the gnomes were worshiping him rather than me.

I sniggered. "All hail the spider god!"

Ket shuddered. "Seeing gnomes praying to a spider... it's disturbing."

"Look at him, though. He loves it. Bless him."

"Don't you start too," she grumbled. "It just seems... wrong. Though I suppose to you it must feel just like home."

I knew that was meant as an insult. But the truth was, it did feel like home.

I had very few memories of my former life, and none that went beyond vague flashbacks of silent scenes and images, but some of those memories included me leaving offerings at an altar—an altar which was almost definitely dedicated to some kind of spider god, if the massive eight-legged statue carved of obsidian were anything to go by.

Even before I'd started having more flashbacks, though, I'd felt a connection to the spiders I found in my Sphere, and had always had a special bond with Binky, as well as with the late Septimus and Octavia, two brave god-born cave-wanderers who'd fallen in defense of the Heart.

Perhaps it was because of the fear and disdain with which Ket and the gnomes seemed to treat them. She'd treated me similarly when she first learned of my former life as a dark elf, as I'd somehow known she would, and there was solace in banding together with other outcast species. To me, Binky was a creature just like any other. But to Ket and many of my gnomes, he was an abomination whom they instinctively feared and hated—irrationally so, in my opinion—and who had to work hard to earn not only their trust but their permission to simply co-exist.

So no, I was not going to do anything about the current situation.

"They're not praying to Binky," I told Ket with a mental shrug. "They're praying to me. It's fine. I guess they are having to pray through Binky to get to me, but... oh well. It'll be good for them."

"You're enjoying this way too much. And so is Binky."

Apparently we'd enjoyed it for long enough. The scrabbling of claws alerted me to a new arrival at the shrine: Binky's black-and-white nemesis.

Uh-oh.

Eight

Cold Feet

Corey

Flea the badger crested the summit with his usual graceless waddle, his big round butt waggling from side to side, his wet nose snuffling curiously at the air.

All eight of Binky's legs tensed at the sight of him, and for good reason. The instant the badger laid eyes on him, it let out a sound somewhere between a bark and a snort, and charged forward triumphantly. I didn’t need to issue any commands; Binky was already zipping back up the thread connecting him to the ceiling. Smart spider, always making sure he had a quick escape.

Flea huffed and halted his charge, his whole body slumping in a crestfallen sort of way. Another couple of yards and he would have gone charging straight into my precarious altar, probably knocking the two oblivious acolytes aside and sending my gem rolling unceremoniously down the hill to get stuck in the wet clay on the banks of the stream. Or worse, into the water itself, to be carried away by the current and away from my denizens, and me powerless to stop it.

"Ket."

"Hmm?"

"Should we have the gnomes build a fence or something around my gem? I feel like it's a bit too... accessible."

Foiled by his target's quick reactions (though to be fair, Binky did have the advantage when it came to perception, what with having eight eyes and all), Flea trudged back down the hill and headed for the shroomtree farms instead, no doubt looking for some tasty crunchable whip-spiders to comfort-eat.

"Yes, I agree. As it is, anyone and anything can come charging in and knock you over as they please—or sit on you," she added pointedly. "Oh, look—Gneil's awake!"

Rather than being wholly diurnal or nocturnal, the gnomes instead took shifts depending on what best suited them. Though most of them did choose to work during the day and sleep at night, there were more than a few who preferred the opposite, and others still who tended to alternate depending on their mood. It meant there was always at least a handful of denizens active—either working or playing—at any given time.

Gneil - the Grotto's high priest, and my first ever worshiper - was one of the night-owls. Yawning and stretching, he stepped aside to let a pair of farmers exit the shared gnomehome in his wake. The farmers headed toward the northern shroomery, in which they'd recently been experimenting with cross-breeding a new type of mushroom. Gneil watched them go, smiling sleepily, then turned to begin the short climb to my shrine.

He hadn't gone far when one of the warriors—Hoppit, I’d named her, now on her way into the house after her day-shift—jogged over to greet him. Gneil's eyes lit up in her presence—an interesting development, and not the first time I'd noticed it.

She spoke a few words to him, and his eyebrows raised all the way up into his hair. He nodded, thanked her, then watched Hoppit disappear inside the gnomehome before he headed toward the bridge crossing the stream.

"Where's he going?"

Gneil made a beeline for the barracks. "Ahh, he's going to visit Shanky! That's so sweet!" cooed Ket, clearly touched by what she saw as Gneil's concern for his fellow gnome. I knew better.

I waited. Sure enough, when Gneil entered the barracks infirmary and saw Longshank lying amid red-stained blankets, he did not rush anxiously over to him. For a few moments he just stood in the doorway, taking in the sight of the half-conscious scout's sprawled form and missing leg. Then he shrugged and walked away with a noticeable new spring in his step.

Ket made a noise somewhere between shock and outrage. I just snickered. Clearly, she hadn't been paying enough attention to the manner in which her precious Shanky usually returned from his scouting expeditions. I decided to fill her in.

Blood-smeared, sweaty and with a swagger in his step more suited to a dashing pirate captain than an egotistical potato with teeth, the long-legged scout leader always made a point of swinging by my shrine after a hunt, where he would lean casually on his spear while regaling my adoring acolytes with tales I had no doubt were exaggerated if not blatantly made up. I couldn't speak Gnomish, but the language of Bullshit was universal. (Though, having seen Longshank’s performance during our most recent out-of-Sphere combat, perhaps my uncharitable thoughts had been a little unfair.)

For whatever reason, his presence always seemed to irritate Gneil, who usually busied himself in aggressively polishing the altar stones, rolling his eyes and occasionally throwing sidelong glances at Longshank’s wrinkly outfit before eventually growing enraged enough to clap his hands and urge his simpering underlings back to their worshiping.

Inevitably, before he could then tell the scout exactly where to go—as far away from the shrine as possible, presumably—Longshank would always say something jovial, clapping Gneil on the shoulder with enough force to bruise and then swaggering back down the hillock to his gnomehome as though the decision to leave had been his all along. Gneil would watch him go, scowling and rubbing his shoulder, and throw himself into worship alongside the acolytes. The latter's emissions would always be slightly stronger and more vibrant than usual after these exchanges, as they were presumably inspired by the stories of Longshank’s gnomish prowess.

Gneil, on the other hand... Sure, he looked as devoted as ever. But as someone who not only saw, but also absorbed and tasted the mana and Faith he produced, I could tell it was always especially bitter after such an encounter.

I’d pondered why this might be, of course. The most likely explanation was that Gneil was jealous of Longshank. Why? Well, that was anyone’s guess. There were many ways in which Longshank could be perceived as a superior individual to Gneil—physical stature and confidence foremost among them—but I suspected it was more than just skin-deep.

Specifically, it was blesmol-skin deep.

Could it be that Gneil was unhappy in his god-given role as my high cleric?

"Maybe we should give him a house of his own, or something? Make him feel a bit more important," I suggested, mostly to myself. "A high priest probably shouldn't be slumming it with the other gnomes anyway. Ooh, maybe the next stage of the shrine's development will be a temple? Gneil should definitely have his own temple."

I realized Ket had gone quiet, and sensed something that felt dangerously like pride from her across our bond. "What?"

She trilled softly, giving off a shower of pinkish-white sparks. "You've come a long way, is all. I remember when you wanted to set him on fire."

"I never wanted to set Gneil on fire!" I told her, horrified. "Just those who were being mean to him."

"Yes, but you always used to complain about him. Now you want to build him a temple?"

"I want him to build a temple for me," I corrected. "I suppose he can live in it afterwards if he wants to."

Gneil reached the top of the hill, still with a big grin on his face, and waved up at Binky before kneeling beside the two acolytes. The instant he joined them, their mana grew brighter. Having a high priest in the tribe really did inspire the others to greater feats of worship.

"Well, that's very generous of you, Corey. And I for one am happy you've moved on from your initial dislike of the gnomes. And that you haven't once said you want to set Shanky on fire."

"Shanky has other things to worry about right now." I frowned down at a sudden flurry of activity in the barracks. "What's going on down there?"

Someone had apparently informed the on-duty farmers about Longshank's mishap. Leaving his companion to continue their delicate ministrations in the shroomeries, the other farmer had marched on over to the infirmary room in the barracks, his ever-present bucket swinging at his side.

Now he had hold of one end of Longshank's amputated leg and was trying to deposit it in his bucket. But holding on to the other end of the leg was Longshank himself. Still sprawled on the ground, face drained of color, he was clinging to his former foot as though his very life depended on it.

"What on earth is he doing?" Ket's voice was muffled by her hands, which were pressed against her mouth.

"It's... unclear. Why does he want to keep it? Does he think they're waiting to just stick it back on again or something?"

"Not Shanky—the farmer!" Ket sounded appalled. "What does he want with a random leg?"

"Oh. Probably intends to use it as fertilizer, like they did with the bodies after the battle."

"How undignified! No wonder Shanky doesn't want him to take it!"

"Shanky helped them bury those bodies all over the shroomtree farms. He knows it's for the greater good. I'm surprised he's getting"—I almost choked—"cold feet."

"Too soon!" hissed Ket, sparking furiously.

The farmer, clearly realizing he was no match for Longshank even in his weakened state, let go of the limb and backed off. Rather than looking triumphant, Longshank just slumped over the limb. After a pause, the farmer edged forward cautiously. He crouched beside the wounded scout.

After a short but seemingly heartfelt conversation, the farmer nodded, wiping his eyes. He eased the severed leg away from the now-unresisting Longshank, wrapped it more firmly in its blanket, and placed it carefully in his bucket. Then he stood and extended a hand to the scout.

With an impressive minimum of wincing and moaning, Longshank climbed to his feet—foot—and then, supported by the farmer, hopped his way out of the room. The agony must have been intense, but Longshank endured it with gritted teeth. His pain threshold must be on par with that of a mole-rat. That, or those mushroom elixirs are stronger than I thought.

The pair made their way painstakingly over to the nearest field, the one on the south side of the stream. There, the farmer dug a hole amid the shroomtrees, then offered up the bucket to Longshank and held onto him while he unsteadily placed his lost limb in the hole and bowed his head over it.

Once buried, the flesh would decompose and become part of the soil, nourishing the shroomtrees that provided the foundation for the Grotto’s buildings. The bones would remain for a while longer, joining the crumbling skeletons of almost a hundred kobolds. They'd only died here a couple of weeks ago, but dead organic matter decayed extra quickly in my mana-rich Sphere.

After a few minutes, they filled in the hole together, covering the leg from sight. Both gnomes flinched a little when a figure detached itself from the shadows of a looming shroomtree, but they relaxed when they saw it was just Ris'kin. I watched in mild surprise as my avatar approached Longshank and offered him a long, knobbly walking stick—a stick I recognized as once belonging to Granny, the tribe's former overseer.

I didn't have a body, therefore I didn't have a throat, but somehow I had a lump in it. So I did what any reasonable person would do when faced with the discomfort of fresh grief: I channeled it into more familiar outrage instead.

"Why would she do that? I didn't tell her to do that!" I exclaimed. "And after he's been such an arsehole with Gneil, too!"

"Well..." Ket sniffled. Apparently she'd found the gesture a lot more moving than I had. Typical. "Ris'kin is your avatar. She's her own person, but she's also the embodiment of your will. I doubt she'd do anything you didn't also approve of, even subconsciously."

I grumbled something about how both Ket and Ris'kin were subconscious pains in my arse, mostly to make the sprite stop talking. I suppose Longshank had earned a little of my (grudging) respect. He'd shown determination and fortitude in the face of great pain. And the way he'd brutally murdered the monster that injured him had been pretty spectacular in its own way.

"Whatever," I told Ket. "He can have the walking stick. But if he thinks this means I'm promoting him to overseer, he's got another thing coming."

Nine

The Lair of the Enemy

Tiri

The lock clicked open. The sound seemed louder than it should, amplified by the heavy pre-dawn silence. Tiri glanced over her shoulder, muscles tensed for flight, but the dim alchemical light globes along the wall showed the corridor remained empty.

Tiri held her own chemsphere—modified to give off pink light rather than white, the better to spend long hours reading through the night without eye strain—higher, withdrew her hairpin from the lock, and slipped inside the room.

It was a mess.

A narrow bed lay along the wall just inside the door. Its pillow and coverlet were barely visible beneath a jumble of papers, books, clothes and random items. Stepping further into the room, Tiri could see some of the papers on top were lecture notes: 'Advanced Tracking (Swampland)', 'Ten Essential Forest Ranger Skills', 'Wild Beasts and How to Harness Them'. Scattered atop these and books with similar titles were assorted oddments: a handful of polished stones, an acorn, several ink-stained feather quills, and a torn archery glove.

More books—Eusocial Species of Kelaria, Inside the Hive Mind, and The Way of the Warlock—sat haphazardly stacked on the bedside table, the now-empty drawers of which had been yanked wide open and left that way. They gaped accusingly at her, reminding her that she was intruding upon a dead woman's private space. Though the chaotically strewn nature of it all suggested she was not the first to come prying amongst Lila Mornier's personal belongings, seeing the relics of the ranger's short life laid out so carelessly before her made her swallow a lump in her throat and look away.

Her breath caught when she saw the second bed on the other side of the room. For some reason it hadn't occurred to her that Lila might have had a roommate. Luckily the pink glow of the alchemical lamp revealed no sleeping form but rather more notes and books.

Thank the philosophers.

That would have been hard to explain, lockpick in hand, rifling through the possessions of her now-dead adventuring companion in the dead hours of the morning. She was growing careless.

She'd assumed those high up enough in the Guild, like Lila, would have their own rooms. Tiri herself had shared a dorm with seven other women back in the Academy. The lack of privacy was one of the reasons she spent so much of her time in the expansive library. Well, that and the fact she generally preferred the company of parchment over people.

But I'm just a humble academic. Lila is—was, she amended, blinking back the sting of tears—a high ranger, one of the elite. She’d expected her to have a room of her own here, or maybe even an apartment in the private accommodations located just off-site.

Focus. It doesn't matter.

She pushed her braids away from her face, pinning them back in place with the makeshift lockpick, then massaged her temples. Yet another night spent among the library's records had left her gritty-eyed and muzzy-brained. And for what?

The Guild's library contained a host of texts that were off-limits to residents of the Academy. Tiri had practically salivated at the thought of sneaking in and gaining access to them.

However, most of those she'd spent the night perusing had been little more than picture books. She didn't need to know how armor designs among the warriors of the northern civilizations had evolved over the past few decades. Nor did she care that the color of a scrying mirror changed depending on the user's elemental alignment. And she certainly wasn't interested in which parts of the human anatomy you should stab to most effectively disable your opponent.

She needed answers. Answers to the questions that had been burning in her breast for nearly a month now.

Why had the Guildmaster seemed surprised—no, outright dismayed—to see them return in one piece? Why hadn't he seemed surprised (or dismayed) to learn of the tragic demise of both Lila and Cassandria?

And why had he refused to send a larger force to deal with the red God Core and its army of kobolds?

It didn't add up. He'd sent them to investigate rumors of a hostile Core in the area, one which was potentially responsible for recent raids on the surface—raids none of them had heard word of until then. When Tiri, Benin and Coll returned with confirmation of the kobold Core's presence, the Guildmaster had looked flustered, almost alarmed. He'd stammered assurances that there was nothing else they needed to do, and very forcefully suggested they each retire to their own rooms and await debriefing from one of the senior adventurers.

Together, the three of them had decided to ignore these downright suspicious orders. Instead, they'd tried—and failed—to recruit allies to their cause, then raided a supply cupboard and set off on their own.

The gnomes had been a surprise. Helping them above all had convinced her they'd chosen to do the right thing. The world thought them extinct—which was perhaps the only reason they weren't—and their primitive existence in that cave was a puzzle. It was so close to the surface; so close to the Guild; so humble, so unprotected, and was clearly not the ancestral home of what had once been a thriving race of artisans and engineers.

It wasn't safe. They had to be warned. Hence the dual nature of Tiri's research these past couple of days: the history and decline of the hill gnomes, and how to communicate with God Cores.

She'd found a few spells in the Guild library that Benin might be able to repurpose to help with the latter. The gnomes, however, were trickier.

She recalled only a few basic facts from one of her cryptozoology lectures. Gnomes were benevolent, and focused on innovation and cultivation. They were a secretive race, kept themselves isolated in self-defense, because of their size but also because they feared that their inventions, if discovered, could be stolen by other races and used for violent means.

A century or so ago, a mysterious catastrophe wiped out all known gnomish civilizations. Some said it was collateral damage, an unfortunate consequence of the devastating war with the gods, and that the gnomes were unintended casualties. Others believed the little folk had been deliberately targeted—that their technological advances were deemed a threat to organized religion, making them some of the first targets in the gods' war on progress.

Tiri had used the limited additional information she'd uncovered in the libraries to plot out areas that might contain the ruins of their lost civilizations, but it would need a lot more work before she could confidently present it to the Core and suggest it uproot its denizens from their current home.

So why was she wasting what little research time she had by breaking into a dead woman's bedroom?

She'd told Coll and Benin she'd be in the Academy library, where she was much less likely to be accosted. As far as she knew, it was only the Guild that wanted them.

But something had drawn her to this place. First, she'd followed her own instincts to the library, where she wasted several hours perusing books intended for students of the physical and magical spheres. Eventually she'd realized the same feeling that drew her there was pulling her to a different part of the building.

And now she was here, and the same sense that had drawn her to the room was now pulling her toward the bedside table. It felt similar to her Orientation skill—a perk of the Cartographer profession that allowed her to read, say, a travel diary, and then triangulate the area described by the writer on a map; or to sense the intent of a map’s creator, so that even the most abysmal maps could be deciphered by high-level cartographers.

Right now, she was drawn by a sense of secrecy, and of suspicion. Someone had hidden something in those drawers.

She knelt and brought the chemsphere in closer. Both drawers were empty. But something was still pulling her toward them; toward the back.

She tilted her head. The movement brought the light lower, and something flickered at the very back of the empty drawer.

A shadow. A... keyhole?

New skill unlocked!

Startled by the sudden appearance of the glowing text, she froze, then silently cursed herself for being so skittish.

Find Text

Discern the location of writings made by a specific author. Can be used to unearth stashed evidence, or to assist with the discovery of long-lost tomes hidden away for centuries. Or just to impress a librarian.

Note: Chance of success is increased if user is in possession of an item belonging to the author.

Skill type: passive

Prerequisite(s): any scribe class

Required for: Detect Intent

Despite the tension of her current predicament, Tiri couldn’t suppress a small thrill of delight at having unlocked a new skill. She had a sudden urge to return to the library and—

Mind on the job, Moon.

Swiping the writing from her vision with a (somewhat reluctant) mental wave, she focused instead on using her fingers to probe the strange slot at the back of the drawer. It was too narrow for her fingertips to penetrate, but the mechanism inside was too large for her hairpin to negotiate.

Frowning, she looked around the room for something she could use. Then the text she'd just seen floated back in her mind's eye.

An item belonging to the author…

This time, she could not swallow the lump that rose in her throat as she reached into her satchel and pulled out an arrow. Tears prickled the backs of her tired eyes as she gazed at the now-ragged fletching, the smooth wooden shaft, and the finely whetted arrowhead.

All of a sudden she was back in the endless dark, lost in tunnels leagues beneath the earth, and Lila was speaking to her.

"This arrow didn’t begin its life as a sharp weapon. No, it was a hunk of stone, a broken tree branch, a bundle of bird feathers. Only after being put together and carefully honed to a specific purpose did it become dangerous. The same goes for people."

It's our experiences that hone us to our purpose. What was Lila’s purpose? What is mine?

She looked again at the arrowhead-sized slot hidden in the drawer.

Right now my purpose is to find out what Lila was hiding, and why.

Subconsciously thinking how unusual it was that Lila had chosen to use arrows with stone heads rather than iron, she pushed the arrowhead into the slot. It gave a soft satisfying click, and when Tiri went to remove it, the entire back panel of the drawer came with it. And there, behind the false panel, was a bundle wrapped in a blanket.

Tiri withdrew it reverently, placing the chemsphere on the floor so she could unwrap the bundle with both hands. They started to tremble when the edges of the blanket fell back to reveal a leather-bound journal.

The cover was cracked smooth, well-worn, and the edges of the pages were soft, as though they'd been thumbed through many times. A leather cord was wrapped around the book, presumably to hold it closed against the wad of loose pages that had been stuffed inside it. Tiri imagined them straining to get out.

Here, let me help you.

Undoing the cord was the work of a moment. She freed the jumble of loose notes from their prison and set them to one side, then turned her full attention to the opened journal. After flipping back a few pages to find the beginning of the most recent entry—and glancing over her shoulder yet again to make sure she was still alone in the room—she hurriedly began to read.

Ten

Trust Nobody

Tiri

85th day of summer, 521 PC

Today is the day. V finally handed me my death warrant. And, Lord of Light help me, I signed it.

The order? To travel, accompanied by a standard party, to the Subgardia cave system and investigate the possible presence of a malevolent God Core. This is in itself nothing out of the ordinary. After all, one of the Guild's prime directives is to identify and remove such threats before they become a problem for those of us on the surface.

However, the justification behind the order is... questionable. I've heard of no raids in that region, nor any other concerning activity that would indicate the presence of a Core.

Also strange are the companions V has assigned for the task. They are as follows: Cassandria Karst, a worker-caste assassin-thief; Collson Rutherford, a guardbreaker-class warrior; Benin Fitz, a fire mage (of all things!); and Tiriani Moon, a student at the Academy.

My own brief research into each of these individuals has proved less than reassuring.

Karst is the subject of no fewer than eighty-nine(!) complaints, mostly from those of noble caste, and is by all accounts a mannerless brute. Meanwhile, Rutherford has been charged with dozens of counts of injury and property damage over the last decade, and while every one of these is listed in the records as "accidental" he nonetheless owes Guild fines in excess of five thousand gold, which is... staggering.

That V would send an academic to do an adventurer's task is concerning, but one look at Moon's records are enough to explain his reasoning. Eliminating Arkasio Jr.'s only intellectual rival would certainly help V gain favor with the boy’s father, the Arch-Academic, despise him though he may.

The leather spine creaked as Tiri's hands tightened on the journal. She'd suspected—no, she'd known that her position as top of the field in theoretical crypto-entomology had been what drew the higher-ups' attention to her. That her entire life had been tossed away to satisfy one man's ego and another's social maneuvering made her grind her teeth with rage.

Her anger softened somewhat when she recalled explaining her situation to Lila, back when they were all lost beneath the earth. The red-haired ranger had clearly already known, or at least guessed, the basic facts, yet she'd listened sympathetically while Tiri told her, and then delivered a thoughtful speech to bring her spirits back up.

She sniffed and pulled herself back into the present. Lila had been a good person. The least Tiri could do was give her memories her full attention.

But by far the most worrying of my soon-to-be traveling companions is the pyromancer. If what I have long suspected is indeed true, then his presence alone is confirmation that the mission on which we are about to embark is not one of duty but of suicide.

It isn't that I don't have faith in my own abilities; how could I not? But by their very nature (heh) they will be inaccessible to me beneath the ground. And my most powerful assets will also be useless; the BCs need time to grow, to flourish, to proliferate, none of which is possible on such short notice.

All of this is to say V's purpose seems likely to be this: use the pretext of a standard mission to conveniently dispose of untidy loose ends, within the Guild and also his own personal business. Though it pains me deeply to think it, as one of only a handful of V's remaining agents—one who has over the years become privy to his most coveted secrets and deep-rooted desires—I suppose I myself must represent the untidiest of those loose ends, and thus has my end arrived.

But! The situation is what it is. I may be wrong—I hope I am wrong. Perhaps there really is a malign Core, and V is sending me as ever to do the Lord of Light's work in destroying it. Perhaps it will even turn out to be the fabled purple Core I know V has secretly been seeking for so long. And the Subgardia system... V has mentioned in the past that he has an ally in that region. Perhaps we will be able to seek aid from them should we encounter difficulties. Or perhaps V has instructed that they should be the agent of our doom.

Only time will tell.

In this mire of muddy waters, one thing has become clear to me.

V has ulterior motives and I can no longer trust him.

I embark on this journey with open eyes, and will do my utmost to fulfill my directives as a high ranger and protect those under my leadership, unconventional though they may be.

But I can trust nobody.

Eleven

Bacon Butties

Tiri

The next page was empty, as was the rest of the journal.

Tiri rubbed her eyes and tried to process what she'd just read. Lila's last written words seemed to sear themselves on the inside of her eyelids, and she felt a dread certainty that the ranger had been right.

Trust nobody.

The words sounded paranoid. Crazed, even. But the handwriting said otherwise; it was neat, measured, just as it was in the earlier entries. And Lila hadn't struck her as paranoid; only cautious. If she suspected something was afoot, Tiri believed her. What was more, her suspicions meshed with Tiri's own concerns—and left her with a host of new ones.

Assuming 'V' was Guildmaster Varnell, what secrets had Lila known about him? And what did she mean when she said she was his 'agent'? Why was she worried about being partied up with Benin in particular? What were the 'powerful assets'—the mysterious 'BCs'—she'd referred to?

Above all, what could be so special about the 'purple Core,' and why was the Guildmaster looking for it in secret?

I'd hazard a guess it’s not to invite it over for a cup of tea.

Tiri glanced at the pile of papers beside her, torn between delving into them and flipping back through the journal for more insights into Lila's last days. That was when she noticed the first pink fingers of dawn had already begun to creep through the half-drawn curtains.

She'd been lost amid old memories and new suspicions, but now her physical surroundings came back to her in a rush. She was in a room she'd illegally broken into, rifling through a dead woman's private belongings in an institution from which she was technically outlawed. And passing footsteps in the hallway indicated the Guild was starting to wake up.

Shoving the pile of loose pages back inside the journal, Tiri stuffed it all into her satchel. Then she grabbed her chemsphere, though she didn't really need it any more. Her legs were stiff and clumsy—it felt like she'd been kneeling there for hours—and she tripped on the blanket Lila had used to wrap the journal before hiding it away in the secret drawer.

A flash of silver, and then something small and hard fell from a fold in the blanket. A necklace? Tiri picked it up gingerly.

Barely an inch high, the pendant’s narrow form was made of some kind of gray-black glass. It was twisted into a shape that looked pretty at first glance, but the more Tiri stared at it, the more it began to resemble a contorted humanoid, like a drowning fairy trapped in amber.

She shuddered. Tucking the pendant and its silver chain back into the blanket, she shoved that in her satchel too, cursing the lack of sleep that was now apparently sending her imagination running wild.

As more footsteps passed in the corridor, a pair of voices drifted in through the door, which Tiri had left slightly ajar for the sake of a hasty exit.

"... can't believe it took six darts to down him."

"He'll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. Big oaf."

The words prompted a sinking feeling in Tiri's gut. They could be talking about anyone. Besides, Coll and Benin are keeping a low profile at the safe house, like you told them to. It won’t be him—

"Oaf, maybe, but I'm glad he dropped before any of us got on the receiving end of that hammer. Had a mean swing, he did."

"Yeah. Wish we'd caught the other one though. Captain’ll be furious."

"Not at us. We were just the backup. It's Koff and Vann who'll get it."

"If they even bother reporting it."

His companion snorted. "Oh, they'll report it, but not yet. It's Thursday."

"So?"

"I keep forgetting you're new here. So, Thursday means bacon butties. Those two will already be in the cafeteria, chomping on as many slices of pig as they can stomach. Bacon butties always run out if you don't get to breakfast early. That's why they sent us to throw the perp in the cells instead of seeing to it themselves."

"Bastards."

"Welcome to the Guild, darling."

The voices faded as the two young men disappeared around a corner. Tiri groaned inwardly. I’m going to kill Coll and Benin when I see them. She didn't know what they'd done, but she knew one thing. Sleep would have to wait. She had a captured oaf to locate.

As she reached for the handle, the bedroom door swung inwards. She gasped and stepped backward to avoid getting hit.

A woman stood in the doorway.

Her hair was a mess of brown curls so disheveled it could easily have been home to several mice and maybe a small bird or two. A pair of painfully bloodshot eyes glared out from beneath the tangled mass. They burned with hostility, as fierce as a basilisk’s gaze.

The woman took a step into the room. Tiri was suddenly very aware that this woman was much larger than her. And she was standing between Tiri and the exit.

Who is she? And what in the stacks is she doing here, now?

"Who the hell are you, girl? And what in the twelve hells are you doing in my room?"

The woman's eyes flicked to the bedside cabinet. The drawers were still wide open, exactly as Tiri had found them.

But she'd forgotten to replace the secret compartment.

Scowling, the curly-haired woman—Lila's roommate, evidently—strode across the room to the drawers.

"But I checked," she muttered. "I checked! How—"

Tiri didn't wait to hear her next words. She bolted for the open door, desperately seeking the relative safety of the hallway, now slowly filling up with rangers in varying states of dress on their way to breakfast.

Almost there…

"Argh!"

She was yanked back into the bedroom doorway. Shoulder aching, collarbone throbbing like it was just kicked by a horse, Tiri fought for purchase on the leather strap that now felt as though it were crushing her chest. The woman had somehow moved quickly enough to cross the room and grab Tiri by the satchel. Now she held her fast.

"You were going through my roommate's things. Why?" Her breath was hot against Tiri's ear.

Mind racing, Tiri stared at the doorway, her freedom so near yet so far. She could probably make it; a quick twist and duck and she'd be free of the satchel and running. But that would mean leaving behind Lila's journal, not to mention all her own research notes from the last few weeks.

"Tiriani Moon," hissed the woman. "I recognize your description from your file. Where are the others? What happened to Lila?"

"I don't know where they are!" gasped Tiri. "But Lila's dead. I made my report—"

"Lies, all of it," she growled through gritted teeth. "What really happened down there? Tell me the truth before I beat it from you!"

The fist to her kidney felt like a rock from a catapult. Tiri would have doubled over from the pain had the woman's grip on her not been so strong.

"Gahhh... help... help!"

She gasped the words on instinct, and instantly regretted it. She was an impostor who'd just been caught breaking into a ranger's private quarters. Why was she trying to attract the attention of even more rangers? They'd just throw her in the cells with Coll and turn her in to the Guildmaster—if they didn't beat her black and blue first for daring to violate the rooms of one of their own.

Oddly, her assailant also seemed to think calling for help was a bad idea. She clapped a hand over Tiri's mouth and hissed, "Hush!"

But it was too late. Two figures appeared in the doorway. Both young women looked sleep-tousled, and one of them kept glancing back down the hallway, from where the faint smell of bacon and toasted bread was now starting to waft.

"What in the name of Talamis is going on here?" one asked, yawning.

"Are you all right?" the other said to Tiri.

She stared at them both, eyes wide and disbelieving over the hand that was currently gagging the lower half of her face. Thankfully they seemed to get the message that actually, no, she most certainly was not all right.

The first woman stepped into the room, pulling her white-blond hair back into a tail as she did.

"You going to let that poor kid go, or are we going to take this to the captain?"

The sleepiness in her voice was gone, replaced by outright hostility. That hostility was mirrored in the second woman's glare as she too stepped forward.

"You're on your final warning, right?" she said. "One more strike and you're out on your ass."

Tiri's curly-haired captor slumped, and her grip on Tiri slackened. But she did not let go.

"I found this little snake in my room. She was going through Lila's things!" The big woman's voice was almost pleading. "You know there's something strange going on. Varnell is trying to cover it up, but this girl knows—"

"Put a stocking in it, Sinica," interrupted the first woman angrily. "Your roommate died in the field. A shame, but it happens. Get the hell over it."

"Yeah, and quit it with the crazy conspiracies. No one wants to hear them."

"And no one wants you drawing negative attention to the rangers. In fact, no one wants you here at all."

The woman finally released her hold on Tiri and took a step back. The other two rangers nodded, eyes narrowed.

"That's right. Not another peep out of you, or we'll take matters into our own hands."

"You'd best keep sleeping with one eye open, crazy."

Shocked at the sinister direction the conversation had taken, it was a moment before Tiri realized the two women had left. Seizing her opportunity before Sinica could resume her interrogation, Tiri darted for the door and hurried down the corridor without looking back.

Her lower back throbbed from the punch to her kidney, and the vulnerable space between her shoulder blades was tingling. She felt as though the ranger’s bloodshot eyes were following her. Heart still pounding from her near-miss, Tiri turned a corner and broke into a run. She couldn't get away from that room fast enough, even though she was most likely running straight into even more danger—particularly if she intended to see this investigation through, which she did.

But that would come later. For now, she had a prison break to pull off. Somehow.

Twelve

Scavengers

Corey

“The stream is flooding again.”

Ket was right. Water was beginning to pool on top of the clay flats, where, if left unchecked, it would slowly creep inland toward the barracks.

"But we just shored it up!" I complained. I spent several moments cursing vehemently, until Ket got bored of hearing it and cleared her throat.

"Yes, and now we'll have to shore it up again. It's not a big deal."

I carried on grumbling, though I was already using Divine Inspiration to convey to Gneil that he should instruct the builders to increase the flood barriers. Though I didn't really like dragging him away from his post, it was much quicker that way, either because I'd done this with him so many times or because he was my high cleric.

Whatever the reason, within moments three builders were stuffing dirt into burlap sacks until they were full to bursting, then tying them off and hauling them across the bridge. They stacked them atop and behind the existing barrier of sacks along the bank, then did the same around the north and west walls of the barracks.

"See? No big deal," said Ket brightly.

The sprite zipped off to check again on Longshank, who was hobbling around supervising the placement of the makeshift sandbags. I noted Ket glowing with approval as she admired his initiative.

I'm still not making him overseer, I thought grumpily. Though he is doing a pretty nifty job with those defenses...

As Ket said, shoring up the flooding hadn't been such a big deal. But it wasn't the task itself that was making me irritable.

The stream had been swelling for days. But the weather up top—which by choice I only ever experienced through the hole in the Grotto's ceiling—had been no rainier than before.

What was more, I'd noticed parts of the wall through which the stream flowed into the cavern beginning to crumble away. Even as I watched, a few more clods of dirt splashed into the stream as the crack in the wall widened by yet another increment. I felt a twinge of worry, not for the first time.

Thankfully the scouts chose that moment to return from their latest expedition, providing a well-timed distraction from my water-based worries.

A few more uneventful patrols underground had confirmed the mole-rat threat was now well and truly dealt with. So, at Ket's insistence, I'd been sending the scouts out above the surface. They'd returned the first time with an array of biological treasures from what Ket suggested must be the corpse of a wild sheep: wool, meat, and a waxy substance Ket called 'lanolin'.

(I’d initially misheard the latter as 'lamb-olin', and replied, "Oh, because it's a sheep?" This had prompted much mirth and mockery from the sprite ever since.)

The lanolin had proved a timely find. When applied to the surface of other materials—like wood, hide, and the rough hessian fabric the gnomes used to make their clothes—it imbued them with minor waterproofing properties.

It looked like the scouts had brought back more of the same this time. One by one they climbed down the ladder from the hole in the western wall, which led windingly to the surface by way of the badgers' former sett. The scouts' packs were bulging with evidence of sheeply bounty; they'd gathered so much wool this time they looked like walking clouds.

Two of my recently matured gnomes—to whom I’d assigned the ‘clothier’ vocation—scurried forward to meet the scouts, crooning over their new finds and rubbing the latest samples of fleece between their fingers.

"Ooh, I wonder if they'll use this wool to try out the new spindle the carpenters made!"

The last batches of wool had somehow all found their way into the badgers' nest. I suspected some of the children had had a hand in that, and knew for a fact that Binky had as well. In fact, he'd had eight. His relationship with the stripy little mammals really was bizarre.

"If you can call it a spindle," I replied to Ket. I eyed the wonky shroomwood construction dubiously.

"It's their first attempt. Of course it's not perfect." Her tone was reprimanding. "But at least starting now means they have lots of time to practice before the cold weather starts to set in."

I grunted in agreement. "And at least their winter outfits can't be any worse than their summer ones." I glanced from the clothiers' rough togas—recently customized with snail shells and wilting daisies—to the scouts' wrinkly mole-rat armor. "Or their scouting gear."

"At least we solved the mystery of where the skins came from," she said brightly.

"True. I'm sleeping much better at night now I know that."

"Pah! You and I both know that if you did sleep, it wouldn't be at night."

"How many times, Ket? I am—I was—a dark elf. Not a vampire. They're not the same thing." Before she could argue to the contrary, I added, "Besides, it's always dark underground. Night and day are meaningless down there."

"Is that why you still refuse to go up to the surface yourself even when the sun is down?"

Here we go again.

"I don't need to go up to the surface," I told her. "We have everything we need down here. And the scouts—"

"The scouts provide the rest, yes. But don't you feel a little foolish?"

"Why should I feel foolish?"

She shrugged. "I mean, you're basically ignoring half—half!—your entire Sphere of Influence because of your irrational fear—"

"Irrational? A fear of spiders is irrational. And anyway, I'm not afraid of the surface."

"No?"

"No."

"Okay."

"Right, then."

Why does it feel like I lost that argument even though I had the last word?

I spent several minutes scowling down at my scouts before I realized something. "Hey, where are Swift and Cheer?"

There'd been a bit of a kerfuffle recently, which I'd gathered was a result of Swift and Cheer somehow fixing the outcome of their beetle races—something the builders betting on them did not take kindly to.

Seeing the glowering looks sent their way, I'd decided to order the two recalcitrant gnomes to accompany the scouts' latest expedition. Mostly to keep them out of trouble, but also because they'd proved themselves surprisingly useful on such missions in the past. They'd often returned with resources that had proved invaluable to the tribe, such as puffball mushrooms, as well as other things that they should not have realistically been able to obtain, like the numerous dead possums whose hides had provided life-saving armor for our warriors.

"Why don't you go up to the surface and look for them?"

I ignored Ket and instead opened my Augmentary map.

Among the glowing golden lines—lines which designated the various passages and levels of my Sphere of Influence—were different colored dots. Some of these were moving, while others were still. Apart from a very small cluster of blue dots gathered around my shrine, signifying active worshipers, all of the dots were green in color. I felt a certain smug satisfaction to see it. It wasn't all that long ago when the majority of them were gray and non-faithful.

With a few mental swipes I was able to rotate the map, zooming out so that the dots grew smaller and I could see more of my Sphere at once. After some careful searching I finally spotted them: two green dots had just entered my Sphere from the north-east. They were moving slowly. Had something happened to them? Were they injured?

I recalled the red symbol I'd seen beside Longshank after the mole-rat encounter, and reassured myself that something similar would be showing here if that were the case. Furthermore, the scouts' support of Shanky had shown that they would not have left their comrades behind if they were wounded.

Unless they've been up to their swindling antics out there as well...

When they did finally show their faces in the Grotto, the reason for the delay in their return was obvious.

"What... is that?" Ket sounded like she was going to throw up.

"I believe it's a severed head," I told her. Formerly belonging to a sheep, I presume.

The head barely fit through the entrance, and it took Swift and Cheer an excessive amount of tugging on the ropes they'd tied around its ears before it finally came clear. It landed on the ground with a heavy thud and immediately began to roll away.

"Oh gods... its eyeball is hanging loose," Ket moaned. "Look at its eyeball! And the congealed blood... and the way its tongue is flopping out of its mouth... hnnghhh..."

Completely unfazed, Swift and Cheer attempted to take their prize in hand, hauling on the ropes and making "Woah!" noises as though it were a runaway horse rather than a decomposing cranium. A group of children playing nearby caught sight of the monstrosity rolling toward them and fled, screaming.

"Yep, Swift and Cheer are definitely back," I said with a sigh.

The pair had always been... different from the rest of the tribe. At first, it was the extent of their apparent incompetence that made them stand out. Then it became clear that their ineptness was not the sign of a lack of skill but of willful disobedience. They ignored everyone and everything, including the drill sergeants and Gneil.

Not even assigning them a vocation had changed this; I'd made them both warriors weeks ago, yet still they'd abandoned their posts in the barracks and joined the militia instead, the better to be around their beloved Granny.

There were only two things I’d ever seen them heed: direct orders from an overseer, and compulsion abilities like Scout. Both lasted for a limited time only.

As they reined the skull to a halt, patting it approvingly, I toyed again with assigning them the scout vocation.

I'd learned through trial and error that there was a limit to how many vocations I could assign each of my denizens. Back when we'd been focused on strengthening our defenses, I'd been forced by circumstance to reassign most of my builders and other construction-related professions to military roles.

Now that things were safe, I'd found I could re-assign those warriors as builders and such once more, but not any other vocation. Most of my gnomes, it seemed, only had the capacity to learn a maximum of two professions.

As a militia fighter-turned-scout-turned-hunter, Longshank was an exception to this rule. The only reason for it I could see was that the Augmentary described hunter as an 'advanced' vocation, which perhaps meant it counted as an extension of the scout vocation rather than its own separate thing. I wished there was someone I could ask about it, but Ket didn't know either.

"I can't watch them anymore. What are you doing?" she asked me now.

"Nothing exciting."

"I don't care. Just please, please distract me from the sight of those two little monsters pulling maggots from a sheep's brain and feeding them to the badgers."

"That's the sort of image you can't unsee," I agreed. "I was just thinking again about the vocation stuff. D'you think I should... huh."

"Huh?"

"Look."

Straight away she spotted what I was referring to. "Huh. She unlocked a new vocation?"

"They both did. I must have missed the notification." That was annoying. It seemed if I didn't catch the initial ding from the Augmentary, as obnoxious as it was, then I remained unaware of whatever new development had just taken place.

Adding it to my ever-growing list of things to look into improving, I focused now on the new vocation option for Swift and Cheer.

Scavenger

Vocation type: gathering

A scavenger is skilled at finding objects and materials which have been discarded by others. They are also competent at repurposing items which might otherwise be overlooked as useless.

"Scavenger. Seems more than appropriate," said Ket.

I nodded, watching them toss the sheep’s now-detached eyeball into the air for Clyde the badger to snap up. I could sense the sprite had meant it in a negative way, but the scavenger description really did fit. Recently I'd seen more and more evidence of what Ket had called gnomish innovation amongst the tribe—and from these two individuals more than any other.

Swift and Cheer had designed the weighted nets now carried by our farmers, which they used to keep whip spiders in place until the nearest badger could be called over to dispose of the deadly arachnids safely and inhumanely. The pair also had their own personal shroomery in a corner of the Grotto, where they'd been the first to discover how to cross-breed the different types of shrooms they'd gathered—much to the chagrin of the tribe's actual mushroom farmers.

I can't think of any other profession they'd be better suited to.

Before I could overthink it, I assigned both Swift and Cheer their new vocations.

The scavengers were looking mightily pleased with themselves. Cheer was currently engaged in cutting out bits of the sheep's brain, washing them, and then preparing them on a wooden block, presumably for cooking. She had a flat stone already heating over a fire, and was rubbing oil into the chunks of brain before rolling them carefully in a coating of crushed hazelnuts.

Swift, meanwhile, was hacking away at the exposed bone of the skull's lower jaw. Every time a sharp fragment was chipped away, she examined it, then either tossed it over her shoulder or tucked it into the bandoleer she wore across her chest, already bristling with other sharp things that could potentially be used as weapons.

She already looked like a walking junk heap. They both did. Since they'd started holding—and apparently fixing—their beetle races, they'd been accessorizing with the spoils of their ill-gotten victories. Items the spectators had bet and lost—pebble necklaces, woven grass belts, carved shroomwood fetishes, even a bracelet made from shiny beetle carapaces threaded onto a knotted root—adorned their person. They wore all the things all of the time, as though afraid their former owners would steal them back if they left them unattended. Which, to be fair, they probably would. Still, what was it with gnomes and terrible fashion?

There was a sudden cheer from across the stream. The two scavengers both glanced over, then returned to their own tasks, apparently unconcerned and uninterested in what the other gnomes were doing, as usual.

My own curiosity was overwhelmed by a sudden surge of ecstasy. For a long moment—though not nearly long enough—my entire being was filled with a sense of power and fulfilment that left me incapable of speech. I basked in the tingling warmth even as it began to recede, like a cat lounging in the last rays of sunlight.

“You’re purring again,” Ket told me.

Ignoring the smirking sprite, I opened my Augmentary—noting with satisfaction the glowing “9” in the triangle at the bottom—and scrolled through my list of abilities. Sure enough, there was a brand-new entry at the bottom.

Adjure

Tier 9 ability

Grants deeper insight into denizens’ vocations and unlocks advanced skills. Denizens can now be assigned to more specific construction-based tasks.

Mana cost: none

I’d long since passed the point of hoping for showy, destructive skills—skills past-Corey would have described as “god-like.” Now, I experienced a thrill of excitement at the possibilities hinted at by the Adjure ability. I might still be unable to strike down my enemies with a thought, but I could drastically increase our tribe’s efficiency, and in the long run that would prove more valuable to my gnomes than any number of fireballs or lightning bolts.

A glance across the stream showed me the cause of my latest Ascension. Over by the barracks, a small group of gnomes were patting each other on the back while Longshank looked on approvingly. The flood barrier was now five sacks deep and three high, and it seemed the water level beyond them had finally started to recede. The workers’ jubilation at a job well done—and their increased Faith in me—had been just enough to push me into tier nine.

"Clever Shanky!"

Still floating on the afterbuzz of Ascension, I let the sprite sense my grudging agreement. My lingering worry about the rising water I kept to myself. After all, it would probably sort itself out soon enough.

Probably.

Thirteen

Too Easy

Tiri

Tiri rubbed her lower back and grimaced. That's going to ache for days.

She should have been feeling angry at the ranger, Sinica, for the aggression with which she'd treated her. But when she thought about it, she couldn't really blame her. It wasn't as though her reaction had been totally unjustified. Excessive, perhaps, but she had caught a complete stranger in her bedroom. How else was she supposed to react?

And the way those other rangers had spoken to her... Tiri couldn't help but feel bad for her. Those women hadn't cared about Tiri's plight; they'd barely even glanced at her face. They'd just wanted an excuse to threaten and insult Sinica. No wonder she seemed so angry at the world.

Trust no one.

It was as though Lila's words were warning her. Sinica could have been a concerned roommate (concerned to the point of deranged, but still). But she could just as easily be another of the Guildmaster's agents, determined to tie up those 'loose ends' Lila had mentioned in her journal.

Focus. Find the cells and free Coll. Then you can worry about everything else.

Logic suggested the cells would be somewhere underground. Shrugging off her discomfort at the very idea of their existence—the Academy had nothing of the sort, at least as far as Tiri was aware—she descended the nearest staircase.

As she made her way along more corridors and down more flights of stairs, she took the time to look more closely at her new ability.

Find Text

Discern the location of writings made by a specific author. Can be used to unearth stashed evidence, or to assist with the discovery of long-lost tomes hidden away for centuries. Or just to impress a librarian.

Note: Chance of success is increased if user is in possession of an item belonging to the author.

Skill type: passive

Prerequisite(s): any scribe class

Required for: Detect Intent

Most people assumed that only those with access to mana had an Augmentary. Tiri was as nonmagical as a brick, yet her devotion to studying—natural history, museum specimens, living things, not to mention hundreds of hours spent poring over texts both factual and fictional—had unlocked an entire new realm of possibilities.

Most of her skills related to the cartographer profession—such as Scrivener’s Origin, which allowed her to roughly sense where a person was when they wrote something, as well as how long ago it was written—though there were others, like Identify Lifeform and Assess Anatomy, which synergized more with her research into semi-mythical insects.

Find Text was undeniably useful, but Tiri was more interested in the very last line of its description. Assuming Detect Intent did what its name suggested, it could give her insight into the actual person behind the account beyond the simple facts of time and place. Knowing how someone had felt while writing, say, a memoir would provide valuable clues as to their motivation—and the overall trustworthiness of the work in question.

She felt a real thrill as another possibility crossed her mind. Did this mean she'd also be able to tell if whoever had written it had been truthful? To debunk false testimony and verify conflicting accounts, not just in matters of history but also of justice? The applications were potentially limitless.

She stared at the text, only half seeing it, so focused was she on pondering its implications. Luckily the corridors of the Guild were relatively empty, so she didn't bump into anyone. Presumably they were all in the cafeteria.

Her personal knack for going unnoticed also helped. Though that was mainly because those in the Guild looked down on those of the Academy, and vice versa. The two institutions might be on separate campuses, but it was a common enough sight for research and errands to take academics to the Guild and adventurers to the Academy. With her head down and her stride deliberate, Tiri looked too shy and dull to bother, but also just confident enough to appear like she belonged there.

Her tired mind turned from her new ability to processing the facts, and quickly reached a somewhat urgent conclusion.

The Guildmaster seeks a purple God Core. The Guild are sworn to destroy all God Cores. Therefore he intends to destroy the purple Core—which means the last gnomes in Kelaria could disappear into extinction.

I can't let that happen.

She was also concerned about this 'Lord of Light' Lila had mentioned, though the (admittedly generic) moniker was not familiar to Tiri. If Lila and the Guildmaster were working at the behest of some secret religion, that was definitely something she needed to know.

Her mind was so busy that she was halfway down the next stairwell before she spotted the pair of guards at the bottom of it, standing in front of a heavy wooden door.

Looks like I’ve found the cells. And they’re guarded, because of course they are.

How was she going to get past the guards?

She'd need some kind of distraction. Perhaps she could knock over one of those ugly suits of armor that adorned the nearby hallway.

She was about to retreat back up the stairs when the guard on the left cleared his throat. The one on the right stood straighter and placed a hand on his weapon.

They've seen me.

Now she had no choice but to keep walking downward. Turning around would look too suspicious.

But what could she say to them? "Morning, I'm here to interview your prisoners for a feature in the Academy Gazette: 'Barbarians Behind Bars.'"? It was unlikely they'd believe the bluff but it was the best she could come up with on the spot.

As she came closer, though, a dreamy expression crossed the face of first one guard, then the other. The one on the right actually started drooling. Ew. Both stared vacantly off into the distance. It was as though they were looking through Tiri at something up the stairs.

She glanced over her shoulder—had she been followed? Was Sinica readying for a matching punch to her other kidney?—but there was nothing there but an empty stairwell.

She was forced to flatten herself against the wall as both guards suddenly stumbled past her and up the stairs, zombie-like in their single-mindedness.

"... only five minutes until shift change..." one of them muttered.

"Can't wait... bacon butties..." moaned the other.

A moment later and Tiri was alone.

Well, that was… weird.

Utterly baffled by the guards' behavior but unwilling to squander this opportunity, Tiri made for the wooden door the guards had been flanking.

It was locked.

Of course it's locked. It's a prison.

Three seconds' examination of her surroundings revealed a ring of keys hanging from a nail in the wall beside the door. With some skepticism, she tried a few of them until the door's lock responded and clicked open.

This... is too easy.

Easy? It was downright suspicious, is what it was. But what else could she do but proceed?

She found Coll in the third cell on the left. The big man was slumped against the back wall, rubbing his head, but he sat up straight when he heard the key turn in the lock.

"Tiri?!"

She hurried into the cell to help him as he struggled to his feet. He waved her off, muttering something about passive fighter skills and minimal concussion debuffs. She leaned in closer. It was true; his pupils looked fine.

Good. She punched him on the arm.

"What did you do?" she whispered fiercely. She nodded toward the open cell door and Coll trooped out, obedient as ever.

"Ben needed a familiar, him being a mage and all, so I helped him break into the Menagerie and steal one."

She froze in the middle of re-locking the cell door, then whirled to face him. "You what?!"

"Ben needed a fam—"

She shushed him with a gesture. Shaking her head, she silently led Coll from the cells, making sure to lock the main door and replace the keys behind them.

Once her anger was under control, she asked, "Where is Benin now?"

"The safe house. Probably."

The warrior stumbled on the stairs. She rolled her eyes and propped him up with her shoulder, groaning a little beneath the weight of muscle and stupidity.

Thankfully, the main hall was empty. A small part of Tiri's mind registered how unusual that was for this time in the morning; it should have been full of Guild members coming and going from the breakfast hall, either freshly wakened and seeking food or else hurrying back to their dorms to grab what belongings they needed for the classes or activities ahead of them.

Perhaps there's some kind of event. An early seminar, perhaps?

Whatever the reason, it gave them the opportunity to leave the hall unnoticed.

Once they were outside, both of them squinting in the bright sunlight, Tiri tugged on Coll's arm until he followed her around the corner and behind a topiary hedge pruned in the shape of a wyvern.

"I need you to do something very important." She began to rummage in her satchel. "Remember the purple Core? The gnomes?"

He pursed his lips. "I didn't hit my head that hard."

"Good. You know how I said it was odd that we found them in such a shoddy cave? Well, I've been researching the history of gnomes, and I think I've found the location of the last-known gnomish civilization. Or at least the general vicinity of where it was rumored to be. They were very insular, you see, and— are you even listening?"

"Ye-es?"

She sighed. "It doesn't matter." She pulled out the sheaf of notes she'd written while in the library. "Take these to Benin. He'll figure it out when he reads them. There are notes in there from spell theory books that should help him come up with a means for you to communicate with the Core this time, too."

Coll reached out and took hold of the papers, but she didn't let go. A soft breeze had picked up, and she had a sudden vision of Coll in the middle of a field somewhere clumsily chasing down the precious papers he'd somehow managed to let loose.

After a moment's thought she bent over her satchel again. She unwrapped the blanket from Lila's journal, taking care to place the precious book back in her bag, then wrapped her own papers in the blanket, knotting it tightly before handing it over to Coll. The papers would crease and probably tear, but at least they'd arrive in one piece.

"Both of you need to go immediately to the purple Core with a warning. The Guildmaster is hunting it. The gnomes aren't safe."

"The Guildmaster is hunting it. The gnomes aren't safe," repeated Coll.

"Right." She met his eyes. "This is really important, Coll," she said. "Warn the Core. I'll join you both there soon. I just have a few more things I need to look into here."

"What things?"

"I'm not sure, but I think there's something deeper going on here, and the Guildmaster is somehow involved. I should only be another day or so. I just need to make sure we're not missing some vital piece of information. But we all need to hurry."

He nodded. Then he lifted his head, sniffing the air. The scent of bacon was wafting through an open window. The warrior looked longingly toward it.

Tiri smacked him on the arm again. "Coll! Go! Warn the Core, but then don't go anywhere until I join you. I need to be completely sure."

He nodded again, rubbing his arm as he turned to leave.

"Oh, and Coll? Tread carefully."

He frowned back at her. "You think it'll be dangerous?"

"Maybe, but I meant it literally. Please, please don't step on any gnomes. It would be a terrible shame if they survived the Cataclysm only to have the last remnants of their race extinguished by your boots."

Fourteen

From Any Direction

Corey

The stone wobbled, then fell to the ground. One of my acolytes gave it a sideways glance as it rolled past him, then shrugged and returned to his worship.

Ris'kin reached a hand-paw toward the shrine again.

“Stop that!” I said crossly.

Her ears twitched. She yawned. Then, slowly, deliberately, she tipped the next stone from its place on the shrine and watched disinterestedly as it followed the other down the hillock.

I expected my high cleric to reprimand her behavior, but Gneil didn't even look up. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed almost to the ground.

Is he asleep?

"You're the worst high cleric ever," I told him.

The last red light of sunset caught in the facets of my gem, throwing spots of purple-pink light across the dark mossy walls. The glowworms on the ceiling were starting to flare awake; their soft green luminescence was a counterpoint to the white-yellow fireflies dotting the sky above like a precursor to the night's stars.

"What a lovely evening." Ket sighed and stretched, then reluctantly flitted away from her sunbathing spot atop my gem. Together, we looked down at Ris'kin, sulking beside my shrine. "What's up with her?"

"She's annoyed I wouldn't let her go with the latest scouting party."

Another stone went clattering down the hill. If she carried on like this there wouldn't be a shrine left for her to demolish.

"How petty." Ket glanced at me. "I wonder where she gets it from.”

“Rude.”

“She’s your avatar. Literally the embodiment of your will.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Ket narrowed her microscopically small eyes. I couldn’t see it, but I knew she was doing it. “I’m sorry, it sounds like you're griping about the time I saved all our butts. Tell me again how else you could have saved Gneil from that kobold back when he was your only worshiper."

I didn't reply. I didn't need to. Making Ris'kin into my avatar had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, and at the time I'd been disgruntled it was the only choice I'd had.

But she'd proved her usefulness many times over, even sacrificing herself to protect the tribe, and Ket and I both knew that I wouldn't change her for the world.

Well. I wouldn't swap her. I'd changed her plenty—all for the better, and all thanks to a little ability called Evolution.

She'd started as a humble forrel. Since then I'd evolved her many times, adding aspects of different animals to enhance her original squirrel-fox build: she now had the regenerative abilities of a salamander, the toxin resistance of a badger, and now the extreme elemental resistance I'd gained from Binky's evolved blueprint. Ris'kin had proved vulnerable to the kobolds' fire during our last battle, and I was determined that would no longer be the case.

Her features were still fox-like, though slightly softer in appearance, her muzzle less pointed and more feline. The black-and-white stripes on each cheek streaked up to ears that were tall and tufted—evidence of her part-squirrel origins. From basic forrel to proud avatar, Ris’kin’s continual growth was like a physical manifestation of my own. We’d both evolved in our own ways; both grown smarter, stronger, more advanced as we assimilated our experiences—the failures as much as the successes.

Another rock clattered down the hill.

“I warned you not to use the cat’s blueprint,” murmured Ket. "Remember how much trouble we had getting it to leave?"

“Actually, I think your exact words were ‘Do it! It’ll be cute!’,” I reminded her.

I'd recently evolved Ris'kin again using strands of grass-cat DNA, which had further heightened her balance and reflexes. This had allowed her to traverse the more precarious terrain of the deeper caverns. It had also made her somewhat... obstinate.

The next falling stone rolled to a stop against Gneil's leg. My high cleric jerked awake with a gasp and stared around, confused. He had dark bags under his eyes. He glanced up at the purpling sky, visible through the hole in the ceiling above us, then leapt at once to his feet.

Gneil stumbled zombie-like down the hillock to his gnomehome. He'd stayed awake all night and day for some reason, and was now turning in at the same time he usually woke.

He was so busy stretching and yawning he almost bumped into Hoppit, also on her way inside. Like she usually was at this time...

Ohhhh. I get it now.

Hoppit seemed surprised but delighted to find that Gneil was now sharing her sleeping pattern. The two of them lingered in the doorway; she rested her hand on his arm and laughed at something he'd said—or maybe just at the sight of him, to be honest; that seemed more likely—while he grinned sleepily, blushing.

"Ket, d'you think priests are celibate?"

"Some are. A lot of human priesthoods make it a requirement."

Down in the doorway, Gneil and Hoppit were forced to move away from each other to make room for the two farmers emerging to begin their day's work. They caught sight of Gneil's delirious grin, then exchanged glances and went back inside the house. A moment later they re-emerged. Trailing after them, grumbling, were the other eight gnomes who dwelt in that particular home, all in varying states of rumpled sleepiness. Some headed to the altar or the lumberyard to start their shifts early, while others still swaddled in blankets dispersed into other homes, presumably to crash on the floor until their own time came to begin work.

One of the farmers smirked at Gneil. The other clapped Hoppit on the back. Then both farmers headed to the shroomeries, leaving Gneil and Hoppit alone once more. Gneil's face was now kobold-red, and he stared at the ground, clearly mortified.

"Do you think my priests are celibate?" I wondered.

"Do you think they should be?"

"No?"

"Then they probably aren't."

Gneil might have been embarrassed, but Hoppit was still smiling. She whispered something in Gneil’s ear. He managed to stutter an answer. She grinned even wider, then grabbed the front of his robe and pulled him through the doorway into the privacy of the empty gnomehome.

"They definitely aren't," Ket amended.

"Hopefully his experience in kneeling will serve him well." I sniggered.

I felt a flush of embarrassment through our bond. The sprite sparked disapprovingly and quickly changed the subject.

"Why did you make Ris'kin stay behind?"

Her tone suggested she already knew. I braced myself for yet another argument.

"She was made beneath the surface, Ket. Like me. Up there... it isn't our world. It isn't safe for us. For her."

"It wasn't your world," she amended. "But that was a different life. A different time."

"It's dangerous."

"Everywhere is dangerous. Especially when you're a gnome. That's why they need Ris'kin's protection more than she needs yours."

"But what if something happened to her? Like you said, we can't use the resurrection ritual again until—"

"Corey, you can't just hide away and keep her close 'just in case' something happens," she snapped. "Besides, the surface surely isn't as dangerous as you think. Look how pretty the sky is!"

I gazed up past Binky's many legs and through the ceiling hole. She was right; the sky was a deep indigo now, and the first stars were beginning to blink against the darkness. Later, when the moon was out in full, it would illuminate the strands of Binky's webs so that the stars seemed from this angle to be caught in their silver strands. It was a sight I'd admired before on many a clear night.

What would it be like to go up there and see it all properly? The whole sky, and not just this tiny round slice of it?

Maybe Ket's right. Maybe it isn't that dangerous after all.

A dark shape suddenly appeared, silhouetted against the sky. Ket and I barely had time to shriek in surprise before it jumped into the hole, each of its four legs flailing wide like a frog diving into a pond.

"Binky!" I cried as the new arrival crashed into the spider from above, driving them both toward the hillock below. They fell through web after web on their way down, slowing their momentum, until eventually they tumbled to the ground beside my shrine.

Alerted by both my call and her own instincts, Ris'kin rolled out of the way easily, pushing the two acolytes to safety as well. Then she dived on Binky's attacker and with some difficulty hauled it off him.

Flea the badger squirmed in my avatar's arms. She quickly let go of him when he started to lick her face, and he scurried back over to where Binky was unfolding himself from the heap he'd landed in. The spider's furry body already glistened with badger drool.

Poor Binky seemed too shocked to make his usual quick exit. When Flea descended upon him once more, squealing with delight, he simply endured the badger's affections, occasionally poking the excitable creature with his front legs in a half-hearted attempt to fend him off.

"See?" said Ket. "I told you: we have to be prepared. Threats can come from any direction—even above us."

"I thought the surface wasn't as dangerous as I thought?" I grumbled.

She was right, of course. But now that the false alarm was over, I couldn't help but relax again. My acolytes—having given Flea and Binky a wide berth—had resumed their worship. The farmers were at work carefully measuring the right amount of water to drip-feed their latest experiments. The clothiers had gotten their spindle to work and were even now knitting some sort of shapeless fleece garment that could as easily have been a sock as a hat.

Everyone had their roles, and everything was running smoothly. We’d faced adversity and come through it a hundred times stronger. At times like this, I was almost convinced everything that happened before had been nothing more than a bad dream. There’d been no kobolds, no danger, no adventurers—

Darkness blotted out the stars once more as another shape dropped through the hole. This one was much bigger; it fell heavily, and landed with an "Oof!" and a strange metallic jingle.

"Seriously? Again?"

Yet another figure had popped into view, peering down into the hole. I recognized the pale skin and longish mousy hair: Benin, the fire mage from the Guild.

His companion—Coll, the windy warrior—hauled himself to his feet and brushed himself off. "It's not my fault I didn't see the entrance. It's dark!"

Coll froze when he noticed my acolytes cringing on the opposite side of the shrine. "Sorry," he said to them, for some reason speaking in an exaggerated whisper. Then, more loudly: "Ow!"

The little badger had sunk his teeth into the warrior's boot and was harassing it as best he could, growling all the while. Binky had reared up threateningly when Coll first appeared, but seeing that his stripy nemesis had things well in hand, the spider took the opportunity to sidle away.

Gritting his teeth, the warrior turned to face my gem.

"The Guildmaster is hunting you. The gnomes aren't safe," he blurted out.

He recited the words without inflection, like a child that had memorized the message but not the meaning, yet they shattered my good humor entirely. Fear stabbed at me, though confusion dulled its blade somewhat.

Through our bond, I sensed Ket’s own inner turmoil.

"Told you the surface is dangerous," I muttered.

Fifteen

A Core Named Corey

Benin

Benin's whole body felt like a coiled spring as he waited for some kind of response from the Core.

"Why isn't it saying anything?" hissed Coll through gritted teeth. His face was still fixed in an apologetic grimace. As well it should be. Bloody idiot.

Frowning, Benin reached into his pocket and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper. He'd scribbled out bits of Tiri's neat handwriting and made notes of his own, and had been confident the cantrip would let them communicate with any physical presence of magic or divine origin.

Perhaps it has a time limit?

He went through it again, sketching out the required symbols with his free hand and muttering the arcane words under his breath.

"—how you can dismiss such a threat, especially from those who've proved themselves to be our allies—"

"I'm not dismissing it, I'm just saying we might not want to take it at face value. This guy's fallen through the exact same hole twice now. And we know the other one is a pyromaniac—"

"Pyromancer!" said Benin loudly.

The two voices he'd heard arguing fell suddenly silent. Coll was staring up at him, looking even more puzzled than usual. Benin felt heat flush his cheeks.

He cleared his throat. "I'm a pyromancer," he said in a much more reasonable tone this time. "Mancer. Not maniac."

"You can hear us?" The voice was tinkly yet sharp, small but fierce, like the shattering of a crystal champagne flute.

"Obviously he can hear us." The second voice was deeper, a sarcastic drawl. An eyeroll in audio.

"Obviously I can hear you," Benin agreed. "Hi. I'm Benin. This is Coll."

"Who are you talking to?"

Rather than waste words explaining the obvious, Benin quickly recast the communication cantrip on the warrior as well. Coll's eyes went wide with wonder when he heard the voices too.

"Benin and Coll. We already know you," the drawling voice was saying. "Where's the other one? Tiri?"

"Corey!" This was the higher-pitched voice. "They've just introduced themselves. It's very impolite not to return the courtesy."

A sigh. "Fine. I'm Corey. This is Sparky."

"Ket! My name is Ket!"

Benin winced. The voice was so high-pitched in its outrage it felt as though it were piercing his eardrums.

"A Core... named Corey?" He wasn't completely able to hide his amusement at such a ridiculous setup.

"Why are there two of you?" asked Coll.

"You can blame Ket for the name," the Core replied resignedly. "She's my sprite. My assistant, if you will."

"Assistant!" she spluttered. "I think you mean adviser."

"Exactly. You assist me by giving me advice."

"Which you ignore."

"Only sometimes..."

Benin tuned out their bickering, activating Arcane Sight as he peered down into the hole.

The sun was almost below the horizon, and the cave was filled with shadows, but the Core's magical aura lit up its surroundings brighter than daylight. Though the Core's physical form was purple, its aura was green, bathing everything around it in turquoise light like they were underwater in tropical shallows.

For an instant, the light shifted, and Benin thought he caught a flicker of something else in there. Then it was back to green once more.

Weird.

With some effort he filtered out the Core's light until he spotted another glowing form. Some kind of squirrel-fox hybrid, it was clearly a more evolved version of the one that had led Benin and the others to safety when they'd been lost in the tunnels without water. He recognized this one as the creature that had accompanied them down to the red Core's lair during their last visit. Its proud two-legged posture and handsome vulpine face belied its strength and ferocity; he'd seen it fight the abominations in the deep caverns, and would not like to ever be caught on its bad side.

It took a few more moments of searching before he spotted the source of the second voice.

Ket the sprite was no larger than a firefly. Her aura was dim, muted somehow; he sensed power there, but it was as though it were locked behind the constraints of her current form.

Unlike the Core and its bipedal fox—both of which gave off a green glow, indicating an affinity with the element of earth—the sprite's aura was pure white.

Interesting.

His eyes were starting to ache from the auras' clashing colors, so he deactivated Arcane Sight. The cave below returned to darkness. Beside him, the emberfox's deep orange glow warmed him in both body and spirit. The creature was still keeping its distance—it would shrink away and snap its teeth if he tried getting too close—but at least it was continuing to follow him.

That's a good sign. Right?

Still, he felt himself spiraling into the doubt that had haunted him ever since their near-disastrous trip to the Menagerie. Even now, when it caught him gazing at it, the emberfox flicked its tail irritably.

Why won't it bond with me? Is there something wrong with it?

The little creature sniffed and turned its back on him.

"Ben!"

Coll was standing directly below him, hands cupped around his mouth.

"Why do you always have to yell?" Benin snapped.

"To be fair, we've all been trying to get your attention for a full minute now," drawled the Core. "Your eyes were all glazed over. Did you hit your head or something?"

"No, I did not hit my head."

"I did," Coll piped up.

"Erm... well done?" said the Core. "Anyway, Benin, what we were saying was: why don't you join your friend down here and explain properly about this so-called 'threat'?"

Benin looked down at the dark cave. "I'm fine here, thanks—"

"Oh, come on," said Coll. "Look, I'll help you."

Benin yelled as Coll wrapped a hand around one of his dangling ankles and pulled. He scrabbled desperately for purchase, but there was nothing to hold on to; only dirt and grass, both of which broke away easily beneath his weight as he slithered down into the hole.

Coll set him down on the ground and started brushing dirt off his clothes, until Benin slapped his hands away.

"Unbelievable!" he muttered. "Now how are we going to get out again?"

"The same way we got out last time," said Coll. "We followed that passage, and then—"

"It was a rhetorical question."

What Benin had meant was: How are we going to make a quick getaway if the Core decides to turn on us?

He glanced around nervously. Other than a couple of badgers, one of which was still gnawing on the leather of Coll's boot, he saw no evidence of potential attackers. The gnomes within sight were unarmed, and the squirrel-fox seemed alert but not aggressive.

Still, if the Core decided he and Coll were enemies and set its devil-born creatures on them... He shuddered, remembering the knee-high tarantula-thing he'd seen last time, but there was no sign of it right now.

That doesn’t mean it’s not here though.

While Coll droned on about the route to the surface, Benin briefly re-activated Arcane Sight—and regretted it immediately.

There, over in a corner near the ceiling, lurked a monstrous eight-legged form. Its aura was somewhat dimmer than he'd have expected from a purely mana-based construct. Usually, curiosity would have made him want to examine the thing more closely, but it chose that moment to adjust its position slightly. The unnatural rippling movement of its legs sent a violent shiver down Benin's entire spine, and he looked away quickly, deactivating Arcane Sight with a blink until he was once more surrounded by blessed darkness.

"... and then you take the second left—or was it the third? One or the other. Then, after about five minutes, you go past a rock that either looks like a troll or a caterpillar, depending which way you look at it, and then it's only a bit further till you're out."

Okay, darkness was actually worse. Who knew what might be creeping up on them within its concealing blanket?

Benin was about to cast Conjure Flame, the cantrip as familiar to him as his own name, when a glowing orange form leapt through the hole above. The emberfox landed briefly on his head, sending him staggering a little, then it hopped to the ground and trotted away from him. It sat down and licked its paw.

"Ooooh!" exclaimed the Core and the sprite together.

"An emberfox," murmured the Core. "Part fox, obviously. Part fire salamander. And—"

"Corey, do you know how rude it is to use Insight on a mage's familiar without first asking permission?"

"No. How rude is it?"

"Well… very."

"Oh." Rather than apologizing to Benin, the Core asked, "Where did you get her?"

Her?

"We stole it," Coll said proudly before Benin could come up with anything else. He kicked him.

"You can't just go around telling people we stole it. What if someone from the Guild hears you?"

Coll made an exaggerated show of looking around the cave. "I don't think there's anyone else here."

"Wait. You're in trouble with the Guild?" The Core sounded angry now. "And you came here? Is that why I'm in danger too?"

"Corey, let's just—"

"No, we—"

"Idiots! Get out! Go on!"

The squirrel-fox had shifted its stance, and now looked poised to spring. Its claws were unsheathed and Benin saw a glint of sharp teeth, which looked particularly threatening in the orange illumination cast by his emberfox.

He should be scrambling to get out of that cave before the Core's creatures could tear him apart. He should be terrified. And he was.

But he was also furious.

"Idiots? The Guild exiled us for helping you! We disobeyed direct orders. We've spent weeks in hiding. We're outcast from everything we've ever known, and there's no way for us to go back."

"That's too bad for you, but it's also not my problem. These gnomes are my problem. You don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand. Using my magic is now technically illegal. I will never become a licensed mage. Everything I've worked for was pointless. Even if I make a new life somewhere, all it will take is one slip—one accidental cantrip—and I'll be hunted down and probably drowned."

He unclenched one fist to point a shaking finger at the Core. "That's the life of a rogue mage. That's all I have to look forward to. I've lost everything—because of you. The least you can do is listen to our warning before you kick us out too."

His last words echoed around the otherwise silent cave. Drained by his outburst, Benin folded himself into a cross-legged seat and dropped his head into his hands.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he felt a presence at his side. He lifted his head.

He'd hoped the emberfox had come to comfort him, but no. It was the sprite. She drifted like a stray spark to settle on his shoulder.

"You did what was right, and you've been punished for it. I'm sorry." Her voice was gentle. "There's nothing I can say that will make your burden easier to bear, but I will say this: thank you."

He snorted. "For what? We arrived too late to help defend this place, and the red Core was destroyed by its own denizens. You didn't even need us. It was all for nothing."

"You got here just in time to stop that kobold stealing my gem," interjected the Core, albeit grudgingly. "If Coll hadn't fallen down here at that exact moment, all would have been lost."

And there it was. Coll had saved the Core. Tiri had saved the two of them.

Benin had done nothing, saved nobody. Things would have worked out exactly the same had he chosen not to ruin his prospects by coming back here.

"Everything happens for a reason," said the sprite, as though she'd read his mind. "Don't dwell on decisions past, or they'll haunt your present and sour your future. Trust me."

"Things'll turn out all right, Ben," added Coll. He patted the badger beside him, which had finally gotten tired of attacking his boot and fallen asleep instead.

"There, there, etcetera," said the Core. "But seriously... are you sure you weren't followed here?"

Benin shrugged. "I didn't see any pursuit. And I've spent a lot of time looking over my shoulder."

"It's true," said Coll. "Yesterday he almost broke his ankle in a rabbit hole."

"You said the Guildmaster is looking for me, and the gnomes aren't safe. Care to enlighten me?"

"You mean like we were trying to do before you went all crazy and told us to leave?"

"Yep!" said the Core brightly. "But first, can you fetch me those rocks from the bottom of the hill? Ris'kin will show you where to put them."

Sixteen

Tremble

Corey

Though still slightly tempted to feed the mage to my boulderskins, the humans had convinced me of their intentions enough for me to dismiss my god-born creatures, which I'd called to the Grotto the instant they arrived. Nine forrels, three whipfish, two boulderskins and the glorious Octavia II now turned around and trundled back to their posts, much to the relief of the three forrels always stationed in the Passage just around the corner.

I'm watching you. One wrong move and I can bring them back here in an instant.

I didn't say it out loud; I didn’t want another lecture from Ket about how rude I was being. Down at the shrine, though, Ris'kin's gaze was fixed on Benin. When he noticed this, she made a V with her forefingers, pointing them at her own eyes and then at Benin.

We're watching you, I amended, chuckling silently. It was nice to have Ris’kin back on my side.

The mage gulped, ducking his head and placing the last stone back in its place on the shrine. I sent Ris'kin a mental high-five. She flicked an ear in smug acknowledgment.

"Are you quite finished tormenting our guests?" whispered Ket.

"Well..."

She tutted. "Please be nice. It may have escaped your notice, but we're pretty isolated here. We need all the allies we can get."

"Fine, fine." Then, raising my voice so the others could hear me: "But I'd love it if our 'allies' would tell us more about this mysterious 'threat' before we all grow old and die."

Benin protested hotly about how I'd been the one causing the delays. When I maintained a lofty silence in the face of his complaints, he subsided, grumbling, and started rummaging through his pack.

As he pulled out papers and items, some of the nocturnal gnomes crept closer to investigate. As one, they gasped when he shook the first alchemical globe to life, and watched avidly as he placed half a dozen of them around himself.

"Would've thought the least you could do was have your little guys bring me some torches or something," he griped.

"They're not your servants," I shot back. "Anyway, gnomes don't bother with torches up here. They have shadevision. As long as there's some remnant of natural light—which there always is—they can see just fine. Unlike some inferior species I could name," I added.

"Racist."

"Mole-eyes."

"Soooooo," said Ket loudly, "what are those papers? May I see?"

After scowling at my gem for a moment, Benin relented. He separated the pieces of paper and laid them on the ground for us all to see.

There was silence for a few moments.

"I can't read it," I admitted.

"Me neither," said Ket.

Wait, what?

I'd never had the opportunity to learn the human language in my former life, so it made sense that these papers were indecipherable to me. But Ket should be able to read them. She had been human before she'd become a Core.

Hadn't she?

Benin's eyebrows were raised. "I guess my incantation only covers verbal communication. Interesting." He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. "I should be able to make some adjustments to include the written word as well... probably..."

He held out a hand. Coll handed him a nub of charcoal, and the mage started scribbling on the paper, tongue poking out from between his teeth in concentration.

I sighed impatiently. Scanning the Grotto, I caught sight of Binky. He'd scaled the west wall and settled in a dark corner to lurk, and was now watching the proceedings from afar. If the Grotto had produced popcorn, I was quite sure he'd be eating it right now.

Meanwhile, Coll was shuffling around on the ground like a worm-riddled canine. Clearly uncomfortable on the stony surface, he reached for the cloth in which Benin's papers had been wrapped, now lying discarded off to one side. As he shook it out, presumably preparing to fold and use it as a cushion, a small object fell from its folds: a talisman on a fine silver chain.

The big man’s reaction surprised me; he spotted the object glinting in the artificial light and grabbed for it with reflexes far quicker than I'd have given him credit for. But it wasn't enough; he managed to grab the chain, but the pendant slipped off the end of it and shattered into dust upon my shrine.

We all froze. The dust dissolved into wisps of smoke-like substance, which wafted up from the ground before dissipating.

"What was that?" demanded Benin.

Coll held out the chain. "Some kind of necklace? It just fell out of the blanket."

"Why do you always break everything?" There was a shimmer of bluish light and Benin was surrounded by some sort of magical shield. "You could've just released a djinn. Or a plague!"

A plague?!

Sensing my panic, Ris'kin immediately began herding the curious gnomes away from the hilltop. I searched the Grotto for something I could do.

Some of those new shrooms the farmers have been cultivating have filtration properties. Maybe I could use Growth and filter the bad particles out of the air?

"A plague!" Ket moaned. "We'll have to quarantine the gnomes who were up here when it was released, and then—"

"Actually, I don't think it was a plague."

It was Benin who’d spoken. He was staring at Coll.

The big man frowned back at him and shifted from foot to foot. "What?"

Then I saw it. A tiny point of light hovering beside the warrior’s ear. It looked just like Ket—except Ket was here with me, floating a few feet above my gem.

Finally realizing the direction of Benin's stare, Coll gulped like a man whose final words were about to be "It's behind me, isn't it?" He turned his head slowly, and his eyes widened when he saw the white pinprick of light. "What the—"

The tiny light swooped forward and booped him on the nose. Then a new voice filled the air, reverberating around the Grotto so loudly it made those of us that could hear it wince.

"It has ended the torment of my imprisonment!" it boomed. "Cower now, mortals, and tremble—"

The voice broke into a fit of coughing that lasted for several moments before resuming.

"Yes, tremble, I say, for the Great Calamity of the North is once again free to rain death and destruction upon all who have wronged him!"

With that, the creature shot up through the ceiling hole and into the night.

Seventeen

Filthy Betrayer

Corey

Stunned silence reigned.

What in all the hells just happened?

After the shock of suddenly hearing the new voice, I had to reassure myself that it hadn't belonged to Grimrock. I comforted myself with the knowledge that everyone else had heard it too, whereas Grimrock had, for reasons unknown, only ever spoken directly to me. Furthermore, this voice sounded different. Older, bolder, less smug yet more imperious.

"It's him," whispered Ket. "But how?"

"You know that... person... thing... whatever?" said Benin.

"Sprite," she told him. "And yes, I knew him. A long time ago."

A rush of rage flooded through our bond and left me reeling. It was unlike anything I'd felt from her before.

Before I could formulate my own questions, there was a spark of light near the ceiling as the new sprite shot back down into the Grotto. It hovered in front of my gem.

"Ahem. Young Core, might you release your magical boundary so that this one may pass beyond? At present 'tis impossible to rise more than two or three leagues above—"

A furious bundle of sparks launched itself at the new sprite with a shrill scream that made me wince and the two humans clap their hands over their ears.

"Bekkit, you filthy betrayer! I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you—"

I heard a tiny plink as the two sprites collided in a shower of sparks. The plinking sounds continued as they rolled in the air. Were they punches? Spells? It was impossible to tell.

"—I hate you I hate you I hate you—"

"Unhand me, foul creature! How dare you—ow, ow, ow, stop it—"

Ket seemed to have this well in hand, so I just waited while the world's tiniest wrestling match ran its course.

Sure enough, Ket eventually stopped. Panting for breath, she delivered one last plink before retreating to her usual spot on my gem, where she slumped, clearly exhausted.

"And you lectured me on how to receive guests?" I joked into the awkward silence.

She raised herself up into the air again. "You're right. Let me introduce you. This is Bekkit. He's a snake and a traitor, and you shouldn't listen to anything he says because his tongue is forked, and he'll stab you in the back."

"I really must protest," said the other sprite, though his booming voice was a little feebler than before. He sounded as though he were nursing bruises. "I will admit the violent one sounds somewhat familiar, but I have no recollection of—"

"Somewhat familiar?!" she hissed. "We were allies! We were friends!"

She zipped around my gem agitatedly, turning her back on her apparent nemesis to address me instead. "Bekkit was the kobolds' God Core, long before Grimrock first appeared."

What? "How could you be friends with the god of kobolds?" I asked her, appalled.

"I wish I hadn't been," she growled. "When he became Grimrock's sprite, he gave him the location of my Sphere, and that was when Grimrock started sending kobold raiders to kidnap gnomes for sacrifice. It was all his fault!"

"Kobolds." Bekkit sounded thoughtful.

"You used to call them 'miniature dragons,'" she added bitterly. "I found it quite adorable. Back then."

"You really don't remember any of this?" I asked Bekkit, not without skepticism. Just because I had my own extreme case of amnesia didn't mean I was just going to take him at his word.

"Hmm... no, but I think it's coming back to me. Sprite... Core... Grimrock... oh! Oh no!"

He started flitting around, clearly in some distress.

"My beloved miniature dragons! My precious kobolds! I remember. I remember! Forgive my rudeness, but I require a moment to process all this."

He zipped up through the ceiling hole and out of sight. Ket followed close behind him.

"Oh no you don't! Get back here, backstabber!"

Her shouts gradually faded.

Benin stepped forward. "Look, before we get interrupted again—"

"Corey!"

The mage threw up his hands. "I give up."

Ket made a beeline for my gem. "There's a huge storm up in the mountains. It looks bad."

"So?"

She buzzed in frustration. "So, where do you think our stream comes from?"

"The mountains? Oh. Oh no."

"It's going to flood the Grotto. We have to focus all our efforts on the barriers. If we—"

"No." Bekkit seemed to already have recovered from his shock; he sounded authoritative but calm as he followed Ket down toward me. "That won't be enough. You're already one small shower away from being underwater. And this is not a small shower."

Ket rounded on him. "Well, we can't just give up!"

"I am not suggesting you give up." His words were grave as he looked directly into my gem. "I am suggesting you leave."

Eighteen

A Holy Box

Corey

"But where would we go?"

It felt like the hundredth time I'd asked. Neither Ket nor Bekkit answered.

We'd spent the night debating the best course of action, and I was yet to be truly convinced of any. Hours spent poring over human maps—which supposedly promised clues as to the location of some old gnomish civilization—had taught us nothing except that the area Tiri had circled was simply too large to treat as a feasible destination.

Now, the cold gray light of dawn was spreading through the Grotto, lengthening what shadows it didn’t banish, and the exhausted night-shift gnomes set down their sandbags and stumbled to their beds. When Gneil emerged along with Hoppit, a moment's Divine Inspiration had him jogging off to relieve Longshank, who'd been tirelessly overseeing the placement of the flood defenses throughout the night.

The scouts had returned shortly before sunrise. All were weighed down beneath yet more sheep's wool, which the armorer and clothiers were now boiling in water, beginning the process of extracting the lanolin.

Though I'm starting to think that waterproofing our homes right now will prove about as useful as building a spiderweb to keep the sun out. I glanced up at Binky. And we both know how futile that is.

Benin's head appeared in the hole, silhouetted against the reddening sky. The two humans had gone back up to the surface a few hours ago to make camp and snatch some sleep, though the mage looked as though the latter had eluded him; his mousy hair was tousled, and the dark bags beneath his eyes stood out starkly against the pale skin of his face.

As soon as his eyes adjusted, he caught sight of Binky right below him and flinched away. "Damn spider."

"His name is Binky, and he's like a son to me," I told him. "I'm offended you don't like him. And so is he."

"Binky?"

"Actually, he has something for you."

Receiving my mental nudge, Binky scuttered over to a nearby crevice and retrieved something round and shiny. Benin lurched backward out of sight as the spider obediently deposited the chemsphere on the ground before retreating back into his hole.

"Thanks," came the mage's voice, somewhat grudgingly.

"Our pleasure. You can stop being grumpy now."

I heard him huff. "Where did you find it?"

"Oh, it was over in a corner. It must have rolled down the hill and extinguished itself," I lied.

In fact, I'd found it in the possession of Swift and Cheer, who'd taken advantage of our distraction by wrapping the alchemical globe in sackcloth and spiriting it away like nimble-fingered ninjas. Its disappearance would have remained a mystery had I not caught them trying—unsuccessfully—to squeeze their prize through the doorway of their gnomehome. Still they’d refused to let go of it, until Ris'kin lifted them both up by the scruffs of their necks and gave them a stern shake.

The pair were still casting sulky glances at my avatar.

"You're supposed to be scavengers, not thieves," I told them. "What would you even have used it for? You can see in the dark, and you have illumishrooms for whenever you do need light."

Though the gnomes could see in the dark, they gravitated toward light like daisies toward the sun. My acolytes had all developed excellent tans, which had become a source of envy among the rest of the populace. I'd long ago come to terms with the fact that the latter's infrequent bouts of prayer were driven more by my shrine's location beneath the sunlight than by any particular desire to worship me.

On cloudy days, though, or at night, they would sometimes light the illumishrooms. Unlike the humid cavern from which the scouts first gathered them, the Grotto’s surfaces weren’t layered with condensation. Since the illumishrooms only glowed when in contact with water, this meant dipping them in the stream, flicking them with the contents of a waterskin, or, on one occasion, licking them.

I didn't need illumishrooms or even the brightening sunlight to notice the stream's swollen water levels and crumbling banks, or the increasing damage to the bridges from the debris caught by the current. I felt like a piece of flotsam myself, pushed in a direction over which I had no control. Just a few days ago we'd been thriving, rebuilding, even expanding. Now we were in danger of being washed away—if this 'Guildmaster' didn't get to us first.

Running away didn't sit right with me, partly because it did sit right with me. Stubbornness aside, all my natural instincts were screaming at me to flee. And I didn't trust those instincts.

Though most of my memories of my former life were a blank slate, everything I did remember suggested I had not been a particularly good person. Grimrock had attempted to appeal to my dark elf nature, after all, and if he'd seen me as a potential ally, what sort of monster must I have once been?

As though he sensed my doubts—which, as a sprite, he probably did—Bekkit spoke up once more.

"Your reluctance to leave is understandable. You have defended this place from enemies and made it your home. But your gnomes are no match for the forces of nature."

Three of my warriors had waded into the stream to drag away a large branch, which had washed up against the bridge, damming the water upstream. Already the tannery was ankle-deep in silty water. Goldie the tanner and Shuck the armorer were hauling as many hides as they could rescue toward the higher ground of the village. Several villagers rushed over to help.

As soon as I saw their predicament I sent a message to Gneil, who immediately ordered more warriors to help clear the blockage. They eventually managed to tie a rope around the branch—which was more of a log by gnomish standards—and drag it onto the shore.

The river could run freely once more. The water began to slowly drain from the tannery, but the sudden tide had upended most of the drying racks, and the skins stretched out on them were ruined.

For the first time, I truly recognized that we were about to lose everything. A wave of emotion hit me so hard that if I'd had a body I'd have needed to sit down.

We worked so hard!

Warm tendrils of sympathy and shared sorrow embraced me. Ket understood exactly, and she didn't need to speak for me to know that she was here for me every step of the way. That gave me the strength to do what I now knew needed to be done.

"You're right. Running away is our only option."

I sensed joy, mingled with relief.

Huh. Bekkit and I do share a bond. The rogue emotions were hastily quashed, but I'd definitely felt them.

Why is he so keen for us to leave?

"It pleases me that we have both arrived at the same conclusion," said Bekkit smoothly. "Though try not to think of it as running away. This will be a tactical retreat, not a panicked flight—but only if we act now."

Ket scoffed. "You say that like it's as simple as activating an ability."

"It is, my young friend. It is."

"What? I don't have anything like that!" None of the skills I'd gained would be remotely useful in such an endeavor. At best, I'd be able to use Divine Inspiration or Possession to show Gneil what must be done and trust him to convey the entire process accurately to the rest of the tribe.

"I told you, Corey, he's full of lies."

"Let me explain," said Bekkit. "In order to unlock it, you must first have your denizens construct an ark."

"An ark?" Ket sounded puzzled. "You mean like a big boat?"

"No, that's not what—"

"Ah. Because of the flooding." I nodded. "I see."

"It's not a boat!" said Bekkit loudly. "It's a reliquary."

"A what?"

"A box."

"A box?"

"A holy box."

"Hmm. And building it will unlock an ability that just… commands all the gnomes to pack up and leave?"

"Yes. If you'll grant me access to your Augmentary—"

"What?!" Ket screeched. "He's not going to do that!"

"—I can share with you the blueprint for the ark," he finished.

"No!"

"What's the big deal, Ket?" I asked. "It's not like he can do any harm with it."

"No, but... it's just... an Augmentary is between a Core and his sprite. You don't share it with just anyone."

Her furious glow had dimmed, as though she were embarrassed.

"Well, it seems I have two sprites now." When her glow dimmed even further, I hastened to add, "But you're still my favorite! You'll always be my favorite."

Bekkit grumbled a little at that. Ket ruffled her wings, muttering something about checking on Shanky, and flew off toward the barracks.

Great, I offended both of them at the same time. This is going to be so much fun.

A moment later, silvery words materialized before me.

Augmentary access requested ("BEKKIT"). Approve access? Y/N

I hesitated. On one hand, it did seem somewhat hasty to be giving complete access to a stranger. On the other hand, time was truly of the essence here, and refusing Bekkit's help could prove disastrous.

I selected 'Y' before I could second-guess myself any further.

"Excellent. May I?"

I grunted permission for him to go ahead. Within seconds, a blueprint materialized in front of me.

Blueprint received! "ARK"

Add to construction tab/blueprints? Y/N

Once I'd selected “Y,” I was able to view the blueprint in full.

The ark really was just a box, albeit a fancy one. I seriously doubted that the version the gnomes produced would be anything near as grand, but hopefully it would still serve its purpose.

"I've adjusted the dimensions slightly to account for the gnomes' smaller stature. If completed to these specifications, the ark should be around seven inches long, five wide, and six high including the lid. Construction should take no more than a few hours, especially if you assign carpenters as well as builders. That gives you some time to decide on our destination."

"Why are you helping us?" I asked him. He seemed taken aback by the abruptness of the question. "I mean, I'm not ungrateful. I'm just not sure why you're doing it."

"Why would I not? Yours is a noble goal. Furthermore, I am apparently part of your domain now. Since I cannot leave, why not make myself useful?"

"Why not indeed?"

I selected the ark for construction, then assigned two builders and two carpenters to the task. As I watched them trot off to the lumberyard, I pondered the sprite's words.

Bekkit's swift acceptance of his new situation, not to mention his willingness to help, was a stark contrast to my own attitude when I'd first awoken as the gnomes' god. It would have been humbling—if it weren’t so suspicious.

What's his game? Why is he really helping us?

The sprite might seem like a perfectly reasonable being, but no one was that benevolent. Besides, he'd betrayed Ket. To Grimrock, no less. He might profess to be helping the gnomes now, but he was also indirectly responsible for the terrible situation they'd been in when I first arrived.

No, Bekkit, I thought. I'll accept your help, but I don't trust you any further than Ket can throw you. I'll be watching you.

Bekkit continued to expound upon the merits of the ark, heedless of my wandering attention. Nor did he notice Ris'kin down in the lumberyard. She was standing, arms folded, watching every movement of the gnomes as they began hewing wood and measuring planks for the ark. When she caught my train of thought, she glanced up at Bekkit, narrowing her eyes and making the same two-fingered gesture she'd made at Benin earlier.

I smiled.

We'll be watching you.

Nineteen

Professor Knox

Tiri

After a day of research, Tiri was preparing to head out to meet Coll and Benin when she caught snatches of a conversation through an open window.

"... some of the sloppiest sigilwork I've ever seen. Poor Professor Holloway must be rolling in her grave right now."

"I'm surprised there was enough of her left to bury," muttered the student, clearly unhappy with the reprimand. "They say her quarters were burned to ash so fine you could pass it through a silk cloth."

"Insolent child! Professor Holloway was one of the finest high mages this Guild has ever seen, even if she was a pyromancer. Now repeat these sigils again twenty times. If I find even a single line out of place..."

The fresh air outside was revitalizing after sleepless hours among dusty books, but still Tiri struggled to focus, racking her brains to recall why the name "Holloway" sounded so familiar. She'd walked twice around the grounds before it hit her.

She fumbled in her satchel for the piece of paper from atop the bundle taken from Lila's room, but she already knew she was right.

Mhegana Holloway was one of twenty or so names on a list, written in Lila's handwriting. Tiri scanned it again, and sure enough, there it was, just a couple of entries from the bottom. Somewhat ominously, Holloway's name had been struck through with a single horizontal line, as had the other names on the list, with the exception of the last two.

Now she stood in a moonlit corridor in an isolated wing of the fifth floor. The plaque on the door in front of her read "Professor H. Knox."

Harald Knox—the second-to-last name on Lila's list.

Tiri's knock seemed to echo down the empty hallway as though her knuckles were battering rams. She managed not to flinch.

How would Harald Knox react to this midnight intrusion? It was hard to imagine her reception being favorable, especially when she inevitably had to explain the flimsy pretext on which she was here. “Sorry, Professor, but my friend wrote your name on a list and nearly everyone else on it is dead. Any idea why?”

But she'd rather breach protocol and incur the professor's potential ire than risk coming in the daytime when her inquiries were more likely to arouse suspicion from watchful eyes.

She knocked again, more firmly this time. "Professor Knox?"

The heavy elderwood door creaked open slightly. Tiri withdrew her fist as though it had bitten her.

It wasn't closed properly. Odd.

Even after everything she'd done these past few weeks, she still hesitated. She was about to go from simple disturbance to outright trespassing—into a senior faculty member's private quarters, no less.

I've come this far. I can't afford not to go further. Especially with so much still to learn.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside the office.

A foul aroma instantly enveloped her and she fought to keep from gagging. What is that?!

One hand covering her mouth and nose, she reached into her bag with the other and pulled out a chemsphere.

Bookcases lined the walls. Their shelves were jammed with tomes, binders, piles of parchment and stacks of scroll cases, many of which had spilled over onto the surfaces of several desks. The glass beakers and flasks of alchemy equipment glinted in one corner, while a door in the left-hand wall presumably led to the professor's bedchambers. It was all very predictable.

Except for the corpse.

It was sprawled over the desk as though sleeping, but its absolute stillness said otherwise, as did the trickle of dark blood from a corner of the open mouth.

Breathing shallow, Tiri leaned over and placed two fingers gingerly on the man's neck. His skin was still warm, but the only pulse she felt was her own, throbbing within her fingertips and pounding in her ears.

If the stillness of Knox’s heart wasn't proof enough, the odor certainly was. This close, the stench of bodily effluence was almost unbearable.

But the contents of Professor Knox's recently evacuated bowels were not the only thing testing the strength of Tiri's gag reflex. No, there was something else.

She stepped away from the desk, but something crunched beneath her foot.

The shattered fragments of another cup lay on the rug beside the dead man's chair. Without really thinking about it, she bent to pick up one of the pieces while glancing around the office for the source of the other smell.

One of the desks held no fewer than seven teapots, along with several trays and scattered cups and saucers in various states of staleness. To anyone else, that might have indicated the office had been abandoned for some time.

Tiri, however, was more than familiar with the conventions of academia. She'd once had a lecturer who drank from the same cup every day, and which other students claimed had never been washed in all of thirteen years. Professor Rinpane had been a firm believer in the cleansing properties of tea leaves. To her, there was no need to ever wash her cup, because the combination of tea and boiling water were sterilization enough.

Unlike Professor Rinpane—or Rimstain, as became her unfortunate nickname—Knox's stomach lining clearly wasn't made of steel. And his cup had contained something much deadlier than bacteria.

Witchwort? Nightshade? Tiri sniffed the porcelain fragment she'd picked up, but she was no tracker, and the lingering scent could as well have been Pearl Gray as poison. She pocketed the fragment and wrinkled her nose.

What is that other smell?

The whole floor was covered with overlapping rugs. That wasn't in itself unusual; big drafty buildings like this, it was commonplace to insulate them as much as possible with floor coverings and tapestries. But as Tiri crossed the room to examine the contents of another table, she noticed that parts of the fabric squelched unpleasantly beneath her boots.

A glance up at the ceiling confirmed there were no leaks. And the dropped cup could not have held so much liquid as to soak into the rugs this far from where it had fallen.

With more than a little trepidation, she crouched and touched her fingertips to the woven fabric. It was sodden, soaked with a greasy substance that smelled of charcoal and burning hair.

A tiny spark of recognition flared in her brain. She remembered reading a description of such a substance not too long ago. It was...

That's it! It's sparktree oil.

She'd researched it last year as part of a paper on the Forge Wars. The dwarves had paid in ancestral gold for the stuff, and its use over the last century had increased the life expectancy of their forgemasters by an average of fifty years. It was one of the most expensive substances in the entire realm, in part because it was the only smokeless fuel known to exist.

"And it doesn't leave behind any residue," she whispered.

Icy realization slid along her veins. Sparktree oil. An unlocked door. She hadn't just stumbled upon a murder; she'd stumbled upon a murder in progress.

She straightened, wiping her oily fingers on her shirt. Her eyes darted around the office. She was torn between looking for further evidence, running away, or sounding the alarm.

Given that she might soon find herself at the mercy of a cold-blooded criminal, running away definitely seemed like the smartest option right now. But she hadn't taken three strides toward the door when she heard quick footsteps beyond.

The killer, come back to complete the job.

She stood there, frozen, poised between fight and flight. Adrenaline surged through her limbs and her heart thumped painfully against her ribcage as though it were trying to burst free.

Then common sense kicked in again and sent her bolting for the nearest desk. Unfortunately, it was the one currently propping up the dead professor's husk. She held her breath and ducked behind it, extinguishing her light just as a dark-clad figure entered the room.

The figure was small and lithe, and though his face was covered by a cowl, Tiri guessed him to be male. She thanked her past self for pushing the door closed behind her after she entered, so the stranger had no reason to suspect anyone had arrived during his absence.

He didn't so much as glance over at the corpse, padding straight toward the door in the far wall. He opened it and disappeared inside. Tiri glanced between that doorway and the door to the hallway, now ajar. Could she reach it before he emerged again and spotted her?

Her agony of indecision went on for too long; the killer appeared once more in the main room. He examined the alchemy equipment in the corner to his left, and after some deliberation, began dragging the entire rig toward the center of the room.

Tiri wiped her sweaty palms on her breeches and squinted into the shadows around her, looking for options. A darker shadow between two bookcases beckoned, and after making sure the killer's back was still turned, she crouch-walked toward it, emerging into a previously concealed reading nook.

Safe for the moment, she collapsed against the shelves. The smells of death and oil mingled with her own fear and tension to send a wave of nausea over her.

Then she felt it. A slight breeze, cool against the sweat-soaked shirt that was sticking to her back. As quietly as she could, she pulled books off the shelves one at a time until the stone wall behind them was laid bare. The mortar around one of the enormous blocks was crumbling conspicuously.

A secret passageway? What, am I in some cliched fantasy novel now?

The clink of glass beakers in the main room reminded her that she didn't really have another option. Peering through a gap in the shelves, she could just about see the man in black take two stoppered tubes from an inside pocket. Chemicals? But why?

Taking Lila's arrow from her satchel once more, Tiri began to scrape at the remaining mortar around the block, careful to make as little noise as possible. It didn't take long.

Musty air whistled gently through the gap. There's no way I can move this stone myself. It must weigh more than Coll. Feeling foolish, she nonetheless spread her fingers around the edges of the block and pulled.

To her absolute shock, the stone moved as easily as if it had been hollow. Which, judging from the timbre of the scraping sound it made against the ground, it probably was.

"Is someone there?"

Oh no.

The killer had heard it too, and now his shadowed face was staring directly toward Tiri's hiding place.

"Someone there?" he said again. "Show yourself, or I'll—shit!"

The beaker in his hands had bubbled over, slopping what was presumably scalding-hot liquid over his fingers. He cursed again and set it down on the ground, then backed hurriedly through the door into the hallway, slamming it closed behind him. A key turned in the lock with a heavy metallic snick.

The beaker on the floor began to spit, blue sparks flying from the reaction of the volatile substances within.

The intellectual part of Tiri’s mind was curious to see how sparktree oil burned. The more practical part knew it would likely be the last thing she ever saw, and urged her to make her escape now while there was still time. She eyed up the crawlspace. She'd fit, but it would be tight.

Another sound drew her attention back to the door. A small shiny object slid through the gap underneath and disappeared from sight beneath one of the many rugs.

The key?!

She was only baffled for a moment though. Everything the killer had done was deliberately orchestrated to make this murder look like an accident, or perhaps a suicide. Sliding the key back inside the room would only add to this illusion, making it look as though the door had been locked from the inside.

If I can grab the key before the oil catches...

But no. Even if she managed to unlock the door and escape the room before the conflagration enveloped it, there was a good chance the killer would still be waiting somewhere outside. Out of the fire and into a knife-point. She shook her head. That would be unacceptable.

No, her best option was the mysterious passageway, aka the only way out that didn't have a murderer on the other side of it. Probably.

But some unexplainable instinct had her dashing back into the room—against every modicum of her better judgment, of which Tiri usually had plenty—to snatch up the key from the folds of a black rug and tuck it into her pocket.

The beaker hissed and spat behind her like an angry cat as she sprinted back to the nook and wriggled through the gap in the wall. When she was through to the other side, she reached back in and wedged her fingers into the groove that had been dug into the back of the loose stone, presumably for this very purpose. She pulled the block back into its place in the wall.

Not a second too soon. The stone had barely ground to a halt when the first flames ignited with a whoomph. Within seconds, the room beyond was an inferno. A blast of heat through the gaps in the stone sent Tiri stumbling away, twisting her ankle on stairs she couldn't see until she finally regained enough presence of mind to pull out a chemsphere.

Down the steps and along an empty corridor, then down more steps—there was only one way she could go, and she followed the featureless passage until she could no longer hear or feel the flames above. There she rested for a while, until the shocked numbness that had enveloped her after her narrow escape finally faded. She stared at the narrow passageway, lit by the pink glow of her alchemical globe.

Then she took out Lila's list from her pocket and scratched out the name "Harald Knox."

Lila had clearly been on to something. Whatever Varnell was up to—and Tiri was certain the Guildmaster had had a hand in these deaths—Tiri had to continue Lila's work and bring him to justice.

If the suspicion that the Guildmaster was covertly murdering his own mages hadn’t motivated her to keep her going, there was something else that would have.

The final name on Lila's list.

"Benin Fitz."

Twenty

Just One

Corey

The ark was starting to take shape. Unsurprisingly, it didn't look nearly as grand as the one in Bekkit's blueprint.

When I complained that it looked more like an old traveling chest than a holy reliquary, Ket regurgitated her speech about letting the gnomes express themselves. "Every people has its own style," she told me.

And gnomes have less style than kobolds. What’s the world coming to?

I'd thought Bekkit's estimate of a few hours was overly generous. After all, my builders could construct an entire gnomehome in a matter of days. How long could a measly box take?

But it seemed that the smaller the item, the trickier the process. Each component seemed to require a lot of carving, sanding, tweaking and polishing, followed by close examination to determine whether it was of appropriate quality to be included in the final product.

It was undeniably superior to anything they’d built before. Their craftsmanship was definitely improving. Still, I couldn’t help but grumble when I thought wistfully of the magnificent receptacle from the blueprint, though not loudly enough so that Ket could hear.

My sprite had done a fair bit of grumbling herself. It seemed she hadn't previously been aware of her ability to share construction blueprints with me. Since she hadn't advanced beyond the lower tiers during her time as a God Core, she no longer possessed any blueprints I didn't already have myself, and I deduced that this was making her feel inadequate.

My suspicions were confirmed later that day, when I was mooning over the emberfox’s blueprint again.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“It really is a stunning specimen,” Ket agreed.

“I don’t understand, though. It’s a god-born hybrid. How can it exist outside of the Sphere of the one who created it? Are all mage’s familiars like it? How do they get hold of them?”

“Something to ask Benin later, perhaps. Or Bekkit.” There it was again; that hint of testiness that she didn’t have the answers.

“Maybe they come from the former Spheres of Cores that are destroyed,” I mused. “If they survive their Core’s destruction—”

“They can’t,” said Ket. “When a Core is destroyed, so are its god-born. Including its avatar.”

“Actually, that’s not strictly true.”

I could almost hear Ket grinding her teeth as Bekkit inserted himself into our conversation.

“Of course all god-born creatures are subject to their creator’s limitations—for a time. At first they are purely mana-based constructs, fragments of life essence given form and purpose. If they fall during this time, they will simply dissipate and return to the aether.”

I thought back to the many, many creatures who’d fallen to the kobolds during the first weeks of my godhood. Though they’d bled—or ichored, in the case of the non-vertebrates—like any other creature when injured, upon death they’d sunk into the stone to rejoin the ambient mana that permeated my SOI.

“What do you mean, ‘for a time’?” I asked. Ket huffed, but I could tell she was listening carefully.

“Well, as I’m sure you know already, the more time a creature spends in existence, the more solidly its mana coalesces. This happens in stages, until eventually it becomes a creature fully of the physical plane, like your fiery friend the emberfox.”

Bekkit pulled up the Augmentary for us all to see. He swiped to my creature blueprints.

“Of course, it’s rare that they complete the process, given how hazardous their role usually is. How many of your creations have begun it?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy frowning at my Creation slots.

After the battle, I’d used all 30 available slots to replenish the creatures I’d lost. Now, though, the Augmentary was displaying 29. One of them was empty.

How is that possible?

My comprehension of mathematics was poor, but it wasn’t that poor. And I’d definitely have noticed if one of my forrels or a couple of my skelemanders had been bumped off by some unseen enemy.

“One? Just… one?”

For the first time, Bekkit sounded troubled. I was about to accuse him of reading my thoughts when I realized he wasn’t looking at my Creation slots. He was looking at Binky’s blueprint.

“Binky”

Cave wanderer - Arachnid

A magical hybrid of cave spider and wandering spider. In addition to being extremely hardy against the elements, this specimen has evolved to shoot webs to catch prey at a distance of up to 10 yards.

Skills: Web Shoot, Extreme Elemental Resistance (passive), Spit.

Status: semi-celestial (39 days to next stage)

“It’s measured on a scale of ‘celestial’ to ‘earthly,’” the sprite explained. “Sort of an inverted form of ascension.”

Scrolling through the blueprints of my other creatures, I saw now that Binky was the only one carrying a status that was not ‘celestial.’

“When they reach ‘earthly’, they are fully of this world. Though they retain their magical properties, they are no longer of mana. As such they are able to withstand the destruction of their creator—and even disregard his orders, though most of them tend to remain loyal even in freedom.”

My god-born, having the freedom to leave my Sphere? To abandon me? Cold dread enveloped me at the very thought.

I looked at Binky. You’d never abandon me. Would you?

Eight eyes gleamed back at me from the far corner. Never, they seemed to say.

“I’m surprised I’m having to tell you all of this.” Ket began to object but Bekkit cut her off. “No, that wasn’t a dig at you, old friend. Corey, my boy, everything you need to know is right here in the Augmentary. Don’t you ever look at it?”

I wanted to protest that I’d been too pressed to have time for reading while fighting for my very existence. But something was bothering me, so instead I asked, “Why is it an issue that only Binky has progressed beyond celestial status?”

He sighed. “When we leave, you will be unable to access your mana until the moment your new base is sanctified. As such, you will be cut off from all mana-based abilities and creations—including purely celestial god-born.”

“You don’t think you could have mentioned this earlier?” My temper flared, though its heat was not enough to dispel the icy dread that was once more beginning to envelop me. “What will happen to the others?”

“The same thing that happens to all mana-based life forms when the source of their mana is taken away.”

I thought of Octavia II, my forrels, my boulderskins and whipfish, even my tiny skelemanders—all dissipating into nothing. All because I hadn’t kept their predecessors alive for long enough to properly become part of the world I’d flung them into.

“At least we’ll still have Binky,” Ket offered weakly. “And Ris’kin, of course.”

True. I let a trickle of gratitude flow across our bond at her attempt to cheer me up.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I asked Bekkit.

“Well, Exodus is a costly ability. By necessity something so powerful must have risks, to prevent Cores from exploiting it too often. Imagine a mobile Core, decimating everything in its path! Naturally, the cost for activating it is the total progress toward your next god tier. But—”

“Wait, what?”

“You’re saying it costs Faith rather than mana?” Ket sounded as stunned as I was.

Well, if it only costs whatever Faith is going toward the next tier, that’s not so bad. I only just hit 9. It’s a waste, but it could be worse.

“If this is some kind of trick…”

“No trick.” He sounded grave. “But there is one more thing you should know. Exodus has a set duration—forty days and forty nights.”

“And?”

“And if you haven’t sanctified a new base before the allotted time runs out, you have to pay a penalty. In Faith.”

“How much Faith?”

He paused before answering, as though it pained him to say it aloud.

“All of it.”

Twenty-One

Burst Its Banks

Corey

All of it?!

“You’re saying that if I mess this up, I’ll go back to god tier one?”

“Indeed. A regretful but necessary penalty, in order to—”

“To deter Cores from exploiting Exodus and using it to wage war and stuff, yes, yes.”

Just because I understood the reasoning didn’t make it any fairer. Why couldn’t it account for those of us who used it only as a last resort?

Ridiculous penalties aside, the rules of the universe surrounding God Cores seemed stacked in favor of the strong and the ruthless. Past Corey well understood that survival of the fittest had been a cornerstone of every civilization’s success since the beginning of existence. But that left very little room for helping those who’d had the misfortune to fall on hard times, and even less room for societies that fostered peace and compassion rather than war and destruction.

Who have I become? Past Corey wouldn’t have been caught dead with such thoughts.

Before I could spiral into despair at the unfair and catastrophic prospect of Exodus’s failure, there was a deafening DING! and the entire Grotto seemed to vibrate.

“Earthquake!” I shrieked, instinctively ducking even though I was incorporeal.

But I sensed no panic from my sprites; just confusion from Ket, and amusement from Bekkit. Looking around, the gnomes were continuing like nothing had happened, and it became obvious that I was the only one who’d experienced the sudden shock.

“What did I tell you, eh?” chortled Bekkit. “Never miss another notification!”

I groaned. “You did this.”

I’d complained earlier about not always knowing when something important had happened. Bekkit had shown me how to tweak the Augmentary settings, promising that future alerts would be “more noticeable.”

He wasn’t kidding.

Now that I knew there was no immediate danger, I finally registered the glowing text overlaid upon my surroundings.

Ark complete!

New ability unlocked: Exodus

I thought again of the blueprint, of the gilded ark with its seamless joins and swirling decor, then looked at the gnomes’ wobbly casket.

Nailed it.

It looked like a toybox made by blind squirrels. The carpenters hadn’t even aligned the wooden panels properly; the grain of each panel ran in a different direction to that of the one beside it, and I could already tell the lid wasn’t going to fit.

The interior was lined with twigs and bits of wool and thatch, as if awaiting a nest of sparrows rather than a powerful crystal with god-like abilities, and the carvings on the outside were a bizarre mix of childish doodles and obscene graffiti.

I would have been more miffed by the results had my prior experiences with the altar and shrine not lowered my expectations to manageable levels. As it was, I just sighed at the wonky ark. It will do.

I took my first proper look at the new ability that would either save us all or doom us to extinction.

Exodus

Faith-based ability

Duration: 960 hours

When activated, prompts all Faithful denizens to leave their base and travel in a direction of your choosing.

Warning: Failure to establish a new base while the ability is still active will result in the loss of all accumulated Faith.

Prerequisite(s): Ark

“But where would we go?” I’d asked earlier.

There were several places we could go. My first instinct was to retreat further underground. This ‘Guildmaster’ was a surface-dweller; surely we could foil his ambitions simply by traveling to the darkest places beyond his reach.

However, Benin and Bekkit both voiced their suspicions that Varnell had somehow been in league with Grimrock. If that were true, then he could probably reach us no matter how far down we went, and we might even have been walking into a trap—not to mention that the coming floods would probably also find us there.

So, it had to be the surface. Coll floated the idea of throwing ourselves on the mercy of the wider Guild, but Benin shot him down straight away. Varnell would never permit us to get that close, and besides, all adventurers were taught about Cores’ supposed “innate malevolence.” They were much more likely to smash me with hammers than offer me succor, and the gnomes would likely end up in some zoo, or as specimens in a lab or museum.

In the end, only one option promised the remotest chance of us not being wiped out.

The hand-drawn circle on Tiri’s map stood out against the mountains, beckoning like a halo of promise. The others had estimated it would take us thirty days to reach its outer edges, but the area it covered was enormous. Would we really find the gnomes’ former civilization before the rest of our time was up?

Responsibility weighed upon me like a lead cloak. If I made the wrong decision, everything we’d worked for would be for naught. I gazed down at my faithful flock, paralyzed by uncertainty.

The clothiers had set up shop on the higher ground of the village and were using lanolin to waterproof boots and rain capes. Perhaps they were motivated by the heavy clouds that darkened the sun more and more as the day went on, or maybe they’d somehow gleaned that travel was on the horizon.

The builders’ other projects might have clued them in. Bekkit had also shared the blueprint for crafting basic wagons—which would be much more efficient than the makeshift travois my workers currently used for transporting heavy loads—as well as a chariot to hold the ark and its contingent of acolytes.

As always, the shroomwood farm filled our construction needs; the caps of smaller trees even served as ready-made wheels. I made a joke about portable mushrooms. No one laughed, not even when I patiently explained that it was a pun on the word “portabello.”

Clearly sensing the way things were going, a few of my more perceptive denizens were also making preparations for their own mobility. Longshank had pilfered a tent peg from the humans and lashed it to the scarred stump of his thigh; the peg leg made him look even more like a pirate captain than usual, but he was limping now rather than hobble-hopping, which seemed to make him happier.

Meanwhile, Swift and Cheer were adorning themselves with what looked like every single item they owned. Each was sweating under the weight of the (useless) possessions now hanging from them, yet they persisted in adding more until they looked like a pair of wandering garbage vendors.

Nice to see them taking their scavenger role seriously.

Over in the barracks, Hammer and Graywall had abandoned the flood defenses and were instead drilling their warriors yet again in the new signaling system.

I’d made the suggestion to use signals after the battle; if we were ever to find ourselves in a similar situation again (which I fervently hoped we would not), I needed a more efficient way to communicate battle commands to my fighting forces. Possession was a costly ability, and the less time I had to spend using it, the better. Moreover, the signals had also been taught to Gneil and my acolytes, meaning I could use Divine Inspiration to convey orders if I really needed to.

“They’re ready.” Ket was a warm presence at my side as we surveyed the diligent gnomes and their loaded wagons. Three of the Grotto’s badgers were already yoked, and the fourth—Flea, naturally—was finally allowing himself to be coaxed into his harness. “They’ve come a long way, and they’re prepared to take the next step. To do what they must to survive.”

I knew she was right. And yet…

“How can I do this? Uproot them from their home? And based on what? A bit of water? A hunch from a human who isn’t even here?”

All my fears were suddenly bubbling to the surface and spilling out of me.

“What if Tiri’s wrong? What if there’s nothing in the mountains for us? What if we fail, Ket?”

“This is a big decision. I’m as scared as you are.” That was no lie; her fear crept through our bond and mingled with my own. “We might fail. We might all die. But if we stay here, we’ll definitely fall. Be strong, Corey. Only you can lead them.”

No pressure, eh?

The murmuring voices of the two humans filtered down through the skylight. I glanced up, trying to imagine what it would be like on the surface. Still I couldn’t bring myself to venture up there, even in god’s-eye form, though I’d be forced up there in my entirety soon enough.

Perhaps sooner than I thought.

The afternoon was only just beginning to wane, but it was dark as evening. The thunderclouds that had been gathering throughout the day now covered the sky, their hulking forms a threatening presence hanging over us.

The plan was to wait as long as we could in order to give Tiri time to join us. She had all the information we’d need, and her instincts and intelligence would guide us even if her knowledge failed.

But nature waited for no man or woman. Even as I frowned at the clouds and their implications, Bekkit came zooming down from where he’d been monitoring the water levels upstream.

“We cannot delay any further. The stream has burst its banks. We must leave. Now.”

This was it. The moment we’d all dreaded was finally here.

Even as I agonized over activating the ability that would upend everything we knew, the first heavy raindrops started to fall.

Twenty-Two

Aloof

Varnell

Thunder crashed outside. The rattling of the windowpanes was followed by a hail of pattering raindrops as the rising wind swept them from the sky and dashed them against the leaded glass.

Varnell barely noticed. There was another storm to the north that interested him far more than the one currently battering at his tower. He leaned back in his armchair and closed his eyes.

Now, instead of his own office, he looked down across a gently sloping meadow. The grass was a swath of blue-gray beneath a canopy of storm clouds, which grew darker and heavier further north toward the mountains. The mountains themselves were just smudges of dark gray amid a blur of distant rain.

It wasn’t raining here, but it would be soon. Beneath the ground, he knew, the Core would shortly be forced into his trap. However, Limpit—through whose eyes Varnell was looking—had not approached the cave’s entrance, preventing him from seeing inside. He felt a jolt of surprise followed by anger when he saw the reason why. Or rather, two reasons.

The warrior—the one who still owed outstanding fines in the region of several thousand gold, the clumsy oaf—was practicing his forms. The mopey-looking pyromancer was sitting nearby, talking, though Varnell couldn’t hear what he was saying from this distance.

Not for the first time, Varnell silently cursed the circumstances that necessitated his own inaction. His regular meetings with the Arch-Academic—not to mention the less predictable visits from Varnell’s patron—left him essentially trapped at the Guild, forced to rely on his familiar and increasingly unreliable agents to be his eyes and hands.

He tried to think of himself as a spider, waiting patiently at the center of his web. Yet so often he felt like the fly, struggling vainly in denial at being stuck.

Limpit was a great deal further away than he would have liked—from both Varnell and the targets of his attention—but at least it gave him an idea of what was going on. The humans’ status as voluntary exiles meant he could no longer scry on them using the Guild’s seeking bowl, but Double Sight meant that his familiar could still be his eyes, if not his ears, even this far from the Guild.

Interesting that Double Sight was an ability shared by mages and Cores alike, though he didn’t like to think too much about their similarities. It made destroying them that much harder.

A flare of orange drew his eye to the emberfox. It was sitting a few feet away from the mage, sniffing the air. Varnell urged Limpit to move further away, ensuring his own familiar remained upwind and hidden in the long grass, even as he raged at the sight of the stolen property.

It looked as though the mage hadn’t even bonded with it; the creature was clearly keeping its distance from its kidnapper, and though it remained aloof, it kept shooting suspicious glances at the two humans whenever it thought they weren’t looking.

Why are they here? What sort of deal have they struck with the Core?

Of course Varnell knew plenty about striking deals with Cores, but there was no way these two inept traitors had anything to offer in return for an alliance.

Still… they might be inept, but they were here, and they could potentially disrupt his carefully laid plans.

A thorn in my side. Again.

If only I had someone to take care of them.

Varnell cursed himself for removing his final agent prematurely. The young man had planted the first seed—Heh—of danger several weeks earlier, but the Core’s dirty little minions had dealt with the new threat far too efficiently.

The agent had offered to go back and sow more chaos on Varnell’s behalf. However, the man had already known too much, and once he’d dealt with one final ‘heated’ matter within the Guild, Varnell had been forced to terminate him.

The unexpected return of Varnell’s right hand had been surprisingly convenient. This particular agent had unmatched skills and Varnell had immediately put them to use once more in furthering his own ends.

Lightning flashed in the sky above the meadow. The conjured storms up in the mountains had been raising water levels for days, and the Core’s minions were on the very brink of being driven from the safety of their lair—straight into the waiting arms of Varnell’s dark ally.

Assuming he doesn’t try to flee, like my master believes he already has.

There, the Core would fall.

As will those who follow it.

Twenty-Three

Hammer Smash

Benin

“Have I ever told you how stupid you look when you do that?”

“Yes.” Coll breathed in deeply through his nose as he raised his hammer slowly above his head with both hands. He expelled the breath out through his mouth as though he were blowing out candles on a birthday cake. “You should try it.”

Benin eyed the hammer, still poised above the warrior’s head. He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to lift it, let alone hold it in this series of crazy poses for minutes on end. “No thanks.”

They’d managed to catch a few hours’ rest after their sleepless night, despite Benin’s aversion to yet another day sleeping beneath the open sky. But there wasn’t much choice. They’d clearly been getting in the way down in the cave—or the Grotto, as the female sprite had informed him it was called—plus he’d been constantly worrying that Coll would accidentally stamp on a gnome or three.

Not to mention Benin’s own strange and somewhat irrational terror: that he’d wake to find himself tied up and staked to the ground with hundreds of the little people climbing over his body and jabbing him with their tiny spears in a sort of death-by-a-thousand-pricks situation. But he hadn’t mentioned that.

The emberfox flared slightly. Benin leaned back on his hands, the better to see the creature. Ears twitching, she lifted her face to the breeze, as though catching a scent, before her fur subsided to its usual smoldering dark orange.

From the Core’s own version of Arcane Sight, Benin had learned that the emberfox was female. After an unhelpful conversation with Coll in which the big man suggested about a hundred names, each more stupid than the last, Benin had decided to name her Pyra. Not the most imaginative of names, perhaps, but it suited her.

If he’d hoped assigning her a name might bring them closer to regaining the bond he’d briefly experienced in the Menagerie, though, he was wrong. Aside from a slight sniff, which he’d chosen to interpret as approval, she’d reacted to his pronouncement of her new name with as much indifference as she did everything else. Her attitude was more reminiscent of a housecat than a fox.

Did I do the right thing in taking her from the Guild?

Though Pyra hardly seemed grateful, she didn’t appear to be especially unhappy. Surely anything was better than the caged existence from which he’d rescued her. And besides, if she didn’t want to be there, she’d leave. Wouldn’t she?

Still, anxiety was a constant companion, a worm gnawing at his guts. His actions had surely put him in even worse standing with the Guild than he already was. What had he been thinking? Even if Tiri had it right and Varnell truly did have it in for the three of them, Benin would have a much harder time talking his way out if they were caught now that he’d committed an actual common-law crime.

Oddly, it was reassuring to know that he and Coll weren’t the only ones on the run. Even the Core was going to have to leave soon, along with its entourage of gnomes.

A pity, really. From what he’d seen, they were really starting to make this place into a home. A shoddy home, one which smelled of dirt and damp and spider farts and fungal infestations, but a home nonetheless. There were more houses than the last time he was here, and the ones that had been burned to cinders had been rebuilt. The mushroom forest—he assumed it was a forest—looked much better now, too. The mushrooms were growing vertically from the ground, for one thing, whereas last time they'd been strewn all over the place, their stalks brutally snapped as if from beneath their own weight. The absence of dead kobolds helped too.

In truth, he didn't much care about the Core, or even the gnomes. Sure, it would be a shame if they got wiped out, but he wouldn't shed tears over it.

Tiri would, though. And he owed her. She'd saved all their lives by keeping her head and leading them through the tunnels when all else had been lost.

She'd also been the driving force behind their decision to go against the Guildmaster's wishes and return to the red Core, for which he would probably never forgive her. But he owed her this at least.

And so here he was, about to throw in his lot with a talking crystal and its motley crew of bizarre miniature humans. It’s not like I have a lot of other options. Besides, traveling far away from the Guild and waiting for things to blow over is not the worst thing I could do right now.

For the hundredth time, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning his surroundings. A rising wind rippled the meadow’s long grass, and he shivered.

Still no sign of Tiri.

Lightning flashed to the north, and a second later the first raindrop plinked against the back of his hand.

“Rain’s coming,” warned Coll, not stopping his slow dance.

Benin squinted up at the gray-black clouds, now fully smothering the late-afternoon sun and dragging the world into early evening. Another fat raindrop splashed his forehead. “What was your first clue?” He climbed to his feet. “We should put the tent up. Quit your damn yoga and give me a hand.”

“It’s not yoga.” Coll’s eyes were closed and there was a serene expression on his face as he bent his knees and slowly brought his hammer down in front of him until it rested between his feet. “I’m practicing my forms. Don’t want to get rusty.”

“Fine, I’ll do it myself. You’re about as useful as a chocolate teacup anyway.”

Coll opened his eyes. “That’s not what you were saying when I saved your arse from getting caught red-handed in the zoo.” He grinned at his own pun, and Benin fought not to wince at the memory of the burns on his palms—a truly unpleasant and alien sensation for any pyromancer.

“That’s because you did cool warrior things. I realize now I’m lucky you didn’t choose to meditate at those guards instead.”

Coll’s grin widened. “It was cool, wasn’t it? I learned it when I leveled up after fighting those white spiders near the red Core’s base. Been looking for an excuse to use it ever since.”

Benin pulled the tent from his pack and started to unroll it. “What’s it called?”

“Hammer Smash.”

“Subtle.”

“Want to see it again up close?”

“Ha ha.”

Benin looked up from the tent to see Coll raising his hammer above his head.

Shit, he wasn’t joking.

“No! Don’t—”

The hammer’s head connected with the ground with the force of a falling meteor. A geyser of grass, stones and clods of earth erupted as Hammer Smash’s shockwave blasted out, tearing vegetation from its roots in a widening circle from the point of impact.

Even though he saw it coming, it still knocked Benin to the ground when it reached him. He swore and climbed shakily to his feet, searching desperately for Pyra.

The emberfox had been quick enough to avoid the blast and was now standing twenty feet away, fur all on end, growling at the earth. Reassured that she was all right, he rounded on Coll—

—just in time to watch the earth swallow him.

Twenty-Four

Exodus

Corey

“The wagons are all finished. They’re ready, Corey. It’s time.”

“Young Ket is correct. The water is—”

A corner of the Grotto exploded. For a panicked instant I thought the river had broken through the wall to rush in and drown us all. Then a cascade of dirt, rocks, and heavily-armored human came crashing down into the badgers’ nest.

“What the hell, Coll?” I yelled, zooming over to inspect the damage to my ceiling. But I stopped just before entering the now wide-open space.

The day’s light was nearly gone, swallowed by the storm clouds as well as the encroaching evening. Still, I flinched as the sky’s gray illumination came pouring into my domain, as inexorable and unwelcome as the floodwater. The grotto was now awash in silvery light. I did not like it.

You’re going to have to get used to it, I told myself.

I edged out into the open space, cringing the entire time. I felt like a dormouse in a field as the hawk circles overhead.

No shadows. No shelter. How do surface dwellers not go mad beneath the weight of all that sky?

Roots poked out from the sides of the ragged opening, trailing down and grasping at the empty space like pale crooked fingers. I was no claustrophobe, obviously—far from it—but it was disconcerting to be reminded that most of the ceiling was just compacted dirt and rocks. It could have collapsed at any moment.

Or perhaps not. I glared at Coll’s hammer. “What did you do that for?”

“I just—”

“What? You thought, ‘Oh, it’s been nearly a full day since I fell through Corey’s ceiling, I’d better smash a hole in it and do it again!’?”

Thankfully, there’d been no gnomes nearby; most were in the village or the barracks, going about their travel preparations. The only thing Coll had damaged was the badgers’ nest.

Luckily all four of the stripy little beasts were elsewhere, having already been literally roped into helping. Bruce stood patiently between the yokes of the chariot, ignoring the commotion behind him as Gneil and the acolytes tried to maneuver the ark onto the two-wheeled carriage. Every time they were about to lift it in place, Bruce would bumble forwards a few inches, making the ark topple off the back of the chariot and beginning the whole rigmarole all over again.

It would have gone a lot faster if just one of them handled the ark. For some reason, though, all five of the acolytes insisted on sharing the load with Gneil in a classic case of too many gnomes.

If this is us being ready to leave, then gods help us all.

But since I was the only god in attendance, I forced down my doubts and fears and finally did what needed to be done.

Initiate Exodus?

WARNING: Failure to establish a new base while the ability is still active will result in the loss of all Faith accumulated up until this point.

Yes, yes, if I fail then we’re all ruined. I know, damn it.

But if I didn’t risk failure, I would guarantee our destruction. Despite my numerous legitimate concerns, it really was no choice at all.

Exodus initiated!

Time remaining: 960 hours

The effect was immediate. All over the Grotto, gnomes jumped to attention and began barking orders at the rest.

Warriors surged from the barracks, led by Hoppit. Some followed her into the village, but most split off into smaller groups. Graywall led a dozen of them over to the lumberyard, where they began assisting one of the sawyers in loading stacks of planks and woodcutting tools onto an open cart.

Hammer grabbed a heavy pack from a staggering juvenile, shouldering the burden herself as she marched from gnomehome to gnomehome, bashing her shield against each door to rouse the few still sleeping within. She then stormed over to the creche, disappearing inside and then re-emerging with a small child tucked under each arm. A recently matured female gnome followed her out, also hefting children; even if I hadn’t recognized her, her large frame and brawny shoulders marked her as Hammer’s eldest daughter, Nails, already grown to adulthood thanks to the creche’s accelerated growth cycle.

Though she was assigned as a nurse, not a warrior like her mother, Nails was a force to be reckoned with and had been ever since she was old enough to walk. More children followed her out of the creche like a gaggle of meek ducklings—a stark contrast to some of the other wailing forces of chaos currently getting under the adults’ feet.

The two farmers, Doug and Grimes, were shoveling soil from the shroomeries and flinging it into handcarts. Nails directed a handful of older children over to join them. The juveniles immediately began digging in the neighboring shroomeries with their bare hands, pulling out sprouting spores of all colors and shapes, and either tossing them in the wheelbarrows or dropping them into sacks as per the farmers’ instructions.

As Hammer and Nails passed the smaller children up to those who were loading the wagons, the nearby builders climbed ladders and started fiddling with the gnomehomes’ thatched ceilings. They rolled each layer of thatch tightly into a bundle so that each could be carried by a single gnome.

Meanwhile, those without specialized tasks to complete jogged around helping wherever they could; wrapping food, coiling rope, rounding up children, and throwing everything into the wagons which were even now being hooked up to the other three badgers.

Gneil and the others had finally managed to get the ark on the back of the chariot—mostly thanks to Ris’kin, who’d nudged the bumbling worshipers aside and done it herself—and now my avatar was reaching over to pick up my gem. Her hands closed around it—

—and everything went black.

Seconds felt like eternities as I drowned in nothingness. I could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. Not even the panic that clouded the tiny part of my mind not already succumbing to the abyss.

Then light and sound enveloped me in an overwhelming rush. I was looking down on myself once more, nestling in the ark amid a bed of straw like the egg of a giant amethyst chicken. The acolytes lowered the lid; Gneil shook the reins, and Bruce began his descent toward the exit.

Okay, that was terrible. Let’s not do that again.

I’d known it was coming, but I still watched with growing dismay as one by one the tabs in my Augmentary went dark. I no longer had access to my construction options or my Creation screen, though I could still view my blueprint archive and would hopefully be able to continue using Insight. I could still view the golden map of my domain, but it was shrinking even as I watched, the edges dissolving as my Sphere began to contract.

I frowned when I noticed something else. “What’s going on with the gnomes’ colors?”

Instead of the familiar blues and greens, the dots on my map that represented individual gnomes were now a variety of different colors. Some were still green, but others were red, orange, yellow or purple, and some remained blue even though they were packing rather than praying. I knew there were much bigger things I should be worrying about right now, but this was jarring.

“Hmm.” Ket paused in her zooming about to peer at the new map. “Perhaps they represent vocations?”

“No, look—Doug and Grimes are both farmers, but one’s blue and the other’s yellow. And Twain is orange, but the other sawyers are green.”

“Huh.” Then she made a sound of disgust. “Ugh. Here’s your answers.”

She flitted away and Bekkit appeared to take her place.

“The colors on the map, you say? Yes, so, the Augmentary auto-assigns groups—‘moving buddies’, one might say—according to the strength of social ties between individuals and groups. Similarly, the leaders of those groups are chosen on the basis of their level of influence on the rest.”

Okay, that made sense. It at least explained why gnomes of all ages and vocations were leaping to obey those who didn’t usually hold positions of command. A stocky builder with gray in her hair nodded sharply and marched off to carry out whatever order Hoppit had just given her; the young slinger was already turning to issue more commands to the woodcutter waiting behind her.

If there was one upside to Coll’s forced entry, it was that the fresh pile of dirt and rocks provided a much more direct route to the surface—one that didn’t rely on the human warrior’s dubious directions. Coll’s hammer was surprisingly effective in compacting the loose earth into a ramp sturdy enough to bear the wagons, and the instant he was done I sent him away, loaded down with sacks and supplies like an especially dumb-looking mule.

The first cohort—the greens—were already heading for the new exit, handcarts in tow, led by none other than Longshank. The hunter hobbled on his new peg leg, still using Granny’s stick for support, but didn’t let it slow him down in the slightest, and the others were hurrying to keep up as they followed him up and out.

The second group were hot on their heels. This group was led by one of the nurses—an oddly short, hairless gnome whom Ket had named “Emrys.” I did a double take at the sight of him coaxing Binky up the ramp. The massive spider was yoked to a cart full of children, showing on my map as a cluster of yellow dots.

How did he get himself roped into that? I felt a tiny spark of joy amid the stress to see my denizens and my creations working in harmony.

Sadness soon replaced it as my other god-born started to discorporate. Each time the boundary of my shrinking Sphere passed through one of my creatures, it would dissipate into smoke without so much as a whimper.

“Focus, Corey.” Ket’s voice was gentle but firm. I pulled my attention away from my extinguishing creations and back to the exodus.

The rain was hammering down in earnest now, and the shattered ceiling offered no protection from the downpour that was already turning the ramp into a treacherous slide.

Longshank and the others who’d already made it up into the passage lowered ropes, so that even with their footing uncertain on the slippery terrain, the others would be able to ascend the slope and continue up toward the surface.

The badgers’ wide paws and long claws gave them purchase on the muddy ramp and let them scramble up it without too much of an issue, pulling their cargo safely up behind them.

The remaining handcarts and smaller wagons were more of an issue, but Ris’kin was doing everything she could to help. My avatar had taken up position at the ramp’s base, pushing carts from behind to give their drivers the impetus they needed to complete the ascent. In between carts, she was also picking up dropped items and tucking them more carefully back into the passing packs and wagons from which they’d fallen, and barking encouragement at the struggling gnomes in a way that was both stern and motivational.

All things considered, it was going as well as it could. The gnomes were exhibiting their usual resilience; the new leaders had stepped up to their roles, and Exodus had everyone working together like true teams.

Then things turned really dangerous.

The stream had burst its banks and the flat area around the exit ramp was rapidly becoming a floodplain. Heavily-laden gnomes waded through the brackish water, holding their supplies above their heads in an attempt to keep them dry—a mostly futile endeavor, for raindrops continued to hail down on them like liquid bullets from a million tiny slings.

More chunks of the wall crumbled away as the current forced its way through, roaring like a rampaging water spirit. A branch of driftwood knocked an elderly clothier from his feet. He disappeared under the surface, until two of the older juveniles hauled him back up, coughing and spluttering. With Ris’kin supporting them, the three gnomes managed to slip and slide their way up the ramp, the last of the green group to do so.

“Corey, they’re not all going to make it. We have to do something!”

But what?

My Sphere was still shrinking steadily. The column of mana globes, nine in total thanks to my recent and timely ascension, were grayed out, as was the inverted triangle that displayed my Faith levels and ascension progress. The only abilities I had available to me for the foreseeable future—Insight, Divine Inspiration, and Double Sight—would be of no use here; Ris’kin and my gnomes were already doing everything in their power to make sure everyone got out safely.

It wasn’t enough. The swirling water was too deep for my chariot to traverse; Gneil and the acolytes were a small cluster of white dots on my map, stranded at the edge of the floodplain.

To the left of them, a gaggle of orange dots—Graywall’s group—were struggling to attain the ramp, caught as they were in the debris-ridden currents of the rising flood. Graywall was calling to them, as though rallying them to his side in battle; the stolid warrior had planted his legs firmly, like a one-man shield wall against the forces of the rushing water. Two other warriors clung to him, reaching out to snag the clothes and reaching hands of others, until most of his group were clustered around him. Together, they began wading through the now neck-deep water toward the ramp.

Twain had already managed to reach the slope, but was clearly too exhausted to climb it. Even with the aid of the ropes, the wiry sawyer strained against the weight of two toddlers that were clinging to him like whipfish.

Whipfish…

With the exception of Binky, the presence of god-born creatures tended to either awe or terrorize my denizens to varying extents, generally rendering them useless. But if things continued like this, those who remained in the Grotto—myself included—would soon find themselves beyond useless in a watery grave.

I scanned my map. My shrinking sphere had eliminated more than half of my creations, but a few still remained.

In an eyeblink I summoned three forrels from the Passage and another three from each of the two branching tunnels that remained within my SOI; the third was already lost, its trio of guardians winked from existence in a puff of smoke, as were my forces in the Heart and the Sinkhole.

The outer edge of my Sphere was halfway across the Lake cavern, and before it cut off the room completely I called for the boulderskin that dwelt there. The whipfish, sadly, were gone.

The first forrels bounded into the cavern and immediately hared toward the floodplain. They plunged straight into the murky water without hesitation, their size and sturdiness making them less susceptible to the currents as they made for the struggling gnomes.

After lifting the terrified stragglers from the water, the forrels formed a chain from the base of the muddy ramp to the summit. With their aid and Graywall’s tireless encouragement, one by one the members of the orange group made it safely up to the surface.

Ris’kin gratefully left them to it and went to help Gneil. My high cleric was obviously torn between urging Bruce into the water and risking the chariot, or turning around and taking Coll’s convoluted route out via the Passage. But the latter would likely mean taking my SOI away from the rest of my denizens—since I was tethered to my gem in the ark—and I didn’t want to risk any possible repercussions from that.

Ket was thinking along the same lines.

“If you took your Sphere away from them, they’d still be waiting when you got back, right?”

“I don’t know. Probably. I’d rather not find out.”

A flash of Divine Inspiration reassured Gneil that help was coming, and his shoulders relaxed a little, though his face was still lined with trepidation. Behind him, in the chariot, the five acolytes were braced against the sides of the vehicle, clinging protectively to the ark lest the currents tear it from the chariot.

Tell them to hold tighter. You as well, I conveyed to Gneil.

My high cleric gulped, but he obediently pulled himself atop Bruce’s silver-furred back.

Just in time. Lightning flashed as the boulderskin came barreling in from the Passage, and for an instant everything was reduced to shades of blue-white and black. The boulderskin balked at the sudden light but continued on its trajectory, and by the time thunder rumbled out, it was skidding to a halt beside Bruce.

The badger snorted an uneasy greeting. Gneil waved from Bruce’s back. The boulderskin raised its head in acknowledgment of both. Perched atop the chariot, my acolytes gibbered and shook—the typical reaction of denizens within the vicinity of unfamiliar god-born. That was fine, though. All I needed them to do right now was hold on.

More of the wall crumbled away, more water surged in through the growing gap. What used to be a small crevice was now a gaping hole, yawning like the mouth of a great beast.

At my mental nudge, the boulderskin—a formidable mixture of amphibious olm and armored millipede—slipped into the water. Flattening its body as much as possible, it positioned itself in front of Bruce. Every part of the boulderskin was submerged, apart from the stony-gray carapace of its back, waiting invitingly like an enormous stepping stone.

Gneil gulped again, then urged Bruce onward. The badger tossed his head once in protest, as if to say “On your head be it, two-legs”, then crept tentatively forward. I heard my acolytes’ teeth chatter as the wheels of the chariot rolled over the carapace’s bumpy surface.

It’s either this or drowning, I told them.

It was a matter of moments for the boulderskin to transport them across the floodplain. Its clawed feet walked smoothly on the waterlogged ground, and by the next flash of lightning it had deposited them safely on the muddy ramp. The acolytes let out a collective sigh of relief as Gneil guided Bruce back onto firm(ish) ground.

Two of the forrels there tied the safety ropes to the yoke, and the gnomes waiting above were able to take most of the weight from Bruce, allowing the badger to scramble up while they hauled the chariot behind him. It was Longshank’s group, I realized; the hunter had stayed near the exit to make sure everyone made it out safely.

I commanded the forrels and boulderskin to follow us. Bekkit had told me my Sphere would stop contracting once it reached the size it had been at tier one; maybe if the god-born stayed inside it, they’d remain in existence.

But even as I thought it, the boulderskin dissipated. No noise, no pain—just there one moment and gone the next. The nearest forrel turned to smoke, immediately followed by the one beside it, until my god-born were no more.

“Time to go, Corey.” Ket’s voice was soft. Sad. Together, we took one last look back at the place I’d finally come to think of as home.

The shroomtree field where Gneil had first found me. The piled-stone altar upon which I’d experienced my first taste of worship (and dreaded sunlight). The lumberyard, the first building I’d ever constructed, and for which it had taken the late Jack and Elwood a ridiculous number of days to fell enough trees to build.

The Grotto’s very existence was the culmination of months of effort, not to mention gnomish blood, sweat and tears. Now we’d been forced to abandon everything and embark on a perilous journey in the blind hope of finding something better.

Time remaining for Exodus: 959 hours, 32 minutes, 4 seconds

I turned my back on all we’d built, heading for the surface and into the unknown.

Twenty-Five

Interlude

Fall, 521 PC

I have failed.

Though the druidic arts have ever come naturally to me, and the storm I coaxed into existence was fierce enough to make the Storm Gods take note, it was not enough. The target has taken flight above ground rather than being driven below, and now I must await further instructions from V.

Though my wounds are healed, the agony lingers, and the loss of flesh and bone haunts me, I am no longer consumed by the raging fever. Though the nightmares of my time down in the abyss consume me in a different way, and just as viciously.

There is no longer anyone in whom to confide, and I write these things down in an attempt to structure the chaos of my thoughts and to cleanse myself of at least a modicum of the torment that engulfs me. Though I hadn’t thought to ever again find myself at V’s beck and call, yet here I am once more. If I didn’t know he served a greater purpose, I would have turned my back on his dirty work long ago. But now I only worry that I have failed in my task.

V’s vendetta against this purple Core seems somehow personal. I know not why he wants the remnants of this particular race expunged, but he speaks of this Core with far more fervor than I have seen in him before, as though it somehow holds the key to his search. And I just squandered my opportunity to drive it straight down into his ally’s hands.

I would have simply taken it myself but for the two Guild members accompanying it. Traitors. Not only did they abandon me down in the darkness, they now deprive me of the opportunity to prove myself worthy.

I’m no fool. I know what happens to agents who fail to serve V’s purposes. I myself have already felt the consequences of outliving my usefulness, though V has since denied that was his intent. I must not fail again.

I am just one agent. But I have something the others do not. My secret weapon. I discovered them. They’re mine.

I made a grave error in entrusting one to another of V’s agents. He squandered it. They all died. Killed by the Core’s minions. A tragedy, and a waste. A tragic waste.

Henceforth only I will use them. And use them I will.

I no longer trust V.. Like me, he serves the Lord of Light. Unlike me, he does so through a selfish desire for power and eternal life. A small man with smaller goals.

I desire only to serve the Lord of Light, and as V told me long ago, the Lord of Light serves the world.

It is filled with corruption, with heretical advancements and vile technology and industry. Though they call it ‘advancement’, it pollutes and corrupts, stunting minds as well as nature. The old ways—of faith—are fading. But He will restore the world to the way it was. The way it ought to be.

For now, I will continue to help V in his search for our god. But when we find him, I will prove beyond doubt that I am the more devoted servant.

False gods and vile technology, all will be purged.

The humans will pay. They abandoned me, and they will pay. They will regret abandoning me.

They will regret everything.

Twenty-Six

Going Overground

Corey

The first time the wagons got stuck in the mud was a challenge. The second time was a chore. By the ninth or tenth it had become as much a part of our journey as actually moving, which explained why we were barely a mile away from where we’d started by the time night fell in earnest.

The gnomes belonging to the red group huddled forlornly on and around their stranded vehicle. At the fore, two children whispered with their heads together, both of them swaddled in overlarge hooded cloaks. They were sneaking food to their group’s badger, Helga, from a stash kept somewhere in their clothing. Poor Helga chomped on the treats, patiently awaiting further instructions despite looking half-drowned and miserable.

Nails, the group’s leader, was crouched beside one of the wagon's front wheels. Dovetail the carpenter was beside her; rain dripped from her feathery hair as she shook her head.

Here we go again. I sighed.

My avatar's fur was soaked. Her muscles were beginning to ache, and her usually bushy tail now curled sadly behind her like a waterlogged worm. Yet she trudged toward the wagon without complaint, her back straight and her shoulders set stoically.

Nails' group let out a ragged cheer as Ris'kin approached. As always, my avatar's presence lifted my denizens' morale, and the flagging gnomes drew upon new reserves of energy as Ris'kin directed them into position. With her strength added to theirs, Ris'kin and the others were able to lift the wagon clear of the mire for long enough to shuffle forward and place it down onto firmer ground.

They rolled away, wheels making wet sucking sounds in the mud. Ris'kin gazed down at the drenched, mud-splattered fur of her legs, fighting off a shiver, then followed Nails' group.

It had only been a few hours, but the shelter of the Grotto already seemed a distant memory. As soon as we left, I'd sought refuge from the open sky in Double Sight. The colossal expanse above still induced a violent sense of vertigo whenever I thought too much about it, but anchoring myself within Ris'kin's body at least helped me feel less like I was about to fall into the clouds and float away forever.

I had to admit, though, I was growing weary of the accompanying sensations—particularly that of cold mud soaking the pads of my feet and squelching between my toes. Thankfully, the darkness—perhaps because its opaque blackness could almost make me believe it was just a really, really high cavern ceiling—made me feel safe enough to finally return to my god's-eye form. I relinquished my hold on Ris’kin with some relief and looked down critically at my straggling cavalcade.

A line of bobbing illumishrooms snaked ahead, marking the gnomish convoy’s route. Glowing auras visible only to me indicated the exodus group leaders. Of the 101 gnomes that made up the tribe, the majority had each been assigned to one of six main groups.

Longshank set the pace; his group were our vanguard, a tight-knit array of green dots on my map. Close behind them was the yellow group, led by Emrys the nurse, followed by Hammer's purple group.

Hoppit's blues and Graywall's oranges mingled together; they'd joined forces when Hoppit's wagon had broken beyond repair after careening into a ditch. Now the blues' younglings shared a crowded-looking cart along with the orange children, with the supplies from the blue wagon distributed among the warriors and stronger workers of both groups.

The last of the 'main' groups was Nails and her reds. The latest delay had set them much further back than where they'd started out, though they still weren't at the very rear of the procession. That position was reserved for—who else?—Swift and Cheer.

Unlike the rest of the tribe, the two scavengers had somehow avoided being assigned to a larger group. Both appeared as gray dots on my Augmentary map, and both were plodding far behind the rest, weighed down as they were by the layers of junk they'd insisted on bringing with them. Honestly, it was a miracle they hadn't sunk into the mud beneath it all.

Bekkit had said the exodus groups were determined by social ties within the tribe. Perhaps Swift and Cheer had not been assigned to any because they had none, except to each other.

It's probably for the best, I thought, as I watched them stop yet again to readjust their luggage and fiddle with their boots. They really don't play well with others. And their constant ‘emergency’ halts would be enough to try even Helga’s patience.

Sandwiched in the very center of the convoy was the final, most important group. Gneil and his five acolytes—Gnarl, Gnorm, Gnoah, Gnils, and Gnella—were pure white. On my map, that was. In reality, they were as drenched and mud-spattered as the rest, despite their relatively sheltered position atop the chariot. The lid of the ark had miraculously stayed in place, but rain had crept into the box via the loose joins and my gem now wallowed ignominiously among muddy straw and sloshing water.

Ignoring the discomfort, I focused my attention further ahead. We were approaching the edge of a thickly wooded area, but it was impossible to tell how deep the trees went, and Benin and Coll were yet to return from scouting ahead. Assuming they hadn't decided to just abandon us altogether.

Should we go around it, or through it?

I tried to rise higher but bumped the invisible barrier of my Sphere of Influence. I kept forgetting it was no larger than it had been when I was a tier one God Core. Its upper boundary was harder to judge without the presence of an actual ceiling to mark it.

It had better go back to normal when we find our new base.

If we find it.

My inability to access the full range of my powers was also proving tougher than I'd imagined. Of course I understood the logic of (for example) not being able to command the construction of new buildings until we'd found a safe location. Just because it made sense didn't mean it wasn't immensely frustrating.

Having my mana revoked was especially galling. We were already exposed, basically defenseless in unfamiliar territory. In what world was it fair to make us even more vulnerable by taking my abilities away?

"The universe works in mysterious ways," said Bekkit when I raised the question with him.

"The universe can suck my—"

"Will you stop being so negative?" snapped Ket. "And as for you, Bekkit, you cryptic turd—quit it with the vague answers. Just admit you don't know."

"That is patently false. I shall admit no such thing." He sniffed haughtily. "Ask your questions, young Core. I shall answer."

"Like I just said, this whole process seems so unfair. Why?"

"What is 'fair,' really? When you think about it—"

Ket growled.

"Fine, fine." Bekkit raised his hands and flitted further away, keeping plenty of distance between himself and Ket. "As I mentioned before, the penalties for traveling are intended as a deterrent. A nomad Core with full access to their abilities could quickly become powerful enough to overwhelm or absorb any civilization in its path. It’s all about balance. And it makes sense from a purely practical standpoint, too. Having a smaller Sphere to keep track of, for instance."

"All right, but the penalty for failure is in Faith," I pointed out. "From a 'purely practical standpoint,' why can't I access my mana?"

"Well," he cleared his throat, "I do not know the ins and outs of it, of course. There are forces in this universe beyond even my comprehension, you know."

He said this as though he didn't really believe it. Egotistic jerk.

"I have a hypothesis,” he continued, “based on my own past experiences with the ability, and it is thus: your Sphere contracts because it is working harder than it usually needs to. Exodus draws upon the magic of time and space—the most complicated and nuanced kind in existence. Well, besides that of life and death, of course. Fluctuations in mana or Faith—such as those caused by spellcasting, ascension, or worship—could affect its precarious balance with potentially drastic consequences."

"What do you mean, 'the magic of time and space'? I thought that was, like, portals and stuff."

Bekkit scoffed. “That’s a childishly simplistic way of thinking.”

"Then explain like I'm a simple child."

The sprite gave a long-suffering sigh. "Activating Exodus does not let us travel through time and space. Rather, it warps reality around us. It makes you—all of us—take up less room. And time travels more slowly outside of it."

Wow. The very idea left me reeling. It was—

"I hate to kill your delusions of grandeur, Kit, but nothing you just said is true."

Benin was back. He'd been sheltering beneath a tree, and remained lounging against its trunk with his arms folded as my SOI reached and encompassed him.

"I checked the map,” he said to me. “The forest runs for miles in every direction. We've picked out what we think is a safe route in, but we should probably camp soon and hope the weather clears up. The trees run down into a valley before the ground rises toward the mountains; it'll be a swamp down there."

"Agreed. We'll stop when we reach the canopy. We could use the extra shelter."

I conveyed the news to Ris'kin. Her ears perked up at the prospect of respite from the downpour, and she passed from group to group, encouraging them on and presumably spreading the good news.

Bekkit cleared his throat again. "Ah, young mage, would you care to explain yourself? You said—"

"I said you're talking horseshit, yeah."

While the sprite spluttered indignantly, Benin explained, "Coll and I have been in and out of your Sphere this entire time. I just left it for an hour and found it again easily, and I felt zero variation between the two environments. No timeslip. No warping." He shrugged. "Your theory is flawed. Guess again, Kit."

"Bekkit, if you please, boy." He sniffed.

"Yes, Bekkit, if you please," said Ket. "'Kit' is much too close to 'Ket,' thank you very much."

Benin frowned. "Who's Ket? I thought your name was Sparky."

The mage's shit-eating grin made him look younger than usual. He's really just a boy, I realized.

Ket fizzed in annoyance, but I could tell she wasn't truly angry. It seemed she had a soft spot for the pyro, and he for her.

The same could not be said for Bekkit. It didn't much matter to me how the exodus worked. I only cared that it did work. But Bekkit was clearly disgruntled to have been proved wrong by an upstart human, and was muttering to himself furiously.

"Perhaps it's because the humans were present when Exodus was activated," he speculated. "If it only affects those outside of its radius, it may recognize them as non-hostile. Part of the tribe, if you will. But then that would mean... hmm..."

"What if it's like a camouflage spell? A glamor?" offered Benin. "I’ve heard of enchantments that can make you less noticeable to natural predators."

“Interesting…”

That theory was shot down dramatically just seconds later when a darker shape swooped from the shadows of the trees. On instinct, I activated Insight.

Tiger Owl

Bird

This forest-dwelling raptor is Kelaria’s largest native owl species, and one of its fiercest hunters.

Like all owls, its ear openings are asymmetrical, enhancing its ability to triangulate the location of prey. The tiger owl also possesses excellent night vision; its amber eyes can detect movement from great distances, and it can rotate its head up to 270 degrees.

The tiger owl typically approaches its prey from above, swooping down on silent wings to snatch up small mammals and then crushing their bodies with the strength of its powerful talons after returning to the nest.

Its viciousness, along with its hornlike ear tufts (’plumicorns’), have earned it the nickname "devil owl."

With a squawk, it descended on Emrys's group at the convoy's edge with the speed of a plummeting stone.

Tiger Owl Status Marked As Hostile

A faint red aura appeared around the owl.

Hostile? You think?!

Binky was faster. As soon as he caught sight of the rapidly approaching threat, he reared up to his full height, his front four legs raised warningly in defense of his cart and its precious cargo of gnomish children. The flying shape flapped its wings in alarm; it clearly hadn't been counting on its prey having a giant arachnid guardian. Still it hovered, as though waiting for the right moment to dive again.

But Binky wasn't done. I thought he was going to attempt to shoot a web at the creature, though its position above would make aiming tricky, as would the strictures of the wagon's yoke, what with his spinnerets being located on his rear end and all.

The spider hissed threateningly, then did something entirely unexpected. He convulsed, like a cat about to vomit. But instead of a hairball, a wad of sticky whitish goop was propelled from his mandibled mouth. It arced across the space between them, looking like an egg sac launched from a catapult.

As I stared at the icky lump in disgusted fascination, the Augmentary's silvery text shimmered into being.

Spit

Arachnid ability

Spit fluid that congeals on contact, trapping the target in a sticky fluid of venom and liquid spidersilk produced in the chelicerae.

Range: 3 meters

Cooldown: 60 seconds (mana cost to use sooner)

Cost per additional use: 10 mana (currently unavailable)

Incredibly, the owl managed to dodge the projectile, but only just. The pearl-colored spit-bullet sailed off into the darkness and splatted against a tree with a faint sizzle.

Binky was preparing to follow up the missile with a Web Shoot, but the owl had had enough. Clearly deciding we weren't worth the hassle, it led out one more aggravated "Hoooo!" in Binky's direction before flapping off into the night.

"Holy shit. I didn't even see it coming." Benin stared around at the shadow-filled canopy, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the light from the gnomes' illumishrooms. "Hope it doesn't go and tell its friends where to find us. Aren't birds known for that?"

"That's bees," I told him.

"You don't have to be rude about it."

"No, bees. As in, bumble, honey, the birds and the, etcetera."

The mage said something else, but my attention drifted from the conversation as I took in the near-miss we'd just had. I was suddenly, overwhelmingly conscious of how small the gnomes were—how small we all were—compared to the rest of the world. If Binky hadn't reacted so quickly, that owl could easily have killed or carried off any one of my gnomes, and there was nothing we'd be able to do about it. It would be so easy for anything—a flock of owls, a herd of possums, even a pack of small voles—to tear through our ranks and wreak untold damage.

I refused to spiral into despair, though the weight of our task—my task—was already near unbearable. We needed to be more prepared. We'd been taken by surprise, but we'd made it out alive. Now we just had to stay that way. True, I didn't have my god-born. But we hadn't had them during the main part of the kobold battle either, and the gnomes had pulled through. They could do so again. I needed to take stock, to assess what they could do.

But first, they needed to rest and recover their strength.

"All right," I said. "Let's make camp."

Twenty-Seven

Wet Dreams

Corey

The process of making camp was, surprisingly, less chaotic than expected.

Sure, most of my denizens plopped themselves down in their usual slapdash fashion as soon as the order was given. But their group leaders immediately chivvied them back to their feet, directing them to help set things up in a more practical arrangement.

I would have liked for them to encircle the area in a protective barrier of wagons, but there weren't enough vehicles for that. Instead, I had Gneil order them to be placed in a semi-circle shielding the main body of the campsite from the side closest to the forest. We had no idea what might be lurking in the undergrowth, and though it left us vulnerable to attack from the more open area we'd just traversed, we could at least see things coming that way.

Assisted by the clothiers, Shuck the armorer began to lay down the hides she'd salvaged from the flood. They were too damaged to be of any use in crafting, but they served just fine as floor mats, and would at least ensure that those on the ground would not have to sleep in the mud.

Rolls of thatch—taken from the gnomehomes' conical roofs—were also unloaded from the wagons. The builders attempted to assemble them into decent-sized shelters. But without the shroomwood framework to support it, the sagging material lacked the structural integrity to stand on its own. The workers were glancing around despairingly at their surroundings, and I could see why. They sought to improvise a frame, but most of the branches on the nearby trees were all either too large for them to handle, or were twigs too slender to be of any use.

If only I had access to Growth, I thought. I could've grown those twigs to the perfect length and width.

It was difficult not to feel constant resentment at my situation. But my gnomes were getting on with things as best they could, so I resolved to do the same.

Along with the woodcutters, the builders were able to collect enough decent-sized branches from the ground to make around twenty improvised tents, much smaller and sadder-looking than originally intended. Each sheltered just four gnomes, leaving a fifth of my denizens still outside. Most were warriors who'd nobly volunteered to brave the elements; Hammer directed half of these into positions around the perimeter to keep watch, while the rest formed a makeshift lean-to with the help of Coll, who lent them his shield and cloak. After snuffling around for a dinner of insects, the four unyoked badgers settled in with them as well.

At least they won’t get cold.

The humans had assembled their own two-man tent on the western edge of the camp. The wind was blowing from that direction, driving the rain sideways in misery-inducing sheets of cold water, and the position of their tent provided a windbreak that sheltered the main camp from the worst of it. Benin had grudgingly held open the flap, offering those gnomes without a proper roof the option to take cover inside, but they stoically declined—with the exception of Swift and Cheer, who marched inside before the mage had even opened his mouth to make the invitation. I couldn't suppress a chuckle as they dumped their bulging bindles just inside the entrance, kicked off their boots, and claimed both men’s bedrolls. Within moments they were snoring, Swift flat on her back with hands behind her head, Cheer sprawled on her front, limbs akimbo.

Rations were distributed among the rest, the weary gnomes devouring the wrapped meat and dried mushrooms with a hunger I'd never seen before. I realized the supply of food was something I'd need to add to my list of immediate concerns. There clearly weren't enough travel rations to last us for even a fraction of the journey. Hopefully the scouts and gatherers would be able to take care of it as we went.

Right now, though, our biggest short-term issue was the condition of the wagons. I took advantage of my new Adjure ability and examined my carpenters' skills more closely, sensing Ket looking as well.

Assess

Construct

Repair

Upgrade

Embellish

My sprite stifled a yawn.

Yup, definitely not the most exciting array. But what other kinds of skills would they have? Water Walk? Resurrection? They're carpenters, not demigods.

Curiously, my workers' abilities were not subject to cooldowns. Unlike Binky's Spit and Web Shoot, Repair and the rest could be used successively any number of times without being subject to an additional mana cost.

However, unlike Binky, what my denizens did have were stamina bars. Every time they used a skill it would drain a measure of their stamina until eventually they would no longer be able to work without first resting up. Both carpenters' stamina was in the red, just a fraction remaining.

They definitely needed to share the load. I selected two of my vocationless denizens and assigned them both the carpenter profession. One of them rolled over in his sleep, mumbling and rotating his wrist as though handling an invisible screwdriver. The other started examining the framework of the tent above her, frowning critically as if suddenly noticing how shoddy it was.

“I’ll name you two… um…” I racked my brains for any knowledge relating to carpentry, but came up blank. “Er, Screwy and Woody?”

“What about Dowel and Tenon?” Ket suggested.

“That’s probably better.”

The original two carpenters, Dovetail and Groove, had already reached level 3 in the 'Repair' skill. I made a mental note to make sure they were the ones I sent in next time the carts sustained damage; according to the Augmentary, their growing expertise in the skill meant that their repairs would be quicker and more enduring. Meanwhile, in the morning I'd set the two new carpenters to improving our wagons’ design. We’ll find out what Upgrade can actually do.

"Adjure is a godsend," I said to Ket. Being granted more information by the tier-nine ability made me feel a lot more in control, and it lifted my spirits considerably. “Why isn’t it something we get at tier one? This would have made my job much easier.”

“And allowed you to plan more efficiently,” she agreed. “I don’t know why Cores aren’t granted it until tier nine. Maybe it’s because you first have to ‘prove’ your worth by becoming attuned to your denizens and intuiting their needs? You have to put in the work first rather than just having it laid out for you.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” whispered Bekkit in passing.

“Shut up, Bekkit,” we both said.

"Whatever the reason, this whole journey is going to be much more manageable now that I have access to all this new information,” I said to Ket. “Not to mention being able to see the gnomes' specific capabilities."

"And their limits," she pointed out. "Perhaps we should have Dovetail and Groove ride in the carts tomorrow, at least for a while. Their stamina is almost completely drained, and at the rate it's regenerating it won't be fully restored by the time we set off again."

"Good thinking. And I'll send out the scouts and the foragers, too. We'll need to hunt and resupply as we go, especially if we want to keep their stamina and morale up."

There's still such a long way to go...

"The first step is always the hardest," Ket said softly, sensing my lingering concern. "We made it out. And we'll make it the rest of the way too. I know it."

This was not as reassuring as she no doubt intended. If this was just the first step, how many more were to come? It had been a long, miserable five hours. How were we going to manage another forty days?

Then I looked properly at the gnomes still awake and on guard. They were huddled and bowed, true, but I realized this was a result of the miserable weather and not necessarily a loss of morale. They were watchful, yes, but not fearful, and those in the tents and shelters slept soundly.

Standing guard over my gem on the chariot was Ajax, the tribe's largest gnome, though he was as always more preoccupied with admiring his own bulging muscles than watching for threats. Even brawnier than Hammer, the fighter had biceps like conkers. Literally; the things had been falling off trees for the past couple of weeks, and Shuck the armorer had incorporated the spiky shells into the armor of our heavier warriors. Ajax was the heaviest of those heavy warriors. I'd once seen him split an acorn with a single spear-thrust, and knew that despite his egotistic demeanor, he'd be alert and ready to fight at the very first sign of danger.

A little further along the perimeter, the warrior named Serene sat cross-legged on the very edge of a wagon, balanced perfectly on its outer frame. Her expression was as peaceful as her name suggested; she almost looked as though she were sleeping. Unlike the other watchers, her shroomwood spear and redcap shield rested in their harness upon her back. In the battle against the kobolds, she'd lost her weapons early in the fight, but if anything that had made her deadlier. I'd seen her snap an enemy's neck with a single kick to the snout.

A screech from somewhere deep in the woods had the other watchers jumping to attention, hands going immediately to their weapons and remaining there until they were sure they weren't under attack. A casual observer might think Serene didn't react at all, but I knew better. A twitch of her ear, a slight clenching of her fists—if an enemy dared show its face on her watch, she'd be the first to put her fist through its skull.

Elsewhere, Graywall scanned the canopy, presumably looking for the source of the noise. His eyes gleamed in the light of the torches, arrayed on the wagons in the hope of deterring any dark-dwelling predators. The drill sergeant looked alert despite his obvious weariness; his stamina bar was significantly longer than most other gnomes', including his fellow warriors, and it seemed he was indomitable.

Despite the continuing downpour and prospect of more tough traveling, the sight of my warriors filled me with warm confidence.

Ket's right. We can do this.

* * *

My renewed confidence in my denizens lasted until dawn. When the camp stirred to life the following morning it became apparent that almost a third of those traveling on foot had lost one or both boots at some point during the previous day's march.

"How?!" I said incredulously to Ket.

"It was very muddy..."

"Yes, but surely your boot coming off is something you'd notice. Why wouldn't you stop to pick it up and put it back on?"

Luckily, there came an unexpected solution to the problem. Swift and Cheer had of course brought up the rear during last night's leg of the journey. It seemed they'd managed to pluck the lost boots from the mud—hence their many halts and rearranging of luggage—and now they emerged from their tent, enormous bulging sacks in hand, and began distributing footwear to those in need of it.

How uncharacteristically generous of them, I thought.

Then I looked more closely.

Cheer was holding a mud-crusted boot in one hand. Her other hand was held out, palm up, toward the gnome with whom she was currently speaking—one of the builders. Resentment plain on his face, the builder crossed his arms and shook his head. The scavenger shrugged, placed the boot back into her sack and moved along to the next tent.

"The little extortionists!" I exclaimed. "They're selling the others' own boots back to them! At a time like this! That's pretty diabolical, even for them."

"Maybe try not to sound so proud of them?"

"Come on, Ket, even you have to admire their ingenuity."

"I'll do no such thing. Now please send Ris'kin in to shake down the little thieves. Your denizens won't be marching anywhere if their feet are full of brambles."

The sprite had a point. As reluctant as I was to curtail my scavengers' cunning and innovation, this really wasn't the time for exploitative entrepreneuring. We had to stick together, not self-sabotage.

By the time my avatar had finished redistributing lost boots to their owners and returned the empty sack to the glaring scavengers, I'd made a decision.

Knowing the general direction of our destination was all very well. But we couldn't just keep heading "north". We needed to take a closer look at the maps the humans had brought and decide on a firm route. We had little enough time available, and we had to prepare in order to use it wisely.

"Don't take it down just yet," I said to Coll, who was preparing to pull up the pegs of his and Benin's tent. "I'm calling an official council. Get back inside."

I glanced up at the lightening sky. The gray dawn was struggling to push through the gaps in the branches above, and I shuddered at the reminder of all that open space.

The warrior ducked inside the tent, clearly relieved to be out of the ceaseless rain. Then he frowned. "Where's Ben?"

Twenty-Eight

Freedom

Benin

Raindrops sizzled and hissed around his head and shoulders. Aura of Heat evaporated the falling water before it could touch him, leaving Benin warm and dry and silhouetted in mist like some kind of fog spirit.

Several feet away, Pyra was surrounded by her own aura. He'd been worried for the emberfox at first; he knew low-level fire elementals were vulnerable to water; heavy rain could even fully extinguish the weaker ones, smothering their fiery life force so much that their physical bodies eventually failed as well.

Thankfully, Pyra was far from weak. She shone brightly, a glowing beacon against the monochrome sky. Heartened by the sight of her, Benin dared a step closer.

Immediately she emitted a low growl. Her tails flared and her ear twitched in irritation.

"Why do you hate me?" he asked miserably. She ignored him.

They stood together but apart, staring out at the driving rain. It pattered against the canopy of trees in the woods behind them, splashed into muddy puddles around them, thundered against the grassy ground before them.

After a while there came a different sound. The plink-plink of water dripping onto metal. Benin rolled his eyes and braced himself for company.

Can't a mage find a moment's peace?

He turned to see Coll emerging from the trees. His chainmail glinted dully in the gray stormlight. The warrior had stayed awake late into the night to noisily clean, dry and re-oil every link in the mail hauberk, driving Benin—who was already struggling to fall asleep thanks to the impertinent she-gnome that had taken over his bedroll—near mad with the constant rustling and squeaking.

The gaps between the chainmail were not waterproof, and since the big idiot had foolishly given away his raincloak the night before, drops trickled freely through the gaps. The padding underneath his mail must be soaked. Benin's gaze traveled downward. And those leather breeches must be chafing like crazy.

But Coll stomped along with his usual doggedness, as though his clothes weren't carrying an extra twenty pounds in water, and his only concession to discomfort was to readjust his crotch with one hand while he waved to Benin with the other.

"Caveman," said Benin, lip curling as the warrior continued to rummage in his trousers.

"If you don't like it, stop looking." Coll grinned. He gave his stones one last scratch, then removed his hand, raising it instead to shield his eyes from the rain as he looked upon the expanse they'd traveled the day before. "It's good to be on the open road. You liking the taste of freedom, Ben?"

Benin snorted. "I'd hardly call it a road. More of a swamp so far. And the only thing I can taste is bathos."

“Bath ass?”

“Bathos. It means… disappointment. Anticlimax.”

"Huh." Coll sounded surprised. "I thought you'd be happy to get away from the Guild. I know I never really realized what a weight it was till we left."

"A weight?"

"Yeah. Like, I feel like I can finally think for myself now. I feel lighter. Freer. Before, it was like I was being pushed down. It was really impressive."

"You mean oppressive."

"That too."

Benin thought he was referring to the kind of social and academic pressure he himself had experienced, and was somewhat taken aback at the idea of them having something in common. "How so?"

"Well, obviously it was strict. We had guard duty every week—all the phys’ classes do—and we'd sometimes be on call even when we weren't on the rota."

"On call?"

"Yeah. If the on-duty guards want backup, they call for those who're, well, on call. Like the reinforcements that came when we robbed the Menagerie."

Benin frowned. "I didn't hear them call. Those two just showed up."

"It's not like a shout. It's more of... a compulsion. Like, you'd just know you were being called. And you couldn't refuse it. No one who's taken the oath can."

"Well, isn’t that nice and sinister." It was also highly implausible, but Benin couldn't be bothered getting into it right now. Arguing with Coll often felt like pushing the proverbial boulder up a hill: repetitive, exhausting, and ultimately pointless.

"It's okay. I haven't felt it since we left the Guild." Coll breathed in deeply. "I feel... free."

"Must be nice," said Benin bitterly.

"You don't feel free?"

"Freedom isn't all it's cracked up to be," Benin told him. "Didn't you hear what I said to the Core back there? Mages are obliged to answer to a Guild-approved tower. Those that don't are labeled 'rogue.' 'Wild.' 'Apostate.' We're more than just outcasts; we're threats.

"It's all very well for you and Tiri. You can both learn your crafts anywhere. If I get caught practicing magic, I'll be turned in. Or lynched. And if the Guildmaster catches wind of me, I'm finished."

"But we're heading away from the Guild. Into the wilderness. Surely that's a good thing? Surely you'll be safer out there?"

"Safer to do what? Babysit a bumbling bunch of tiny people? No, I'll see them through their journey—for Tiri, because I owe her one—and then that's it."

Coll faced him, eyes wide. "What d'you mean? What will you do after?"

Benin didn't answer. For all its issues, he had to admit he missed the Guild’s comforts, and he was thinking longingly of hearth fires, warm study rooms, a soft mattress, and a roof over his head.

A raindrop hissed and spat as it evaporated beside his ear. He shook his head to clear it of such ridiculous rose-tinted thoughts. Warmth and shelter? Those weren't Guild comforts; they were home comforts, and if there was one thing the Guild had never been, it was a home. He'd been unhappy since the day he first set foot there. A gilded prison, that was what it was.

And whose fault was that? Who had made things that way?

Varnell had been in charge for almost five decades. Despite being a mage himself, he was the one who'd pushed the edict declaring magic-users too dangerous to exist outside the strictures of the Adventurer's Guild. He was the one who personally had it out for Benin and the others.

When they were done with this little trip, this so-called exodus, maybe Benin would go back and pay him a visit. No more running away. If Varnell were the source of everything that was wrong with the Guild—everything that was wrong with Benin—then maybe it was time someone removed him from his position.

"Ben?" Coll was looking at him with concern. "Corey's called a council. That's the reason I came to find you. Coming?"

The warrior gave him a tentative smile. His short hair was plastered to his head, his face was glistening with fresh rain, and his testicles were apparently still itching fiercely, yet still he was smiling. When Benin nodded resignedly, Coll turned and led the way back beneath the trees. The emberfox followed.

Still Benin hesitated. He couldn't help but feel as though this forest boundary was the point of no return. If he chose to go back to the Guild right now—turn in himself and Pyra, and apologize—maybe he'd be spared punishment.

Who am I kidding? He'd defied orders, gone AWOL, and stolen from the Guildmaster. No matter how repentant he might be, it was far more likely that he'd be sent to the cells. Or the gallows.

So with one last glance at the open sky and nothing to lose, Benin headed back to the camp, raindrops sizzling around him.

Twenty-Nine

Council

Corey

"Where have they gotten to?" muttered Ket. She flitted away again to check for the humans' approach.

As much as I wanted to get this council over with and get us all back on the road, I was actually glad of Benin's temporary absence. I glanced around to make sure he wasn’t there, then turned my attention back to my two scavengers.

"Put it back," I said sternly.

Swift and Cheer glowered at Ris'kin as she took the suspiciously spherical sack from their hands and turned it upside down. One of the mage's alchemical globes came tumbling out. Shaking her head, my avatar picked up the globe and returned it to Benin’s bag, flicking her tail in annoyance at the troublesome pair. Droplets from her thick fur showered Swift and Cheer. Muttering, they gathered up their empty sack and went off to find mischief somewhere else.

There were other reasons I was somewhat glad of the delay, not least of which that it was a relief to be sheltering in the confines of the tent. The light of day outside was making me increasingly nervous, and the fear of being sucked up into the empty space if I looked at it for too long was enough to make even my incorporeal form feel queasy.

I busied myself going through the details of various gnomish vocations and abilities, until the stomp of boots announced the humans’ arrival.

“Let the council commence,” Benin drawled as he entered the tent. “And please gods let today be better than yesterday.”

I bristled at his tone. "Look, I'll admit it's been a less than smooth start—"

"If by 'less than smooth' you mean traumatizing your minions with monsters and near-drowning." Benin chuckled meanly.

"I did what I could. You weren't exactly leaping to help us," I retorted.

"Are you kidding? I was up top with—"

"Now, now," said Bekkit, his tone infuriatingly calm. "Bickering will achieve nothing. We're all in the same boat here—"

"I thought it wasn’t a boat?" I muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

The sprite narrowed his eyes at me. I basked in Ket’s silent approval, and took the opportunity to reclaim control of the conversation.

"Okay. We need to figure out where the hell we're going. Bekkit is the only one of us who's done this before, so he'll advise on the best course of action."

Benin took out the maps and began explaining the notes Tiri had made about distances and terrain. I listened carefully, but kept half my attention on what was going on outside.

While we talked, the gnomes outside the tent continued to break camp, rolling up their thatch tents and reloading the carts. Clothiers repaired garments and boots. The two farmers bent lovingly over their soil-filled wheelbarrows, gently probing and watering their precious creations, and doing other gardening-type things.

Warriors from different color groups drilled together in formation, practicing their signaling under the watchful gazes of their drill sergeants Hammer and Graywall. I once again congratulated myself on coming up with that particular innovation. Moral discomfort aside, the Possession ability cost precious mana and took me away from my god's-eye advantage. The signals would limit the time I'd need to spend possessing them, and would make them quicker to respond in emergencies and changes of circumstance.

It had become obvious that adaptability would be the key to our continued survival. With the Possession ability cut off from me completely, it had been a relief to know I could still use Ris'kin or Gneil to communicate with my denizens via the signals. But now, better yet, my night’s study of new vocation information had revealed that those gnomes with a ‘leadership’ vocation—including military officers like my drill sergeants—could be directly instructed to perform the signals via the Augmentary without me needing to go through anyone else.

When I returned my full attention to the council, I was somewhat taken aback to see a couple of the children had wandered in. They stood beside the scattered maps, looking down at the papers.

I thought back to mine and Ket's vague plans to put a barrier around my shrine to protect me from my own people. Does no one in this tribe understand the concept of boundaries?

The younglings were clearly unable to read the unfamiliar symbols, yet they mimicked Benin's body language as if they were. One stroked his chin thoughtfully, while the other folded her arms and hunched her shoulders, frowning at the map. I could tell the mage was ever so slightly affronted by this, but was doing his best to ignore them.

Recalling my own past desire to set impertinent gnomes on fire, and knowing how readily available that option was to this particular human, I nudged Ris'kin to remove the children from the tent.

I needn't have bothered. As Ris'kin moved toward the tent's entrance, Emrys came marching in through it. The nurse looked stern, his bald forehead set into a stony frown.

The juveniles gulped when they saw him. Emrys raised his eyebrows at them and pointed at the tent flap. They jumped to their feet and scurried outside, heads bowed in contrition. Emrys—a former warrior, I recalled—snapped a sharp salute and followed the two children from the tent. I heard him barking orders the instant he was outside.

Coll seemed impressed. "Little guy might be a short-ass, but that's a serious pair of lungs he has on him."

"A pity we can't understand one another," Benin murmured, as if to himself.

Coll's face lit up. "That would be amazing. We could teach each other swear words!"

"Yes, the possibilities for social betterment are beyond imagining," said the mage dryly.

My attention was still on the open tent flap, through which I caught sight of one of the scouts striding past.

Since they’d been wearing it out in the open, the wrinkly mole-rat armor had undergone a sort of curing process, turning darker and tougher and even more unsightly, something I’d have thought to be impossible. The material’s enhanced toughness offered even more protection to its wearer. It also brought each scout’s resemblance to a walking chorizo to impressive new levels. I was about to point this out to Ket when Benin, whose eyes were also on the scout, spoke.

“I keep meaning to ask: what in the flames are your scouts wearing?”

“Armor,” I said shortly.

He snorted. “Made from…?”

“Mole-rat hides.”

“Explains why it’s so ugly. They look like walking ballsacks.”

He was right. But only I was allowed to say that. “It might be ugly, but it’s functional,” I told him.

“And what about your scavengers? Your clothesmakers? They’re decked out in all kinds of weird shit. Is that functional?” He laughed. “I swear I’ve never seen such freaky fashion sense.”

“They’re just expressing themselves,” I said hotly. Ket smirked.

Bekkit cleared his throat. "Back to the matter at hand. If we keep traveling north-north-west as straight as we can go, we should reach the outer boundary of the circled area within thirty days."

"How long did you say we have left?" asked Benin.

"Thirty-nine days and twelve hours."

"And seventeen minutes," I added.

"Okay, so that will leave us with more than a week to search the area after we arrive. That should be plenty of time, right?"

"I'm not so sure," I said. "Tiri's circle encompasses half a mountain range and part of a forest. That's a lot of ground to search."

"Do you think she's all right?" Coll interrupted. "Tiri, I mean. It's really not like her to say she'd meet us and then not turn up."

"I'm sure she's fine." Benin waved a hand as though Coll's concern was a particularly irritating fly. "She probably just got her nose stuck in a book and lost track of time."

The warrior's face fell at his companion's lack of concern. I couldn't tell if the mage was genuinely that cold or just putting on a brave face, but I added, "He's right. She seems like a capable woman."

"She's certainly shown that she can take care of herself," Ket agreed.

But Coll was still frowning. "Maybe I should go back and find her."

"That's up to you," I told him. "But you'd best decide quickly. It's time for us to leave."

To the others, I said, "Keep an eye out for any sign of pursuit by the Guild. And for local wildlife. I don't want any more nasty surprises like that monster owl last night."

Everyone agreed. Benin rolled up the map and started putting everything back in his bag, frowning when his hand brushed against a chemsphere and came away muddy. There was an air of tension, of eagerness. This was a challenge, but we were ready for it.

We'd just have to push ourselves and the gnomes to the very limits of their endurance.

Thirty

Gnomads

Corey

It turned out the limit of the gnomes' endurance was far greater than that of the humans.

At first Coll and Benin were practically dawdling, slowing their pace so as not to leave the rest of us behind, while the gnomes—barely a fifth of the humans’ size—pushed themselves hard. Eleven hours later, the gnomes were sweating and clearly exhausted, but nowhere near as much as Benin and Coll.

The mage was dripping with sweat. The aura of heat in which he'd been so smugly enwreathed that morning was gone, and he seemed to welcome the still-pouring rain that cooled him even as it drenched his clothes and plastered his hair to his skull. He was limping, a result of several new blisters he hadn't ceased complaining about, and the hem of his red robes was stained dark with mud. Now that darkness had fallen again, I'd moved as high as my newly limited SOI allowed in an attempt to escape his whining; from up here he looked like a child's figurine that had been partly dipped in brown paint.

A tiny spark on his right shoulder indicated that Bekkit was hitching a ride with the mage. The emberfox was hunched on his other shoulder. From what I'd seen of their relationship so far, I suspected this new closeness was not out of affection on the fox’s part but simply a desire to be as far from the sucking quagmire as possible. Tiny spots of darker red on Benin's robes showed that his familiar's claws had drawn blood, but unlike every other hardship, the mage tolerated this one without complaint.

Predictably, Coll had been far more stoic than his companion, but I could tell the sustained march was already having an effect on him as well. Where before he'd been deliberately dawdling so as not to pull too far ahead of the gnomes on their much shorter legs, now he seemed to be struggling just to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

He'd probably be fine if only he'd take off that damned chainmail.

Squelching sounds whenever he moved suggested the padding and clothes underneath his mail were soaked, and probably had been since we'd set out the day before.

I'm glad I don't have a sense of smell. This lot must already be smelling pretty ripe.

At the vanguard, Longshank was driving the first wagon. He raised a hand to signal the halt to those behind him, then reined in Blaze the badger. The convoy came to a stuttering halt, and I heard more than a few sighs of relief. Some of the marchers dropped down onto the ground where they'd stopped, but not so many as yesterday. The others remained on their aching feet, waiting for instructions from their group leaders.

"I'm proud of you, Corey." Warmth flowed across our bond. "I know how frightened you were of the surface. But when it came to it, you did what needed to be done."

"Thanks, Ket. I'm proud of me, too."

She rolled her eyes, but it was true. I was coping way better than I'd expected. Being under the cover of darkness and then sheltered by trees probably helped some, but even still. I still felt stupidly vulnerable without the safety of thick rock walls and ceiling, and I doubted I'd ever feel anything but uncomfortable at the sight of so much open sky, but for my first time above ground—ever—I was doing pretty amazingly.

"When you're quite finished basking in your own achievements," she said dryly, "maybe take a moment to appreciate how well your denizens are doing too?"

"They're much hardier than the humans, I'll give them that."

"Yes, but there's more. Not a single one of them has lost their boots today!"

I looked more closely. The sprite was right. The marching gnomes had used twine to tie their boots more tightly around their ankles, ensuring they were not so easily forsaken to the greedy mud. Others had stuffed theirs with rags to make them fit more snugly. At the rear of the convoy, Swift and Cheer's ever-present sack remained empty, to the opportunistic pair’s obvious disappointment.

If only I could send them out to scout with the others. These two need to be kept busy. Alas, the Scout ability cost mana to use on any gnome that didn't have the scout vocation. I'd have to come up with something else to occupy my scavengers.

Longshank climbed stiffly down from the wagon, stretching his leg with a wince before taking Blaze's halter and guiding their wagon into its position in the half-circle barrier.

"He's not happy you made him ride on the cart all day," Ket said.

"I don't care. His new leg was clearly hurting him after yesterday's march. Besides, I need him rested. He has a job to do."

I had no doubt Longshank would have limped his way through the entire march today without so much as a whimper, but even his fortitude had its limits. As much as he tended to rub me up the wrong way, the hunter was much too important to the tribe for me to risk his health for the sake of his pride.

As a hunter—an advanced profession—he could command a party of up to five scouts on a single expedition for a duration of up to twenty-four hours, thanks to his Scout Leader skill. I'd sent them out that morning to gather materials from the surrounding forest, and then consigned them to the carts for the afternoon. Now they were rested and ready to go out once more.

Back when I’d been using the Scout ability on denizens without the actual scout vocation, I’d been forced to not only expend mana to do so, but also to convey instructions on what to look for in a very unreliable way. Thankfully, when it came to Longshank I could choose from a list of basic options using the Augmentary. I selected “Food (hunting)”. Shanky instantly perked up and started issuing orders to his squad.

Once they were out of sight, I reassured myself that the remaining gnomes' preparations were going smoothly, then glanced over the blueprints of the items the scouts had brought back that morning. I paused to inspect one in particular.

Misthoard

Plant (bromeliad)

Unlike other plants which are designed to absorb water, the waxy outer surface of the misthoard’s leaves repels water (’hydrophobic’), funneling it instead into the center of the plant where it will be stored for later consumption.

Though bromeliads are often found in desert environments and other hot climates, their hydrophobic functions can also be found in certain sub-species that prevent the stored water from freezing solid in winter.

"What are you going to do with those?" asked Ket curiously.

"I want to try something." I concentrated on the nearest builder—Buttress, a heavily-built gnome who was almost as wide as she was tall—and her Augmentary profile popped up beside her. Focusing on her list of builder abilities, I selected 'Assess,' then attempted to mentally send her the misthoard leaf’s blueprint.

She glanced around. Clearly seeing nothing, she returned to her task of assembling a tent.

"Psst," came Bekkit's whisper. "Try using the physical specimen rather than the blueprint."

"I can still hear you, you know," grumbled Ket. "And I was actually about to suggest the same thing."

"Of course you were."

With Ris'kin's help, I located the leaf sample, which had been repurposed by one of the children as a hat after being dumped in a cart by the scout who'd found it. Rather than attempt to prise the item away from its new owner, my avatar instead took the child's hand and led her over to where Buttress and the other builders were now rigging the makeshift shelter for those unable to fit inside the thatch tents.

This time, when I selected 'Assess,' Buttress dropped the portion of the hide she'd been holding—much to her fellow builders’ annoyance—and advanced toward the child. The little girl continued to suck her thumb sleepily while the builder examined the dark green facets of her leafy headwear.

After a minute, Buttress nodded, then turned away from the child and resumed construction of the shelter.

Blueprint discovered!

Raincatcher

Survival

Catches rain. Can also function in limited capacity in misty or humid air, depending on the leaves used.

Material prerequisite(s): Misthoard leaves x 4

Nice!

Interesting that it fell under the ‘survival’ label rather than 'construction' – perhaps because it was a mobile contraption rather than a permanent one.

I wanted to find all the other new materials and have my builders assess those too, but I was distracted by something else I'd noticed. I pulled up Buttress's profile again.

"You weren't kidding when you said the gnomes are improving, Ket," I said. "Look at these skills!"

My sprite trilled with excitement at the listed array. "She definitely didn't have these skills before the exodus, did she?"

"I can't say for sure, but I doubt it was building gnomehomes that gave her levels in Muddy Terrain."

"Three levels in Endurance... that'll be handy... Corey, this is brilliant!"

"They're all gaining passive skills as they travel," I told her, my own excitement building. "This exodus might actually be the best thing that could have happened to us."

"Assuming you complete it successfully," Bekkit said.

"Why must you always ruin everything?!"

"Don't worry," I told my sprites. "I have a good feeling about this."

* * *

The rain had finally eased, and the glint of stars winked from beyond the thick canopy of leaves and branches. The woodland had grown denser the deeper into the forest we'd traveled, and I was definitely starting to feel more at home under the trees' shelter.

Unlike the previous night, most of the gnomes did not immediately seek shelter in their tents, and were no longer huddling beneath the misery of a constant downpour. Instead they gathered around the warmth and light of spongy pink hearthshrooms and disc-like broilcups. Unlike illumishrooms, hearthshrooms emitted warmth as well as light, though only when three or more of them were grouped together. Grimes wheeled a barrow of them over to an elderly couple who were swapping stories at the entrance to their tent; the pair thanked the young farmer and offered him a seat alongside them, which he graciously accepted.

Broilcups were a species Swift and Cheer had brought back from a past scouting expedition. The black, tough-looking mushrooms were unlike any of their species I'd so far encountered. Far from thriving in damp conditions, broilcups seemed to despise water, and reacted to its touch by heating it to boiling temperatures in an attempt to evaporate it away—a bit like Benin used his magic aura to keep the rain off. The broilcups looked sinister and a bit gross, but they were perfect for things like heating bathwater and cooking food. The smaller ones could even be dropped directly into the water. You just had to remember to remove them before serving or bathing.

Several eager-looking gnomes were crowded around a particularly large broilcup, staring longingly into a pot of stew—rat and chanterelle today, I believe—that was bubbling happily within its bath of boiling water.

Heavy snores sounded from Benin and Coll's tent. The two humans had long since crawled into their sleeping bags—though probably as much to get a head start on Swift and Cheer as from exhaustion. The emberfox, however, was as alert as my denizens. She'd taken to following Ris'kin around, imitating my avatar's barked commands and "helping" her to carry supplies to and from the wagons.

After the little fox accidentally incinerated her third blanket, Ris'kin instead set her to the task of covering every inch of the camp and using her fiery aura to dry and harden the muddy ground. Pyra took her job very seriously; many a gnome was forced to jump out of her way as she proceeded along her route like a determined drillworm. Those not quick enough ended up nursing minor burns which I instructed my medics to attend to. Thankfully the rest of the forest was too wet for the accidental burning of leaf mulch and pine needles to be much of a danger.

Burn victims aside, Pyra had been accepted among the tribe immediately, whereas poor Binky still evoked suspicion and wariness from many of my older denizens. What Bekkit had told us about earthly vs celestial creatures checked out so far, in this particular detail at least.

Clothiers from different groups sat together on the wagons, swinging their legs and chatting happily as they knitted, keeping half an eye always on the children running to and fro. Apart from a few who'd developed annoying sniffles as a result of the inclement weather, most of the youngsters were in high spirits.

Several of them appeared to be giving Ajax a makeover. They clustered around the crouching warrior, giggling as they took it in turns to festoon him with woven grass crowns and paint his lips with berry juice. One boy’s eyes lit up when he noticed Binky nearby; he advanced toward him, comb in hand, but the spider smartly made himself scarce. Nearby, Nails watched as stonily-faced as ever, though I definitely caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Hoppit was leading the watch tonight. After directing the others to their positions, she strode to her own post, chewing on a piece of possum jerky and re-tying her hair into a sensible tail. She threw Gneil a wink and a grin as she passed the chariot, which he returned awkwardly, blushing and nearly dropping the lid of the ark on his foot. One of the acolytes caught it, and when they'd set it to one side Gneil gave them orders to bail out the rainwater that had leaked into the 'holy box' over the past couple of days—presumably with strict instructions not to disturb my gem too much.

I gazed over it all, sensing through our bond that both Ket and Bekkit shared my contentment.

How could they not? Serenaded by a peaceful chorus of laughing children, snoring sleepers, the occasional drip-drip of the still-wet leaves, and the occasional happy snuffles of the badgers as they rooted for slugs and other insects beyond the camp's boundaries. With the warm glow of the hearthshrooms reflecting off the leafy canopy overhead, I almost felt safe.

Yes, I thought again. Maybe this journey won't be so bad after all.

Then the children's laughter turned into screams.

Thirty-One

Kidnapped!

Corey

I watched in horror as two huge winged shapes swooped from the trees and into the light. Their target was obvious: a blond-haired gnome child who was singing and dancing atop one of the wagons, completely oblivious to the approaching threat. The other children, who'd gathered below to watch her, immediately screamed and scattered when they spotted them.

Ris'kin! Owls incoming!

I didn't need to give any instructions. My avatar was already alert and haring toward the child. Forcing my thoughts into a cohesive message, I focused on Gneil and prepared to cast Divine Inspiration with the instruction to signal the other gnomes to take cover.

Then I recalled the Augmentary’s new feature that let me directly impart signaling instructions to my officers. It was the work of a second to switch my focus to Hammer and select ‘Take Cover’ from the list of options attached to her Signal ability. Though Graywall was closer to the site of danger, I knew from past experience that Hammer liked to shout her signals as well as sign them. Sure enough, her gesture was accompanied by a bellow which alerted the entire camp. All around, warriors raised their shields while non-combatants flung themselves to the floor, crawling into tents and beneath carts.

Frowning in confusion, the blond girl on the cart finally opened her eyes just in time to see the first owl's talons close around her waist.

She screamed as she was yanked up into the air, kicking her legs helplessly. Her pale hair whipped from side to side with every beat of the owl’s wings, and after a few seconds her head and limbs were hanging limply. I hoped she’d just passed out from fright, and that the violent movement hadn’t damaged her neck or spine.

A few of the slingers had their weapons ready, but hesitated to loose, wary of hitting the child by mistake. They were well practiced in aiming at moving targets on the ground, but flying targets? Not so much.

Luckily for us, I knew one member of the tribe who did have experience in that area.

Binky, Spit!

The massive spider, who’d been standing protectively over a huddle of cowering younglings, raised himself onto his rear legs. His upper body followed the owl’s path of flight, his rear legs dancing elegantly to avoid the prone children as he turned on the spot.

His pedipalps and chelicerae spread wide like the tentacles of an anemone, and Binky convulsed, expelling a wad of sticky fluid at the winged kidnapper.

The projectile was a milky blur as it sped through the air. An instant before it hit, the owl screeched and adjusted direction. It wasn't enough to take it out of the missile’s trajectory—but that hadn't been the owl’s goal. Instead, as it twisted in the air, it opened its claws and flung the gnome child toward the second owl.

Binky’s web-bullet impacted the first attacker with a wet smack, and silk tendrils erupted, spreading to engulf the owl’s left wing. The massive feathered monster let out an outraged screech, making all the gnomes in the area flinch and cover their ears, then it flapped awkwardly away into the trees.

Meanwhile, the second owl had caught the girl’s limp form easily. Prize in talon, it spread its wings wider and lifted itself higher, clearly preparing to make its own escape.

Hoppit's bullet caught the owl right between its eyes. The huge bird fell from the sky like a stone—and so did the little girl. Ris'kin was already moving into place to catch her, followed by two frantic-looking gnomes carrying a blanket stretched out between them.

But the first owl was back, one wing half-tangled in spider-spit. Talons extended, it snatched the unconscious child from the air, dipping a little beneath the sudden weight.

Ris’kin sprinted beneath it. At my command, when she reached him, Binky allowed her to leap on his back, then raised himself on his rear legs again, boosting her momentum. She sailed upward. Her black-furred fingertips brushed the child’s foot.

It wasn’t enough. The owl, beating its wings frantically, was rising once more. It flapped unsteadily; one wing was still encumbered with venomous fluid, but the feathers’ thickness must have protected it from the worst of Binky’s paralyzing goop, and with one final triumphant screech it was gone.

* * *

Badgers growled. Warriors yelled. Children wailed.

Incredibly, the humans were still asleep, apparently exhausted enough to somehow not register the chaos currently in progress outside.

"We have to save her!" Ket was flitting back and forth. Sparks trailed from her as she wrung her hands anxiously.

Amidst the chaos, Swift and Cheer appeared from wherever they'd been skulking and immediately started dragging the owl carcass over to the humans' tent. I don’t envy Coll and Benin when they wake up, I thought, remembering the days of the scavengers bringing me dead mice and rotting possums like a pair of misguided cats.

"Shanky and the scouts are the only ones you can send after her right now. But they're all out hunting!"

My sprite was more distressed than I’d ever seen her. I understood her concern, but attempted to think practically rather than emotionally.

Should we really risk more lives for just this one? She could already be dead. It's sad, but we have to be realistic about these things. She’s just one gnome...

"Regrettable,” said Bekkit heavily, “but we must focus on the greater good of the tribe. Consider her a tragedy of the exodus, learn from her demise, and move on.”

"Are you suggesting we leave her to get eaten?" Ket said. "What kind of monster even thinks about leaving a child?"

"Yeah, Bekkit, what kind of monster even thinks about leaving a child?" I turned on him quickly.

“We should wake Benin and Coll,” said Ket decisively.

“No,” I said. “Neither of them has the skills to be of use in this sort of situation. We need someone stealthy. Someone with experience in tracking.”

“But Shanky isn’t here—”

“I’m not talking about Longshank.”

Ris’kin’s tufted ears twitched. She was still staring in the direction the owl had disappeared, just waiting for my word.

“Give us an hour,” I said to Ket. To Ris’kin, I said, “Let’s go.”

Thirty-Two

Kind of Monster

Corey

My avatar’s muscles bunched and stretched as we flew over the forest floor. I reveled in the sensation of freedom.

Though we were out here on grim purpose, it felt good to forget that for a moment—to forget everything, exodus included—and for once be able to focus solely on the physical. Damp leaves crinkling beneath the pads of my feet, the scent of rain-soaked earth, the breeze in my whiskers.

Every now and again my avatar would halt to scent her surroundings. She was always on the alert; her enhanced senses were like a living system of tripwires.

The ears, for instance. It was as though they had a will of their own, like a pair of guardian watchers devoted to identifying the slightest potential threat. Their size and shape were ideal for triangulating the source of even the smallest vibration with a single twitch.

If the ears detected a possible threat, the nose then assessed it further, sorting the familiar scents from the strange within the blink of an eye. The eyes themselves—keen as Ris’kin’s were, especially with their darksight—came in last, but even they were far superior to most, seeing the world’s shapes and colors with startling clarity.

The air beneath the trees was mostly still, heavy with the threat of further rain, but occasional currents brought tidings of the local environs that Ris’kin’s refined palate could easily translate.

Half a mile to the east, a wild dog barked. From the west came the violent clack and crack of antlered beasts clashing in combat.

In the tree to our left, an owl hooted. I tensed, but Ris’kin already knew it wasn’t the one we were hunting. I caught sight of it after a moment: a pair of huge eyes peering down curiously at us. It hooted again, and a rodent scurried for cover somewhere in the undergrowth nearby.

Elsewhere, the scream of an unfortunate animal—rabbit, my avatar’s senses suggested—split the air as the night’s predators got to work.

Ris’kin discounted them one at a time, then turned to filtering smells and tastes. Fungi. Canine spoor. Deer musk. Rotting wood.

There—the salty tang of blood. It was coming from several sources.

A hundred or so feet away, a decomposing carcass was being feasted upon by some scavenger. Every time they tore into it, the scent of blood and decay was released into the air. But that was old blood.

Further away west, the blood was much fresher. One of the dueling stags had clearly come off the worse; the coppery tinge in the air conveyed defeat.

Ris’kin sifted through each and every source until she identified one that made the thick fur of her hackles stand on end.

Gnomish blood.

It was a familiar scent—my avatar had endured plenty of it during the battle for the Grotto, not to mention when Longshank had lost a good few spoonfuls of his own just a couple of weeks ago. There was just the faintest whiff of it here, hopefully meaning the child was not seriously hurt, but it was enough to stoke Ris’kin’s fury at the creature responsible for drawing it.

Teeth bared instinctively, Ris’kin and I traced the scent to the base of a leafy behemoth which Insight informed me was a furynut tree. We gazed up at the massive expanse of the trunk.

We can take it, Ris’kin and I thought together.

Though dauntingly high and wide, the craggy bark provided plenty of footholds, and Ris’kin ascended with ease. We assessed each branch cautiously before moving on to the next, but found nothing except ants, spiders, and one very irate squirrel.

We steered well clear of the latter; it chattered fiercely, despite Ris’kin’s much larger size, and actually seemed as though it were shaking its tiny fists at us.

Ris’kin snapped her teeth at it as we passed.

It’s just protecting its nuts, I told her. You’d understand if you had your own. They’re as precious to it as this child is to us.

She rolled her eyes, then yelped as something small and hard hit the back of her shoulder. Ris’kin whipped her head around to see the squirrel, still chattering furiously, another nut held at the ready in its tiny hand.

Little bastard!

Ris’kin snarled and made as though to climb back down. The squirrel squeaked and shot back into its hole in the trunk.

As we neared the crown of the colossal tree with still no further sign of our quarry, I began to doubt my avatar’s instincts. Then a huge shape loomed into view.

The nest was lodged snugly amongst several forking branches. At first I could only see its dense outer wall, a seemingly impenetrable fortress of tightly interwoven twigs and leaves. As we moved a little higher, though, we were able to catch a glimpse of what was inside.

The kidnapped child lay curled in the center of the nest. Her pale halo of hair was now full of dirt and bits of twig. She was whimpering, probably because she was surrounded by ugly, fluffy monsters.

Tiger Owlet

The juvenile offspring of a tiger owl.

Chicks remain in the nest for the first six weeks, fully dependent on their parents for food and security.

It was hard to believe these creatures were the offspring of the majestically terrifying raptor that had attacked our camp. Their gray coats were fluffy, comprised of down rather than feathers; it stuck out in all directions and made them resemble cotton balls that had been struck by an electrical current. The eyebrow-like markings above their all-black eyes added to this image; they looked permanently surprised.

There were five of the little horrors in total—and no sign of their huge guardian.

The owlets were pecking ineffectually at the gnome child, who I realized now wasn’t whimpering but giggling as she swatted playfully at her feathery harassers.

The girl was safe. That was a relief. Let’s just grab her and get back.

But Ris’kin hesitated. Her every instinct conveyed that something here wasn’t right.

I considered. Where was the big owl? According to the Augmentary, the parent should have hung around to help its kids eat. Frowning, I returned to Insight.

After the first six weeks, they will begin to venture from the nest (known as ’branching’), but will not learn to fly properly until around ten weeks of age.

When fully grown, their downy feathers will become darker and brindled, perfectly camouflaging them against the furynut trees in which they make their home—

The massive winged shape launched itself at us with a demonic screech.

While I reeled in shock—it had been right beside us, and we hadn’t seen it!—Ris’kin’s muscles reacted in almost the same instant her impeccable eyesight detected the motion. She flung herself backward, pushing off from the trunk and commencing the long fall to the ground. The landing would hurt even with her ability to land on her feet, but it was surely less deadly than the owl’s wicked talons.

For once my avatar’s reflexes weren’t quick enough. The curved talons raked her face, and the burst of hot agony almost severed Double Sight’s connection. Ris’kin’s scream echoed my own mental cry as we hurtled toward the ground a hundred feet below.

I braced myself for a painful impact, reassuring myself that Ris’kin’s evolutions would ensure the quick healing of any broken bones and internal injuries, but the owl wasn’t done with us. It dived in pursuit.

Hard claws closed about our torso and squeezed. I cringed at the horrible sensation of my avatar’s ribs creaking beneath the pressure. When the first one cracked, I almost dropped our connection, wanting nothing more than to retreat back into my blessedly incorporeal—and painless—god’s-eye form.

But I couldn’t leave my avatar alone.

Not that she needed my help. Even as another rib broke beneath the crushing pressure, she managed to twist in her captor’s grip, raising her tail.

Words in the Augmentary’s golden text flashed before my vision.

Defensive Spray

An ability? When did Ris’kin learn this?

Her body was contorted, so I felt rather than saw the spray of fluid she squirted from her anal glands, right up into the owl’s face.

As one with Ris’kin, I recognized that she recognized the scent as her own familiar foxy musk. But the non-animal part of my mind was mentally gagging at how foul the odor was. That’s a whole new level of horrid. Even worse than mole-rat.

Our attacker seemed less affected by the smell than it was by the fluid spraying directly in its eyes.. It recoiled from the presumably unpleasant sensation, releasing its grip on the furry stink-bomb and beating its wings in an attempt to distance itself from her.

Ris’kin was having none of it. Our rage at the owl’s intrusion, and our determination to keep my denizens safe no matter what it took, came to the fore. Her fingers gripped the owl’s stick-like ankle tightly, her claws digging in and making the creature screech. It shook itself, spiraling through the air as it tried to dislodge her, but she’d already hauled herself up its legs and was using fistfuls of feathers to climb its chest.

Holding tightly with one hand, Ris’kin reached over her shoulder and pulled one of her half-spears from the holster on her back. As though it knew what was coming, the owl rotated its head as far as it would go, twisting in a way that was creepy and unnatural.

That stopped it from taking a spear to the eye. But it was also essentially flying blind, which it turned out was not the brightest thing it could have done.

The branch came seemingly out of nowhere. The owl slammed into it with twig-snapping force; similar snapping sounds, of hollow and brittle bones, crackled out from one of its wings, and it plummeted helplessly toward the ground.

Ris’kin hadn’t seen the branch either; she was totally focused on her target, and her peripheral vision on one side was totally gone, but once more her feline reflexes kicked in. Her sight might have been damaged, but she sensed our relative position to the ground with accuracy despite the owl’s kamikaze journey toward it, and was able to maneuver herself atop her feathered nemesis just before it hit the ground with a sickening crunchy thud.

The impact jolted my avatar’s wounds. She growled as her cracked ribs screamed and her mauled face throbbed, but the owl’s huge body had broken her fall as she intended.

As she climbed down, stretching each limb experimentally, I tried to come to terms with what I’d just seen.

She’d used something called Defensive Spray—an ability, just like those Binky had access to. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that my avatar would have them too; so many of the god-borns’ other rules did not apply to my avatar, after all.

You pee-farted on it. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder of you, I told her.

I could feel her giving me the side-eye, aimed directly at the space in the back of her mind I currently occupied. I was about to examine her Augmentary profile to see what other named skills she had. Then I realized she really was looking at me with just one eye.

Our nose was filled with the stench of blood—our own this time. Hot fluid dripped down the right side of Ris’kin’s face; parallel lines of pain throbbed from her ear to her jaw, and her vision on that side had gone dark. The partial blindness was disorientating, and my avatar stumbled a little as she turned on the spot, trying to compensate for the loss.

A rustle of feathers had her whirling around.

Her mutilator was somehow still alive.

Pain and rage surged through her as she glared down at the wounded owl. I felt more than a little uncomfortable at the idea of killing an injured creature in cold blood—much as I’d felt upon seeing Longshank viciously stab the incapacitated mole-rat back in the tunnels—but now I understood.

It’s it or us.

She raised her half-spear.

Triggered by the movement, the owl attempted one last lunge at its vanquisher. We dodged the clumsy attack with ease, following the movement with a practiced thrust of her arm. One quick stab and it was over.

“Is everything okay, Corey? Did you find her?”

Ket’s voice wavered nervously. I sensed her hesitance in communicating, probably after I’d given her such a dressing down last time for distracting me at a crucial moment.

“We found her,” I said. “She’s alive.”

Ket’s joyous relief flooded through our bond. She started babbling about how Shanky and the scouts had returned. Meanwhile, Ris’kin and I squinted one-eyed up toward the tangled boughs we’d just fallen from.

We need to get the child down. Think you can manage it?

A flash of indignation. Ris’kin was offended at the notion that she was too weak to handle such a task.

The instant her hand touched the tree trunk, something hard smacked against her head. The squirrel was back. It hopped from foot to foot, chittering and spitting as it lined up another shot, which my avatar dodged.

She bared her teeth at the mad little critter. It reciprocated.

Then its tufted ear—a tiny gray version of Ris’kin’s own—twitched at a noise from further up the tree. We heard it too: a tiny chorus of peeping, high-pitched and slightly pathetic. It was coming from the nest.

Two adult tiger owls had attacked our camp. We’d dealt with this one. Hoppit’s deadshot had felled the other. Most likely they’d been a mating pair, the parents of the fluffy nestlings.

As though aware of our scrutiny, one of the owlets hopped out of the nest and onto the branch. It peered down at us.

They can look after themselves… right?

Another of the owlets flung itself from the nest, landing on the branch beside the first owl with a flurry of feathers. Startled, the first owl jumped, then tipped forward.

We watched as though in slow motion as the baby owl teetered on the edge of the branch, flapping its wings uselessly before finally losing its fight with gravity and plummeting toward the earth.

It bulleted down toward us, emitting a constant skreeing sound that somehow conveyed the dual sentiments of “Help!” and “Wheeeeeee!” Our instincts overruled our better judgment, and we leapt back from the trunk, arms outstretched, just in time to catch the wind-ruffled bundle and spare it from its accidental near-suicide.

The owl—surprisingly light, considering it was almost the size of a gnome juvenile—gave a surprised hoot, then hissed at its rescuer. Ris’kin held it out in front of her as far away as she could and then gave me a mental prod, as if to say “And what exactly am I meant to do with this?”

We both glanced down at her bloodied spear. It lay on the ground where she’d dropped it in order to catch the falling chick.

You’re injured, I said to her. I’m going to return to the camp and send Longshank and the others out here to help you.

I ignored her disgruntlement at the plan, and waited until she reluctantly agreed. Wait here, then. And make sure the kid’s safe.

Ris’kin looked again at the fluffy owlet, still held at arm’s length. It looked back at her solemnly. I sensed her distaste, and she prodded me again questioningly, as if saying, “Again, what am I meant to do with this?” She looked up at the nest. “With these?”

We already have more than enough mouths to feed, I said after a moment. It was true. There were 101 gnomes in the tribe—plus badgers, Binky, bumbling Benin, and Coll. That’s quite enough for us to look after.

We searched the ugly creature’s face. Its big black eyes stared back at us. It let out a strangled hoot and flapped its wings ineffectually.

I felt a flood of pity, and tried to push it down. The exodus is hard enough as it is. It’s life and death, and we have to prioritize our denizens above everything else. Wait for Shanky, let him help you get the girl down, then…

The owlet blinked. On the branch far above, the other one that had hopped out of the nest peered down at us. Those still in the nest hooted piteously.

No. My priority was the gnomes, and the others already under my care. So I steeled myself and said what needed to be said.

Take care of them, I told Ris’kin firmly. I severed Double Sight’s connection and returned to camp.

* * *

An hour later, I found myself glaring down at my avatar.

I told you to ‘take care’ of them.

She nodded.

Longshank’s scouts followed her into the camp. Each clutched a gray-feathered bundle in their arms. Five pairs of big black eyes peered curiously at their new surroundings, blinking in the light from the illumishrooms. The owlets chirruped and hooted to one another with each new sight, and the scouts had soon acquired a procession of curious gnome children mimicking the owls’ noises and giggling in delight at the fluffy creatures.

Longshank himself brought up the rear. He was leaning on the blond-haired child for support, limping heavily, and I felt a twinge of guilt for working him so heavily this night.

At the sight of the rescued girl, the two gnomes who’d been so distressed earlier converged on her with squeals of delight. They smothered her in their embrace, crying tears of relief, wringing Longshank’s hand and calling their thanks to Ris’kin.

What gives? I said to my avatar, who was passing a handful of familiar-looking nuts to a nearby gnome. I sensed her satisfaction at the find, and could only assume the offending squirrel had been made to pay for its impertinent antics.

She just shrugged again, acting confused. She patted a passing owlet on the head, as if to say, You said to take care of them. We’re taking care of them.

Ket sniggered, clearly delighted by this latest development. I scowled, though I was secretly glad my avatar had not had the heart to commit cold-blooded owlicide.

That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it!

But it was hard to stay mad at Ris’kin. Especially now I could see her from the outside. I stared in horrified fascination at her face.

One of the medics had handed her a waterskin, and she washed the blood from her fur, revealing her injuries in full. The raptor’s talons had scored three deep parallel gashes down the right side of her face, from the base of her ear to her jawbone. The one in the middle was deepest; it had carved right through the center of her eye, gouging out the eyeball and leaving her with an empty socket.

Her salamander-esque regeneration had already healed the injuries’ shallower edges into pink-white scars, and the deeper parts of the wounds were scabbing over even as I watched. However, it took me several moments to realize her eye was not growing back.

She’d healed cuts, bruises, burns, everything from broken nails to broken bones. Every wound left a scar, but it always healed. Until now.

“Even salamander regeneration has its limits,” said Ket regretfully.

“But they can regenerate entire lost limbs!” I objected. “How difficult is it to make a new eye?”

“Well, it is one of the most complex organs in the entire body,” Bekkit pointed out unhelpfully.

“Ris’kin knew and accepted the danger of what she did,” said Ket, cutting straight to what she—as always—knew was the real source of my frustration. “It’s not your fault, so don’t feel bad.”

I did feel guilty—how could I not? My avatar was maimed—permanently, and in a way that could well affect her performance in crucial ways.

First Longshank’s leg, now Ris’kin’s eye—how many other body parts were my people going to lose while under my ‘protection’?

Not wanting to spiral into despair, I said, “Well, at least she looks even more badass now.”

Ket hummed in agreement. “Perhaps the clothiers will make her an eyepatch.”

I smiled at the thought.

It was close to midnight, and most of the gnomes had long since crawled into their tents for some well-deserved shuteye. However, the procession of owl-bearing scouts and excitable children was causing quite the stir. More and more gnomes were being roused from sleep by the commotion, and soon the baby owls were being passed from gnome to gnome, each one cradling their ugly burden and gazing down upon it as though it were just as precious as their own children. The latter still milled around, reaching out to reverently touch the owls and repeating “Hoot-hoot” over and over again.

“That’s definitely not going to get annoying,” I muttered. I received nothing but amusement from both Ket and Ris’kin.

I couldn’t be truly annoyed though. At least not right now. I no longer had access to whatever had allowed my denizens’ Faith or mana auras to manifest, but it was obvious that the gnomes’ morale had received a huge boost this night. At first I attributed it to the successful defense of the camp followed by the rescue of the kidnapped girl, but then I recalled that something similar had happened when the badgers first appeared in the Grotto. New animal residents—young ones at that, whom the gnomes could protect and raise alongside their own—seemed to really boost the entire tribe’s morale.

Whether that would last beyond the owls growing large enough to swallow their rescuers whole remained to be seen. But there was plenty of distance to cover before now and then.

Assuming we all survive that long.

Movement at the edge of the camp drew my eye, but it was just Coll. The big warrior crawled from his tent, yawning. He rubbed his eyes. “What did I miss?”

Thirty-Three

The Librarinth

Tiri

She’d come to think of it as the ‘Librarinth.’

She’d been here for hours, and even Tiri’s cartographer skills couldn’t determine a pattern to its layout. There must be magic involved; she’d tried retracing her steps to no avail, simply finding herself in yet another unfamiliar row of towering shelves.

After following the passage from the pyromancer’s office for maybe an hour, Tiri was forced to admit she was lost.

That was, for most cartographers, the very definition of failure. But given the nature of this particular maze, Tiri found she didn’t mind as much as she probably should.

The corridors were defined by rows and rows of bookshelves taller than she was. And there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how it was all organized. Passages branched off into dead ends, while others somehow circled round and back to where they began.

It pained her no end when she realized none of the shelves’ contents followed any established system of categorization. Forget the complex number system used by the Academy’s librarians; these books weren’t even arranged logically, not by title, author, subject or—philosophers forbid—color.

Not that the latter would have helped much. Many of the books looked identical, ponderous tomes bound in brown leather and embossed with faded golden titling. In short, it looked exactly like you might expect a long-forgotten library to look.

Though ‘long-forgotten’ is probably a bit of an understatement.

Among the regiments of dull brown spines were other more mismatched pieces, texts that spanned centuries as well as civilizations judging by the languages in which they’d been written. They ranged from old to unthinkably ancient.

Rolled-up scrolls of skin-thin papyrus lay in piles atop cracked clay tablets. Rods of gold engraved with delicate symbols glinted when the light from Tiri’s chemsphere washed over them, forcing back the shadows of the painted vases behind which they were half-hidden. She even glimpsed what she suspected to be the lost Stones of Mosalis arrayed on a shelf near the floor, but an ominous hissing rattle from beneath the shelf discouraged her from examining them more closely.

This is incredible.

Though she was lost, she also couldn’t help being awestruck. This was a treasure trove of lost knowledge, a stash of forgotten history. Its cultural and intellectual worth was incalculable. It was almost impossible to believe it had existed beneath the very feet of the Adventurers’ Guild since… well, probably since before it was even built.

And I’m the only one to have experienced its wonders.

She turned a corner and halted.

Well, maybe not the only one.

A finger-width of dust had coated the floor and shelves of everything she’d seen so far, clinging also to the ragged spiderwebs that adorned every corner like lacy drapes. But the dust before her now had been disturbed. Clearly this place was not entirely forgotten.

Her head jerked up at an unexpected sound.

Is that… voices?

She glanced around, wondering whether to extinguish her chemsphere. It was giving out the dimmest amount of light possible, but even that was beginning to make her eyes sting, and her head throb after being immersed for so long in the oppressive dark. But without it she’d be blind—an academic’s worst fear.

Ready to extinguish the light at a moment’s notice, she worked her way through the maze in the direction of the sound, hoping she hadn’t imagined it. Losing one’s mind was, after all, an academic’s second-worst fear.

No longer distracted by the wonders of this lost treasure trove, she realized her eyes were dry, gritty, irritated. Inhaling the dust and stale air for so long had left her chest tight and her breath uncomfortably wheezy, and her nose was sore from how many times she’d itched it. Her throat hurt when she swallowed. When was the last time she’d eaten or drunk anything?

She recalled the waterskin in her satchel. I’ll just check out these voices, then I’ll take a sip.

Turning sideways, she squeezed herself through an improbably narrow gap between two towering bookshelves. It was barely passable, and Tiri found herself thanking all the philosophers that the bulky, heavily armored Coll wasn’t with her. Or Benin, for that matter. He’d probably have gotten claustrophobic and burned the entire place down hours ago.

Thinking of Benin reminded her of Professor Knox’s slumped corpse. It lurked at the back of her mind, a macabre reminder that her friend was in danger.

She froze again. She’d definitely heard voices that time.

With a thought, she extinguished her chemsphere. The darkness seemed to physically press against her eyes as the light went out.

She realized she could still pick out the shapes of the shelves, and even the outline of the pale spiderwebs in the corner above her. There was still light, but it was coming from somewhere else.

And that means there’s a way out.

A few more twists and turns and she’d found it. A staircase, leading up. Wall-mounted chemspheres glowed every few steps. They were the automated kind; like those in the hallways above, they reacted to living presences, which meant—

Yes, there was someone here. Two someones, in fact. Tiri hadn’t imagined those voices earlier.

Between her and the exit was an open square. Enclosed on all other sides by yet more shelves, it was around fifteen feet across. The area was dotted with stools, though they were mostly buried beneath stacks of books, which overflowed onto the floor so that there was barely space to place one’s feet. In the center of the square was a large wooden table. Unlike every other nearby surface, this was relatively clear, with just a few neat piles of books and a scattering of feather quills and ink bottles.

The entire area was more or less free of dust. Someone uses this place frequently. She felt a surge of anger at the thought, and at the thought of the thousands of neglected tomes she’d passed on her way here. What a waste. Who on earth would hoard such a library for themselves?

She got her answer almost immediately.

“Why in the hells have they gone that way? That wasn’t the plan!”

The voice she’d heard earlier was close; in fact, it was right on the other side of the bookshelf she’d been about to step out from behind. She backtracked as quietly as she could, holding her breath so she could better hear the speaker.

It was Guildmaster Varnell. Who else would it be? she thought bitterly.

“But why?” he was saying now. “It makes no sense. The Core’s history… he should have gone underground. We were perfectly placed to ambush them!”

The strain in the Guildmaster’s voice was unexpected. Tiri had only spoken to the man on two occasions, but both times he’d come across as someone very much in control.

There was a bang, as though he’d just punched something, followed by the sound of books tumbling to the floor. “Ow,” she heard him mutter.

Then the second voice spoke.

“Regrettable, sire. But you know what they say about best-laid plans.”

“What do they say?”

“Well, that they often go awry. Because of mice. Or something.”

“Mice?”

“Indeed.”

“And who says that?”

“Well… them. You know. People.”

There was a pause, and Tiri pictured the Guildmaster shaking his head. “Sublime wisdom, Gardos, as always,” he said dryly.

“You’re welcome. What will you do now?”

“I still need to pin down his location. I’m so close!”

“The Core’s?”

“Well, yes. But I was referring to you-know-who.”

“Ah. Him. You do know that speaking his name doesn’t actually summon him? Well, probably.”

“I prefer not to risk it. Hard enough to hide my true nature without my thrice-damned patron popping up unexpectedly.”

Patron? Varnell is a warlock?!

“So the Core is headed north,” the second voice mused. “Does it know something we don’t?”

“I can only assume.”

“How rude of it.”

“Yes. But more alarming is that it’s heading in the direction I suspect he may be lairing.”

“Oh. Oh dear.”

“Yes.”

“You think he’s calling the Core? Do they have a prior connection?”

“Unsure,” replied Varnell. “I’ll need to contact Grimrock again to see what he knows. In the meantime, continue to observe the human. I’ll pass this new information to my agent in the field. For that, at least, the scrying mirror still serves.”

“That whole ‘Guild bond’ is truly a pesky thing, isn’t it, sire?”

“Indeed. It’s fortunate you can still track the human without it. Whatever magic the Core invoked made it impossible for Limpit to follow.”

Limpit?

She’d never heard that name before, nor those of ‘Grimrock’ or this ‘Gardos’ with whom Varnell was speaking. In fact, the entire conversation was making her mind whirl.

The good thing was that it sounded as though Coll had successfully conveyed Tiri’s warning to the gnome Core, who had since fled in the direction she’d suggested.

The slightly less-good thing was that it also seemed she’d unintentionally sent it straight into danger. Somewhere to the north there apparently dwelt a being—this “patron” of Varnell’s—whom even the Guildmaster was afraid of.

But the north is a big area. Surely the chances of them encountering one another are minimal…

She heard dwindling footsteps, and braved another peek around the bookshelf in time to see the Guildmaster striding toward the stairs, the bottom of his robes sweeping the book-strewn floor with a soft rustling sound.

Tiri’s eyes widened at the sight of the creature scurrying in his wake. It was small and insect-like; its hide was an odd combination of scales and fur, and its sinuous body was segmented and adorned with several pairs of jointed legs. It looked arthropodic but also vaguely saurian—a little like the giant millipede-axolotl hybrid they’d seen down in the tunnels of the gnome Core, though this one more resembled a furry blue-gray centipede.

Varnell paused at the foot of the stairs to allow the creature to catch up. It snaked up his robes, hundreds of spiky little legs working in tandem, and settled atop his shoulders.

The Guildmaster murmured something to the creature, which Tiri assumed to be his familiar. Limpit, perhaps? It clacked its mandibles in response. Then the pair of them ascended the stairs and out of sight.

Somewhere above, a door thudded closed, and a key turned in a lock with heavy finality.

The excitement she’d felt at the sight of a brand-new species was immediately replaced by unease. Not only had Varnell locked her in—he’d locked her in with whomever he’d just been conversing with.

But why? Is this ‘Gardos’ a prisoner?

If that were the case, perhaps she could convince him to help her.

But when the minutes ticked by without even the slightest sound, she frowned. Still, she waited a few more minutes to be sure she was alone. Then she crept forward into the open square.

There was nobody there.

Where she guessed Varnell to have been standing was a plinth. Looking around again to make sure she was alone, Tiri moved closer.

Atop the plinth was a statue; a man’s head, cast in bronze. Unlike the busts that adorned the entrance halls of both the Academy and the Guild, this one did not look like a former member of the adventuring faculty. A pair of twisted horns spiraled up from its temples; it had two slits in place of a nose, and its mouth was set in a snarl that displayed several rows of pointed teeth like those of a shark.

It had the same blank-eyed stare she’d seen on similar pieces, except this one seemed to be staring straight at her. She couldn’t explain it, and her rational mind railed against the very idea, but she couldn’t deny it. There was something there—a presence, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably.

For a moment she almost convinced herself that this was what Varnell had been conversing with. Then she shook off the idea, feeling ridiculous for giving credence to it for even a second.

He must have been talking to his familiar, she thought, somewhat doubtfully. She tried to picture the second voice she’d heard coming out of the many-legged thing that had coiled around the Guildmaster’s neck. Though I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a familiar that can talk back.

Whatever the explanation, she was clearly alone down here. The chemspheres on the wall began to dim as she stood still, regarding the stairwell and the door beyond.

She’d heard the key turn; it was a heavy door with a heavy lock. She might be able to eventually pick it, but not quietly. For all she knew, the door opened directly into Varnell’s personal privy, and she didn’t fancy the idea of bursting out and finding herself face to face with the man in that scenario or any other.

But she’d already seen that he left the door open when he came down here—she’d heard it close but not open. It would be safer to wait until the next time Varnell came down here—which, from the lack of dust in the study area, was fairly often—and then somehow sneak past him up the stairs to freedom.

Her time would come. Soon.

Well. She gazed around at the vast wealth of reading material that surrounded her, less despairingly than she probably should have. At least I won’t be bored while I wait.

Thirty-Four

Hoot-Hoots

Corey

“The little crapbags shat on my ark. Again.”

All five of the owlets cooed in chorus as though I’d just paid them a compliment.

Ket tsked. “They’re part of the tribe now, Corey. You should call them by their proper name.”

“Hellbirds? Mite factories?”

“No. And no.”

“Well then, what?”

“Hoot-hoots, of course!”

I glared at my sprite.

My denizens had driven me to distraction with their near-constant mimicking of the sounds made by the baby owls. For the last few days, all I’d heard was, “Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot!” Naturally, Ket found it equally endearing and hilarious.

Gneil, being the animal magnet that he was, had taken charge of them. Apparently his reduced duties in priesting (and Hoppit’s increased responsibilities as a group leader) left him plenty of time for extra-curricular activities, and he and the acolytes seemed to be taking great delight in playing nursemaid to the little horrors.

“Hoot-hoot,” my high cleric cooed as he dangled a worm above five gaping beaks.

“Hoot-hoot,” echoed the acolytes as they scrubbed excrement from the sides of my holy box.

“This is an outrage,” I told Ket. Bad hoot-hoots.

Though I wasn’t massively impressed with this new development—particularly the part where the gnomes decided my chariot was the perfect location on which to build the owlets a new nest—I tried to think of it as an investment. The hoot-hoots—no, the owls, damn it—might be useless flea-ridden sacks of feathers at the moment, but my denizens should be able to train them up over time. The badgers had gone from four-legged freeloaders to draft animals and even occasional steeds; the owls would—hopefully—turn out to be just as useful.

Besides, if Ris’kin was okay with them being here, then so was I.

My avatar was handling her injury as stoically as Longshank was dealing with his. Still, I wished I could do something to help compensate for her lost eye. I’d already perused my blueprints carefully, making plans to evolve her with bat-like echolocation as soon as I had access to my mana again.

Since the incident, I’d contemplated switching our schedule so that we marched at night and slept during the day. The gnomes could see just fine at night, and most of the forest’s predators—including tiger owls—were nocturnal; it made sense that we should all be awake and alert when they were. In the end, though, I decided we had a better chance of defending against them from a guarded camp, especially with the non-combatants mostly sheltered inside their tents, than we did when we were all strung out in a line while walking. The latter just seemed to be asking for trouble.

The owl attack had shown that we couldn’t simply rely on the warriors and wagon barrier for safety. To prevent another kidnapping incident—and ending up with even more baby owls—our preparations for making camp became a little more complex. Well, at least for Binky.

At my suggestion, my beloved spider hybrid busied himself each evening constructing a complex net of webbing above the camp. The crowded trees made for the perfect framework, and in less than an hour the camp below was entirely safe from any attack from above. It meant pitching the tents much more closely to one another than before, which caused a few arguments to break out, but I’d rather have my gnomes grumpy and alive than comfortable and dead.

I was surprised when, on the fourth day, Swift and Cheer climbed up and removed Binky’s silken rigging from the branches. At first I was concerned that the sticky threads would damage the skin of their hands. Then I remembered the tanner had made a recent discovery: rubbing lanolin on the surface created a strong, waxy protective layer that let the gnomes handle the silk threads without incident. They could also scrub this layer away again in places where they needed the webbing to stick once more.

Swift and Cheer brought the webbing to Heidi. The tanner paid them in teeth—from animals, I hoped—and the three of them huddled around the stringy material, stretching it and discussing mysterious plans while the rest of the tribe ate breakfast and broke camp. The tanner then joined the clothiers on their wagon, sharing out the silken material and chattering instructions.

And so it was that by the fifth evening of the exodus we had the skynet. No more did Binky have to exert himself after the day’s march; instead, it was a matter of mere minutes for the gnomes to assemble the pieces of their newly portable pop-up web ceiling.

The clothiers’ crafting skill increased to tier 10, unlocking Advanced Crafting and granting additional bonuses to their speed and efficiency when working with soft materials. Swift and Cheer’s Tinkering skill had leveled up to tier 5, and all those involved in the creation process had gained extra levels in Survival.

My warriors, too, had begun taking measures to more effectively deter attacks from the hated sky. After much trial and error, and many incidents involving sticky fingers and lost skin, they managed to weave Binky’s silk into a strong rope, thicker and heavier than that used in the skynet. Tying the end of each rope into a loose noose, they spent a good portion of the subsequent few days’ march flinging their new lassos into the air, practicing their aim. They still needed more practice though, since the only things they’d managed to lasso so far were each other.

That they could so enthusiastically devote their energy to lasso practice while also maintaining their pace was a sign of their increasing endurance. We followed the same routine each day, allowing a half-hour's rest for every three hours of walking. The rest of the tribe were also managing to keep up, though most of them—namely the children and non-physical professions—still took turns riding the wagons.

However, it seemed some not permitted to do so would do anything to change that.

"What on earth...?”

Ket’s exclamation summoned me to the rear of the procession, where the reason for my sprite’s frustration immediately became clear.

The two scavengers had foregone their usual trudging gait. Instead they were picking their ungainly way through the fallen leaves, raising each foot ridiculously high before carefully placing it down again like a pair of newborn deer walking on ice. It was painful to watch.

“I see they’ve found a way to walk even more slowly.” Impressive. “What’s that on their feet?”

"I believe they're sheep's teeth," answered Ket, gritting her own. "Molars, specifically."

A closer look proved my sprite correct. They scavengers had somehow affixed a blockish yellow-white tooth to the bottom of each boot, effectively creating improvised stilts. The obvious upside was that it kept their feet and legs out of the mud. The downside was that they now moved so slowly a slug could outrun them.

“At least they’re practical,” I said. “Sort of.”

“It hasn’t rained for days now,” Ket pointed out. “Why? Why do they need them?”

“Why do Swift and Cheer do anything?”

I had my suspicions. The pair were always glaring at the gnomes riding the wagons in front of them, muttering to themselves as they watched them hop down at the end of each day, while rubbing their own sore feet. I’d also seen Swift attempting to bribe one of the older juveniles into giving up their spot on their wagon. But the memory of the scavengers’ recent boot-based extortion attempt was still fresh in my denizens’ minds, and so the sulky scavengers remained on foot.

I’d have felt sorry for them had they not both been perfectly capable of managing the march and more.

Besides, the wagons were all in use. The one they were currently throwing glares at was full: I'd assigned the builders to work on the raincatchers while we were on the move, and the next wagon along was occupied by the clothiers, who had roped some of the children into helping them craft sturdier garments for the tribe. We essentially had our own little mobile sweatshop.

“You need to be stricter with them,” Ket said. She was still seething with annoyance at the scavengers’ latest antics.

“What do you want me to do? It’s not like I can set them on fire or anything.”

The issue was taken out of my hands when Cheer bent down to re-adjust her bizarre footwear. A small object sailed down from a nearby tree and bounced off the back of her neck. She yelped and leapt upright, rubbing her neck and frowning up at the trees.

When Swift turned to see what the commotion was about, another object was launched from somewhere above. It smacked into Swift’s forehead and knocked her onto her backside. She sat blinking in surprise, an angry red welt rising above her left eyebrow.

Something chittered and squeaked up among the branches. Cheer unholstered her net-shooter—which she’d reclaimed from one of the farmers—and pointed it at the sound. A weighted net—originally designed to help the farmers defend themselves from the dangerous whip spiders that occasionally roamed the Grotto’s shroomtree fields—shot out, disappearing into the branches.

With a rustle of leaves and snapping twigs, a gray shape tumbled down from the tree. It landed in a pile of dead leaves, then proceeded to roll around, thrashing against its confines and spitting furiously.

The scavengers advanced on the squirrel, and I suspected it would have ended up as a pincushion had Ris’kin not chosen that moment to intervene. My avatar strode up behind the scavengers, clapping a hand on each of their shoulders to bring them to a halt. For some reason she’d brought Gneil along too. He smiled sheepishly at Swift and Cheer.

They sheathed their weapons and watched resentfully as Ris’kin crouched in front of the net. At first the squirrel only increased its efforts to escape, but when Gneil joined her, it calmed almost instantly.

“He really does have a way with animals, doesn’t he?” said Ket admiringly.

“His Animal Handling skill is at rank nine,” I told her.

“I wonder what rank ten will unlock?”

“Probably something entirely useless to me. A ‘woodland cleric’ vocation, perhaps. Or maybe ‘high priest of owls’.”

Still, I tensed when he released the squirrel from its bonds. Assuming it was the same creature that had harassed us while we tried to save the kidnapped child a few nights earlier, I fully expected it to launch itself at my high cleric’s face like a rabid jack-in-the-box.

I needn’t have worried. The squirrel edged its way out into the open, ears twitching, nostrils flaring. Warily, it approached Gneil’s outstretched hand and sniffed the cleric’s fingers. Then it reached out its own paw and placed it on Gneil’s hand.

It moved along and did the same with Ris’kin. Then, to my surprise, it scampered up my avatar’s arm and perched on her shoulder.

Ket’s laughter tinkled out, and sparks rained from her, bright against the growing night. “It seems the tribe has gained another new member.”

“What are we, a traveling circus?” I grumbled.

Satisfied that the squirrel was safe, Gneil hiked back over to where Bruce was being unyoked from the chariot. The badger whined in delight at the sight of him, as though he’d been gone for days rather than minutes. Gneil placed a hand on either side of Bruce’s striped head, lowering his forehead to touch the badger’s in greeting. Bruce tolerated this for an entire second before he broke away to lick Gneil’s face furiously.

The high cleric fended him off and went to check on his acolytes. They were attempting to continue his task of feeding the owlets (accompanied, of course, by the usual encouraging chorus of “Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot!”), but were facing an obstruction. A belligerent, black-and-white obstruction.

Every time an acolyte held out a worm to one of the hoot-hoots, Flea the badger would barge in and snatch it away, butting the gnomes aside and provoking indignant wails from the little owls.

Before he could steal another piece of wriggling candy from the owl babies, Gneil took a firm hold of Flea’s halter and led him away, leaving the acolytes to feed their new charges in peace. While they walked, Flea’s head was bowed; this was a badger who was fully aware he’d been naughty and was about to face the repercussions.

From the trunk of a nearby tree, Binky watched them pass. It was hard to tell, but the way he waggled his pedipalps made it seem like he was chuckling.

Gneil led Flea away from the bustling camp and over to where the other two badgers were rooting for insects on the outskirts. They huffed sullenly at him.

Wait. Are they… jealous? Of the owls?

Gneil stayed with them awhile, talking softly to each one as he picked fleas from their ears and combed their coarse silvery fur, and it wasn’t long before the badgers forgot their sulkiness.

Ket’s right. He really does have a way with critters of all kinds.

I wonder if that’s the real reason he doesn’t get along with Longshank. Perhaps Gneil’s natural affinity with animals—Bruce, Binky, the hoot-hoots, and now the squirrel—gives him an aversion to anyone with the scout or hunter vocation. After all, their purpose is to kill creatures, not protect them.

Even now, Longshank and the scouts were out hunting for more food to sustain the tribe throughout our journey. The one-legged hunter still limped, but his experience in the new terrain, along with the cloth padding he’d wrapped around the sole of his wooden leg, meant his stealth skill was no longer in negative numbers.

Still, the prosthetic limb was no substitute for muscle and flesh. Longshank still stumbled every now and then, usually when he tried to move too quickly or turn too sharply, and I was worried this might prove problematic should he find himself embroiled in melee combat. He had a wicked spear arm, but a big part of fighting was footwork, and a stumble at the wrong moment could spell disaster.

He and the scouts were all equipped with slings, but those weapons were generally ineffective unless used by someone trained in their specific use, like Hoppit. After some pondering, I decided the armorer’s next project should be something that would help us compensate for that.

Luckily, I had just the thing in mind.

Thirty-Five

Too Many Cooks

Corey

Advanced vocation unlocked: Bowyer

Advanced vocation unlocked: Woodwright

Yes!

The notifications meant my carpenters must have finished their latest project. I zoomed over to inspect it.

Stonebow

Ranged Weapon

Also known as a ‘bullet crossbow,’ the stonebow is specifically designed to launch stone ammunition rather than the more traditional wooden bolts. Its light weight and easy-to-use loading mechanism make the stonebow a popular choice for new soldiers and trainee hunters, though its range is limited compared to more specialized weapons such as slings and longbows.

There were relatively few slingers among my warriors. Despite how basic it was, the sling was a difficult weapon to master, not to mention dangerous for anyone unfortunate enough to be in the vicinity while training was taking place. Since everyone was in the vicinity right now, we needed ranged weapons that were relatively safe and simple to master, even for those who hadn’t trained extensively in their use.

The new stonebows fit those requirements perfectly. No more wild slinging, rogue bullets or concussions; just ‘point and shoot.’

We’d gotten the blueprint for the stonebows after I’d instructed the carpenters to Upgrade the net-shooters. I’d been pleasantly surprised that I could assign them to work on weapons; I’d assumed that was exclusively the armorer’s domain, but it turned out the carpenters could craft anything so long as wood was somehow involved (though of course the quality would not be as good as with an armorer’s skill bonuses).

The woodwright vocation had apparently unlocked only for Tenon and Dowel, the two most recently assigned carpenters; the original two, Dovetail and Groove, had spent more time repairing wagons than crafting new things, and so hadn’t yet met the prerequisite, which was to have crafted complete objects using three different types of wood.

Meanwhile, I’d instructed our armorer to craft a basic shortbow after she gained the blueprint from inspecting some dried rabbit intestines (which apparently were the perfect material for strings). I’d deemed it prudent to have something with a longer range than both the stonebows and the slings; additionally, the stone bullets both those weapons used as ammunition were more difficult to come by here in the forest, whereas wood for arrows was plentiful.

Crafting the shortbow had unlocked the ‘bowyer’ vocation for Shuck, but I hesitated in assigning it to her. According to the Augmentary, specializing in ranged weapons would increase her speed in crafting those items as well as their overall quality, but at the cost of a penalty to the same things for melee weapons and armor. As the tribe’s sole armorer, Shuck’s skills had developed in balance; she was tier eight in both melee weapons and armor, and now a nine in crafting ranged weapons. The bonuses from the bowyer profession were tempting given our present demand for more ranged weapons for the tribe, but I was reluctant to sacrifice her versatility.

In the end, I left Shuck as an all-purpose armorer, and assigned a second gnome the armorer vocation. Then I set them both to working on another shortbow. Shuck’s expertise would make the task go quickly, and its completion would unlock the ‘bowyer’ vocation for the new armorer instead. After that, I’d set him to work on making arrows. The sooner we could test our new bows, the better.

After some deliberation, I also filled the position of overseer. Ket had been pushing me to do it for some time now, but when Bekkit explained some of the additional benefits, I finally took the leap and assigned the vocation to Buttress. I was loath to lose her as a builder—the stocky gnome was one of my best—but since the success of our journey depended as much on logistics as it did on military might it seemed prudent to put my most competent denizen in charge.

“I still think Shanky was the obvious choice,” Ket grumbled. “Especially since his injury. He shouldn’t be out gallivanting in the wilds anymore.”

“Longshank is our only hunter,” I reminded her. “Besides, he loves his job. He’d make a decent overseer, true, but he’d also be miserable if he were confined to babysitting all the time.”

As overseer, it was now Buttress’s role to supervise the tribe’s general organization. She got to work straight away, making sure everything the scouts and foragers brought back got distributed to the appropriate places, and that all materials were Assessed by those with construction-related vocations.

The new system had already unlocked a new crafting blueprint for the clothiers, and it was a useful one indeed.

Bramblecramps

Augment (clothing)

A traction device that improves mobility when attached to the user’s footwear. The hooked thorns on the soles provide additional grip, increasing movement speed on difficult terrain.

Prerequisite(s): Clothier vocation, Weaving I

Materials required: Bramble thorns x 5, hide sole x 2

Unlike Swift and Cheer’s ridiculous molar shoes, these so-called bramblecramps would vastly hasten the progress of our exodus… if we were entirely on foot, that was. Given that our pace tended to be slowed by the cumbersome wagons rather than the walkers, it didn’t seem all that prudent to expend my clothiers’ efforts into producing a pair of bramblecramps for every member of the tribe.

However, there was one group in particular that would benefit. The scouts traversed much wilder and trickier terrain than the rest on their daily excursions; anything that helped them better negotiate difficult ground would be sure to increase their efficiency and help them bring back even more resources to benefit the tribe.

“You know, speaking of efficiency…” Bekkit appeared beside me. “If you desire your workers to craft multiple sets of a single item, you can use the Augmentary to queue them in rather than assigning them one at a time.”

“Really?” Ket and I both said together.

Bekkit shrugged. “’Tis one of the perks of god tier nine.”

And what a perk it is, I thought as I located the relevant menu and queued in an order for six sets of bramblecramps, enough to outfit Longshank and his team of scouts. Since I hadn’t specified any one worker for the task, all four clothiers pulled on heavy gloves and began sorting through the tangles of brambles amid the component heaps on their cart.

“If you think that’s handy, just wait until your overseer gains more experience,” said Bekkit, clearly sensing my satisfaction. “At advanced levels, you can even pass the responsibility for commissioning crafted items onto her.”

Anything that involved fewer stages of micromanagement sounded good to me—especially since Buttress was already proving herself intelligent enough to make smart decisions. In addition to organizing the scouts’ resources, she even made sure that anything living was placed before my ark, as if somehow intuiting that these were the things on which I could use Insight on. Even Bekkit was impressed by this.

The sprite also pointed out other areas that needed supervision—namely, the preparation and distribution of food. I’d thought the gnomes to be managing just fine; the foragers and scouts brought back raw ingredients, and the civilian gnomes pitched in to make them into stew, which everyone shared.

Apparently, though, this was not the most efficient way of doing things.

Each of the six main traveling groups were made up of around fifteen individuals, usually a mix of adults and younglings. At Bekkit’s recommendation—grudgingly approved by Ket—I assigned the ‘cook’ vocation to one gnome per group. Not knowing what to focus on, I’d previously refrained from assigning vocations to many of the recently matured gnomes, so there were plenty of young, fresh faces, blank slates ready to be assigned wherever they were needed.

As for the other groups—namely Swift, Cheer, and Gneil and the acolytes—Bekkit assured me that they too would be provided for by the chefs.

“Did you choose the, um, portliest gnomes on purpose?” Ket asked curiously as one by one the skillet icon appeared above their heads.

“Of course. You can’t trust a skinny chef,” I told her. Bekkit hummed in agreement.

Six gnomes catering for over a hundred did not seem like enough. But the logic behind it—that one professional was worth ten unskilled workers—made sense. And after all, one thing we didn’t want was too many cooks.

“Too many cooks,” I sang to myself as I pondered my next choice.

In addition to the chefs, I also needed to assign a quartermaster. Similarly to our new overseer, the quartermaster’s task was to supervise the storage and distribution of ingredients and consumables, ensuring rations were shared equally, and that the chefs were operating at maximum efficiency.

After some careful scrutiny of my remaining blank slates, I selected an unusually slender gnome. He was so pale that he almost appeared translucent. His hair was mouse-brown, like Benin’s, and hung in lank strands down to his shoulders like rats’ tails.

I’ll name you Rattail, I thought as I assigned him the ‘quartermaster’ vocation.

Rattail blinked his big, pale gray eyes in surprise and then went to check on the cooks.

“You know, he looks a lot like Gneil,” said Ket. “I wonder if they’re related?”

“It’s a small tribe. They’re all related,” I pointed out. “It’s a miracle none of them have webbed fingers.”

We watched Rattail get to work, critically examining ingredients and taking stock of the remaining supplies of rations.

“Did you choose the skinniest gnome on purpose this time?” asked Ket accusingly.

“Of course. You can’t trust a tubby quartermaster.”

As promised, the chefs proved their worth from the get-go. They rapidly grew skilled at butchering the game brought back by the scouts and at utilizing parts of the animals that had previously gone to waste.

Perhaps I should have made Swift and Cheer chefs a long time ago, I thought, remembering their sheep-brain soup.

The higher quality of the chef-made food also noticeably improved morale, probably because it was now being prepared by individuals with an awareness of how flavors were supposed to work. Our ingredients also stretched further than before, and as the cooks grew more skilled with practice, some days we even had leftovers, which Rattail would order to be sliced and rolled in rock salt to preserve it. That way it could be stored and eaten later on the journey.

After a couple of days one of the cooks unlocked the advanced vocation of ‘butcher.’ I assigned it to him immediately, along with the unimaginative yet memorable nickname ‘Butcher’. After some deliberation, I named the other five chefs as well.

“Really, Corey?”

“What?”

“Swede? Sugar? Spice?”

“Don’t forget Skillet and Bones,” added Bekkit.

“Seriously? This is what you’re naming them?”

“Are you really surprised, given his track record?”

“What’s wrong with my names?” I demanded. The sprites just shook their heads and grumbled in response.

The cooks came with even more benefits than anticipated. Much like the builders could with materials, chefs could Assess ingredients, gaining their basic information blueprints and eventually unlocking new recipes.

They’d already identified the nuts Ris’kin had gathered from her new squirrel companion. They were called ‘furynuts’—which also happened to be what I’d nicknamed our new squirrel, much to my sprites’ chagrin—and apparently their unique properties meant they could be used to brew something called “Fury Juice.”

Fury Juice

(Consumable)

Induces a berserker-like rage. The drinker’s speed, pain resistance and damage output are increased, while their defense and damage resistance are reduced.

Duration: 1 minute

Despite having identified the nuts, the chefs did not attempt to incorporate them into their regular cooking, instead leaving them on the ingredient pile. According to Bekkit, they wouldn’t make use of anything that could potentially cause negative status effects when consumed unless specifically commanded to.

Probably for the best.

This fury juice would undoubtedly have its uses, particularly in combat. A squad of gnomish berserkers led by someone like Hammer would make pretty excellent shock troops. For now, though, I decided to have my cooks focus on creating dishes that would provide the most nourishment and the most useful bonuses to the entire tribe.

Not to be outdone by the advancements of the cooks, clothiers and carpenters, my builders too had made great strides in their work, despite—or perhaps because of—Buttress’s re-assignment to overseer.

One of our biggest problems so far had been accommodation. The gnomes had had the foresight to pack the thatched roofs from the old gnomehomes for the journey, but as we’d soon discovered, they couldn’t be utilized fully without a proper frame to support them, meaning they were less efficient and could shelter fewer gnomes.

The solution had, admittedly, taken some intervention.

Not for the first time since assuming my current position, I lamented my inability to converse directly with my denizens. Instead I was forced to convey impressions of what I had in mind to Gneil and the other acolytes, who then used a combination of repeated explanations and physical theater to try and demonstrate my innovation to the craftspeople.

In the end, I resorted to seeking help from Coll, who’d spent the entire time laughing at my acolytes’ charades. After informing him sternly that we were not here for his amusement, I sat back and indulged in some of my own as the massive human clumsily attempted to assemble the new structure himself.

“No, no—that support needs to fold inward, not outward! Look, like this.”

It was only after recruiting Binky to the cause that the builders finally seemed to understand the concept. One by one, their faces lit up with dawning realization, and they immediately disassembled their previous attempts and started afresh.

Eventually—

Blueprint acquired!

Portahut

It was a thing of beauty. The frame had eight legs (obviously). The ends met and crossed over each other at the top, like the protruding poles of a tipi, but the structure’s shape was octagonal rather than conical. A loose wall of hides was hung over the sides and fastened in place at the bottom, and the rolls of roof thatch could be attached before the entire frame—made from spidersilk and branches—was hauled into its upright position using a clever pulley system.

According to the Augmentary, the new hut could house up to ten gnomes—more than twice the capacity of the improvised tents they were currently making do with, and using the same amount of thatch. I queued in another nine of the portahuts; the prototype had taken two and a half days to complete, but the process from now on would be much quicker now that they were working from a blueprint.

Technically speaking, I didn’t need to construct so many. Ten huts would be enough to house our entire tribe (badgers not included), plenty of whom already had accommodation in the form of our existing tents. But the new huts were sturdier, homelier, and my instincts said that making them available to all would do wonders for morale, not to mention stamina regeneration. I estimated we’d have all ten completed within a fortnight.

By which point we’ll be halfway through our journey.

I brushed off that worrying thought and focused instead on the present. Ket was perched on Coll’s shoulder, and the pair of them looked to be eying the new structure with as much satisfaction as I felt, though I could sense the sprite was unimpressed with its aesthetics.

Yes, the tent’s frame resembled a spider even larger than Binky, but that was just a coincidental part of the design. With the distribution of weight and placement of the pulleys, the whole contraption could be collapsed in moments. When pressure was applied to each leg, the segmented frame would fold in on itself, allowing the rolls of thatch to easily be removed, and the remaining frame to be folded and packed onto the wagons. It would make the process of making and breaking camp each day dramatically quicker, giving us more time on the march. More time on the march meant more distance traveled each day, which meant a better chance of us completing the exodus on time.

All things considered, I was more than satisfied with our progress. Barely a week into the journey and already we were stronger than when we’d started in many ways. The gnomes’ hardiness and ability to adapt were helping them not only endure this exodus, but to thrive on it.

I almost found myself wishing we could continue in this way indefinitely. There was a certain allure to the nomadic lifestyle; without roots, without a stable base. It somehow felt like there was less to lose. It was surprisingly freeing.

Then I remembered what would happen if we failed to establish a new base before the exodus timer ran out.

I’d lose what limited abilities I still had—Double Sight among them—as well as those I was set to regain when I once again got access to my mana, like Creation.

Hell, I might even lose access to the Augmentary’s vocation interface. I’d only been taking advantage of Adjure’s benefits for a short time, but already I couldn’t imagine being without it.

The solution was simple: make sure that didn’t happen.

Time remaining for Exodus: 33 days, 4 hours, 49 minutes

The timer blinked obnoxiously in the corner of my vision, a constant reminder of what we were up against.

It won’t happen, I told it. I’ll make sure of it.

Thirty-Six

Risk and Reward

Corey

As Bekkit had pointed out, Exodus might prohibit me from leveling, but there was nothing to stop my denizens from continuing to grow. And grow they did. Day by day, the craftsmen became more skilled, the workers more efficient, and overall morale was visibly increasing.

Despite this, I found myself growing anxious. The gnomes were advancing steadily, yes, but progress on our journey was less obvious. The environment was changing, but very subtly. Where before the ground had been relatively flat (aside from pesky tree roots that tripped feet and snapped axles), now we were on a definite downward incline. The trees were changing, too. The bright green-orange leaves and molting canopy of the furynut forest were gradually giving way to coniferous spruce and gray-barked cedar. The trees were packed together much more closely here, making the ground damper and the path darker. I found it comforting, though the gnomes seemed somewhat less enthusiastic.

Despite my hopes and the scouts’ efforts, we’d yet to find any sign of entrances to potential new homes. Benin and Bekkit both assured me we were still on target to reach the mountain area as planned, but still. It would be nice to have found a backup along the way. Especially considering we were almost a quarter of the way through our allotted time.

Has it really been nine days already?

Though we were making good time, I still felt anxious. The further we traveled, the further behind we left the certainty of our previous home. Before us lay only the great unknown. What if we couldn’t find a new base in time?

We should try to increase our pace even further just to make sure.

As though the universe responded to my thoughts, a potential solution soon presented itself. We were only a couple of hours into the tenth day’s march when Bekkit spotted something interesting.

“Tracks,” he said helpfully when I arrived at his side to investigate.

They were, indeed, tracks.

What had made them was no mystery. Even I recognized the five-clawed imprints as badger tracks, albeit from a larger individual than the creatures we were familiar with.

Usually, this was something I’d ignore. A lone badger probably wasn’t worth expending our energy on. But our own badgers had proved invaluable to the exodus’s success. Having them pull the largest wagons was the only reason we’d come so far, so fast. Without them we’d be unable to carry half the supplies we had, and the increased burden on the gnomes—most of whom were already encumbered—would have slowed our progress considerably.

Think how much quicker we’d be able to move if we had five badgers to share the load instead of four…

“I’m not sure this is really necessary, Corey,” said Ket when I told her my idea. “We’re doing just fine with Bruce and the others.”

“No, the young Core is correct,” Bekkit said. “We should pursue anything that can increase our efficiency.”

I sensed Ket’s frustration, along with a tinge of worry. “But it’s just one badger. And maybe it won’t want to be recruited. What if it becomes violent? Is it really worth risking the scouts?”

I knew what she really meant was “Is it worth risking Shanky?”

“Back in the Grotto you told me that we can’t coddle our favorites. Risks have to be taken for the benefit of the tribe,” I reminded her.

“This isn’t the same—”

“Ris’kin and I will go with them. With Longshank and the five scouts, a badger is no threat to us, especially one on its own. The reward is worth the risk.”

We weren’t due a rest stop for another hour. I didn’t want to lose momentum this early in the day, so rather than issuing orders to halt, I let the march continue while I rounded up my team for this little excursion.

This won’t take long. And the scouts are skilled enough to find their way back even when we’re on the move. I eyed the disturbed ground behind us. It’s not like we’re hard to track.

“Corey.”

I rolled my eyes as Ket whispered, “Don’t you think there’s something strange about this?”

“I think it’s strange that you’re trying to hamper my attempts to advance our progress. Is that what you mean?”

She sparked angrily. “Since when does he pay attention to the ground? He spends most of his time at the top of your Sphere, whinging about how he misses the sky or whatever. This smells like a trap.”

Honestly, my first thoughts had been along those same lines. Though he’d done nothing but help us, I still didn’t fully trust my new sprite’s motives—or his suspiciously timely arrival.

But Bekkit was confined to my Sphere of Influence, just like Ket. And it was a small enough area now that there was no way he’d been up to anything dodgy without me—or Ket, who’d been watching him like a hawk—knowing about it.

Not wanting to stoke more tension between the two sprites by voicing my own concerns, I said, “I understand why you’re worried, but it’ll be fine. Shanky and the scouts already handled a pack of mole-rats. How dangerous can one badger be?”

I activated Double Sight and slipped behind my avatar’s eyes, shutting out my sprite’s simmering frustration as I followed the hunter’s lead into the trees.

* * *

This is so boring.

I found myself almost wishing this excursion was as dangerous as Ket had feared.

For what felt like the hundredth time, we watched one of the scouts crouch beside a scuffed bit of earth. It was tempting to have Ris’kin use her own superior tracking skills and take the lead, but the opportunity to level up my scouts’ skills instead was too valuable to miss. Two of the five had already attained nine ranks in Tracking; since ten seemed to be something of a magic number when it came to vocation skills, I was keen to see what the next rank would unlock.

Or at least, I had been keen. Now I was just bored.

The creature we were following seemed to have been suffering from a debilitating lack of purpose. That, or it was lost. Or maybe drunk. The tracks meandered back and forth, sometimes circling a tree, occasionally doubling back on themselves. I’d have suspected it to be injured, except Ris’kin’s senses detected no hint of blood or pain from the badger’s spoor.

Maybe Ket’s right. Maybe we should just turn back.

I was growing increasingly conscious of the fact this wild badger chase was consuming my scouts’ precious stamina, which they would need later for hunting. Longshank’s drained at an even greater rate than the others’ because of the penalties he was still suffering from his missing leg.

But the tracks were growing fresher, which meant we were gaining on our quarry.

Just a little longer…

As Ris’kin ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, I felt a pressure on the edge of her right ear. The squirrel chittered softly, its tiny fingers gripping my avatar’s ear for balance.

The day before, one of the scouts had returned with the corpse of another squirrel, and Gneil had rushed to cover our fuzzy new friend’s eyes. He needn’t have worried. The psychotic little rodent went foraging among the bones—scraped clean by the industrious cooks—and emerged with its prize, chittering excitedly. The unfortunate squirrel had been slightly larger than Furynuts, and the top half of its skull fit his head perfectly, making for a macabre (and presumably intimidating, if you were squirrel-sized) helmet.

Despite his attempt to look fearsome, he had grown surprisingly docile since being provided with other kinds of nuts to eat. He also seemed to be permanently attached to Ris’kin’s right shoulder, as though deliberately guarding what was now her blind side. What was even more surprising was that my avatar allowed it. She really was getting soft.

We both are. Despite my fondness for the nickname, Ket had insisted “Furynuts” was not appropriate, especially given his new calmer disposition. She wanted to name him something more ‘noble,’ and got offended when I laughed at her proposal of “Captain Sycamore.” I’d countered by suggesting “Colonel Kernel.” In the end, we settled on Sir Fura.

The only times I ever saw him and Ris’kin separated were when the little critter scampered off to harass Swift and Cheer. Since he’d joined our party, his nutty missiles—of which he seemed to have an indefinite supply tucked away in his stomach pouch—had helped make sure the two scavengers no longer held up our progress as much as they had before, though that didn’t stop him from continuing to harass them, presumably for fun. After a few more close calls with Cheer’s net-shooter, however, he’d learned to keep his distance while doing it.

He also seemed to enjoy throwing objects at the emberfox, though he limited these to small twigs and balled-up leaves. When his missiles came into contact with the fiery fox’s aura, they would burn and shrivel with a crispy hiss, and the squirrel would clap its tiny hands in delight. Pyra mostly ignored him, though on one occasion she picked up a particularly large twig in her teeth and returned it to him so he could try again.

If only I’d been able to use Evolution. I’d gained the ‘cave bat’ blueprint during my very first week on the job, but never found the opportunity to use it. If I could fiddle around with Furynuts—I cringed at that unfortunate sentence even as I thought it; perhaps Ket had a point about the name—I could give him the bat’s echolocation ability, making him even more effective as my avatar’s extra pair of eyes.

Not that I’d have been able to alter him even with access to Evolution. The ability did not permit me to enhance mundane creatures; only the god-born ones I’d created.

I could always give the echolocation to Ris’kin…

The thought of my avatar’s features warping to incorporate the cave bat’s upturned leaf-nose was unexpectedly horrifying, and I banished the idea for now.

We were getting close. The next tracks we examined had been made only minutes before, meaning our geographically challenged quarry had to be somewhere nearby.

At the head of the party, Longshank froze, holding up a fist to indicate the rest of us do the same. After a moment I saw what he’d spotted.

The burrow was half-concealed among the mounded roots of a particularly large cedar. The roots curled around the entrance, gnarled and twisted like ancient fingers. Fresh claw marks indicated it had been dug relatively recently. The badger’s tracks led right inside.

We were hunting a badger. We’d followed its tracks to what was clearly a badger den. Things could not have been more straightforward.

So then why were my borrowed senses tingling with wrongness?

Ket’s words came back to me. “This smells like a trap.”

The sprite’s fears were making me paranoid. I’d closed myself off to her, but they were clearly still trickling through our bond and affecting my judgment.

Still, my avatar and I held back as the scouts followed their leader in, creeping closer to the burrow’s entrance. Ris’kin’s shoulder companion had picked up on the tension and fallen silent. I could sense him peeking meekly over his tail, which he’d curled protectively around himself. It tickled Ris’kin’s whiskers whenever she turned her head.

The scouts arrayed themselves around the burrow’s entrance, spears in hand. Longshank, armed with one of the brand-new stonebows, stood further away, weapon raised and aimed at the dark hole in the roots.

At his silent signal, the scouts crept closer. Ris’kin prepared to follow. Then Sir Fura emitted a sudden squeak.

The scouts jumped a little at the sudden noise, then resumed their advance.

The squirrel chattered again. My avatar and I ignored him, but he climbed up onto Ris’kin’s head and tugged on her right ear like the reins of a horse.

What do you want, you mangy little critter? I thought, irritated by the distraction. Then I saw what he was gesturing at.

We’d all been so focused on the burrow, even Longshank, that we’d stopped paying attention to the ground.

The tracks we’d been following led straight into the dark roots, sure enough. But there were also tracks leading away from the burrow. Many sets of tracks. At least four creatures, maybe five.

These tracks had been made an hour ago. And it didn’t take long to determine which direction they were headed. Alarm jolted through me.

We have to get back to the others, I told Ris’kin.

Adrenaline coursing, my avatar sent a silent hand signal to Longshank— “Pull back”—who looked confused but obediently conveyed the order to his scouts.

“Ket! You’re about to have company,” I warned. I sent an image of the tracks, conveying the nature of the coming threat.

My sprite didn’t immediately reply. Before I could try and contact her again, though, our quarry struck.

The instant the first scout turned his back on the burrow, the badger came barreling out like a bullet from a stonebow. Teeth bared, mouth foaming, it bowled over the scouts standing in its way and charged straight for Longshank. Its oddly pink eyes were fixated on the hunter.

The second it made its appearance, Sir Fura squealed a warning, and Ris’kin unsheathed both her half-spears ready for throwing. She needn’t have worried, though. Quick off the mark and true to his hunter instincts, Longshank discharged his weapon right into the creature’s snarling face. The proximity combined with the stonebow’s power meant Longshank’s bullet penetrated its skull in the center of the forehead, dropping it dead in an instant.

I experienced a moment of regret, but only briefly. There’d clearly been no other option. I doubted even Gneil could have placated the rabid-looking creature.

In spite of the shock, I took a moment to marvel at how effective our new weapons were for use in a tight spot. If Longshank had been wielding a regular bow or a sling, the close quarters and sudden attack would have likely caused him to fumble the shot. With the stonebow, however, all he had to do was pull the trigger.

The badger’s deadly charge had been its downfall. But we weren’t out of danger yet.

From the darkness between the roots came a deep snarl. As one, we all peered warily into the lightless lair. Fingers tightened on weapons as the scuffling sounds of something huge grew louder.

I was torn. On one hand, a small force of mad badgers was heading straight for the gnomish refugees. On the other hand, whatever was lurking in this hole did not sound like something we wanted to leave at our backs.

The convoy has our entire force of warriors, as well as Benin and Coll. They can handle themselves well enough.

Longshank reloaded the stonebow, slotting another bullet into the flight groove and pulling back the mechanism until it clicked. He carefully placed the loaded weapon on the ground. With a flurry of silent hand gestures, he then sent the scouts scattering into position. Three disappeared into the trees, arrayed just beyond sight in a rough semi-circle facing the burrow’s entrance. The other two deftly climbed the roots of the massive tree, crouching on the mound above the burrow on either side.

Once ready, each of the five scouts loaded stonebows of their own. I once again gave silent thanks to the universe for having been able to assign carpenters as well as armorers to work on the ranged weapons.

Satisfied the ambush was in place, Longshank nodded once, then picked up his stonebow again and pointed it steadily at the burrow.

The creature inside was close enough to the entrance now that Ris’kin’s darkvision could pick out vague details. The outline of a hulking form, a flash of white fur, and two sinister glints that might have been eyes.

My avatar took a step back. Sir Fura gulped. A moment later, the creature finally emerged.

One of the scouts gasped. I understood why.

It looked like a badger, except… wrong.

Muscles bulged from every part of its body. Its back was huge and humped, as though it were carrying an enormous backpack beneath its silver fur, and bald spots in its coat revealed painful-looking sores where the unnaturally large bones and muscles grated against the skin from the inside.

Dire Badger Queen

Elite Mammal

Status effect: Fury

Fury? I’d never seen that sort of ‘status’ note from the Augmentary before.

Dire badgers are spawned of arcane forces, though their specific origin is unknown. Like all creatures of the ‘dire’ taxonomy, they operate within a strict social hierarchy (’eusocial’). This particular queen has been forcibly infused with mana which has warped the flesh and bones, even as it strengthens the muscles.

I was seriously regretting my earlier complaints about this trip being boring.

The creature shambled out into the open. It was easily twice the size of our badgers, and ten times more monstrous; it towered over Longshank, looking as though someone had cast Growth on it with the sole intention of giving the beast more attack power. And it did not look happy about it.

The whites of its eyes were painfully bloodshot, even more so than the first badger’s, but the pupils were clouded and gray as if it were blind. That didn’t stop it from eying up Longshank hungrily.

Back in position on my avatar’s shoulder, Sir Fura chirruped loudly, breaking the stand-off. The badger’s orb-like eyes moved away from the hunter and instead fixed their blank stare on him and Ris’kin.

The second the badger’s attention was broken, Longshank shouted a command, as though the squirrel’s distraction were a signal he’d been waiting for. As one, the hidden scouts discharged their weapons. Stone bullets flew in from five different directions. All hit their target—which, to be fair, was difficult to miss.

The missiles may as well have been made out of wool. The badger roared as they sank into its flesh, but the pain seemed to galvanize rather than impair it. Growling and slavering, it barreled straight toward Longshank.

The hunter had clearly anticipated this move. He’d held off from firing his own weapon, and now loosed his bullet point-blank at the charging animal.

Unlike the first badger, this beefed-up beast did not drop dead; it didn’t even slow when the hunter’s bullet pierced its eye with a wet thunk and an eruption of bloody fluid. Its gaping jaws snapped shut around Longshank’s torso.

The badger’s charge took it several steps further forward before it managed to stop itself, then it turned to drag Longshank back into its burrow.

This feels annoyingly familiar…

However, the creature’s momentum had brought it closer to Ris’kin, and she didn’t need my command to tell her to attack. She leaped forward and plunged both half-spears into the side of the badger’s neck.

My avatar immediately leaped backward out of melee range, but not quickly enough. The badger swung its massive head to the side with a roar. The sheer force of the blow knocked Ris’kin backward, leaving her momentarily stunned.

It kept shaking its head, trying to dislodge Ris’kin’s spears. Blood spurted from the wounds as it pawed the ground furiously; I saw that it had extra toes on both front paws. The claws were twisted and tangled like the roots of the tree behind it. That can’t be comfortable. No wonder it’s so angry.

The scouts had re-loaded their stonebows and were now shooting at will. Recovering her wits, Ris’kin just managed to duck a wayward bullet thanks to Sir Fura’s warning shout; the bullet smacked into the badger’s nose and made it roar, releasing Longshank. The hunter dropped to the ground and instantly rolled away from the beast’s stomping feet and gnashing teeth. It pursued him, its blind eye and other wounds making it clumsy, but Longshank kept rolling. The scene would have been almost comical if the tribe’s only hunter hadn’t been at risk of getting torn apart.

He reached a thick patch of bramble and rolled underneath, thorns snagging at his skin and armor. The badger’s attempt to bite its way through the branches left it with a snout full of thorns, but instead of abandoning the hunter in search of easier prey, it threw its head back with a snort and began digging at the ground beneath the brambles.

Shaking off the last of her dazedness, Ris’kin darted in at its exposed backside, drawing her daggers and slashing them across the backs of its misshapen legs where she guessed its hamstrings to be. Blood spurted, and the creature squealed, but otherwise it did not react to her attacks. Seeing their leader in peril, the scouts also emerged from the trees to better shoot at the beast. Those atop the mound of roots were shouting and waving their arms in an attempt to distract it.

But if there was one thing I’d learned about badgers, it was that they were tenacious buggers. Once they’d set their minds on something—like Bruce defending the Grotto from kobolds, and Flea’s ceaseless attempts to befriend Binky—there was no turning them from it.

The beast snorted as it dug furiously, straining and snapping its jaws into the half-tunnel that was taking shape beneath the brambles.

A fist lashed out in response. Three swift punches had the badger rearing backward with an ear-splitting squeal. Blood sprayed from deep, ragged cuts in its nostrils.

Longshank crawled out from beneath the brambles. He’d wrapped some of the thorny, vine-like branches around his fists to make deadly-sharp knuckle dusters—as the badger had just found out.

Ris’kin’s spears still jutted from its neck, and the fur all down its chest was drenched in dark crimson. Pink foam flecked from its mouth, and blood streamed from numerous bullet wounds. Yet still it bared its teeth in defiance.

I found myself almost admiring the creature. But something was off about its behavior. Badgers were territorial as hell, yes, and clearly Longshank and the scouts needed to die horribly for the crime of invading its personal space. But it had emerged from its burrow to aggressively attack us rather than remaining inside to defend against intrusion.

Then there was the first badger, whose purpose almost seemed to have been to lure us out here.

I instantly berated myself for such stupid thoughts. The badgers are organizing?

But there’d be time to speculate on this later. For now I had other things to worry about.

“Ket?”

The sprite still hadn’t responded to my earlier warning. I’d been too distracted with the fight to really notice, but now I was starting to get concerned.

“Ket? Bekkit?”

There was no response. My Sphere was silent.

Thirty-Seven

Fury Badger

Corey

Panic rose inside me. I tried to fight it down, but it was impossible. Why hadn’t Ket responded? Ket was never silent.

I had to go back.

“Finish this creature off, then return with Longshank and the others,” I commanded Ris’kin. Then I deactivated Double Sight, trusting my avatar and scouts to take care of the monstrous badger. Hopefully it wouldn’t take long; the thing was nearly dead, after all.

I appeared in god’s-eye form about ten feet above the ark. It took me a moment to get my bearings; the camp had been assembled strangely, as if my denizens had known they’d be under attack.

The wagons and portahuts were arranged in a tight defensive circle. The builders had only had time to make one more of the foldable huts since the prototype; both of them had been erected on opposite sides of the circle, plugging gaps left by the wagons so as to accommodate all seventy-six of the tribe’s non-combatants. I was relieved to see Gneil and the acolytes at the very center; someone had seen fit to give them spears, and they waited atop the chariot looking nervous but determined. Whether they were focused on defending the gem inside the ark or the owlets nesting on top of it was unclear.

The tribe’s warriors, eighteen in all, stood on and behind the outer wagons, facing outward. The spear-gnomes had weapons and shields at the ready; the slingers had stones waiting in the cradles of their slingshots.

The skynet had even been raised above it all, though the glinting threads were skewed at an angle as one of the supports had been knocked awry—most likely by one of the creatures currently circling the camp.

Dire Badger

Mammal

Status effect: Fury

The spawn of a dire badger queen.

So far, no one seemed to have been hurt on either side. The gnomish warriors were focused on defending the civilians, and so were maintaining their disciplined position, rather than sallying out to attack the black-and-white creatures.

Like the one Longshank had shot back at the burrow, these appeared to be nothing more than normal badgers. They were not twisted and deformed by muscle mass like the queen I’d just encountered. Apart from their slightly larger size, the only thing that distinguished them from our own tribe’s badgers was their bloodshot eyes and foaming mouths.

And the fact that they looked about to embark on a murderous rampage, of course.

“Ket? Bekkit? Coll?”

Where in the hells is everyone?

“Benin?” I even asked reluctantly.

I spotted Binky, at least. The fluffy arachnid had flattened himself against the roof of a tent and appeared to be waiting for the right moment to strike. Bruce was also visible within the circle. I was relieved to see both creatures unharmed, though the others’ absence was still extremely worrying. Ket and Bekkit should be physically unable to leave my Sphere of Influence, and Coll and Benin shouldn’t have had any reason to. And where were the rest of the tribe’s own badgers?

Two more badgers emerged from the undergrowth and joined the three already circling. They drew closer each time, as though testing what would happen. When nothing did, they came in even closer, snuffling at the wagons.

Seems we’re on our own.

I focused on Hammer, and an instant later a list of options popped up beside her. Since she was an officer, I could influence the commands she gave to the warriors, determining how aggressive our strategy would be. Having long since accepted that I myself was no tactical genius, I usually left the officers to themselves, only intervening to provide the most general of directions.

I could have her give the order for a ranged attack right now. A hail of stone bullets would surely cause heavy injuries to our besiegers, and maybe even deter them from attacking all together. Why hadn’t Hammer already done so?

I looked again at the animals’ bloodshot eyes; watched them mindlessly pacing and panting, more like enraged bulls than cute woodland mammals. I thought I understood why she was holding back.

These so-called dire badgers were behaving differently to normal badgers. They weren’t acting on any natural instinct. A normal badger would probably flee from the slingers’ assault. But there was no predicting how these creatures might react. It might even trigger them to attack.

There was something distantly familiar about their behavior. As I took stock of our options, I racked my brains for what the badgers’ behavior reminded me of.

As one, the five badgers paused, tilting their heads as though listening to a distant sound.

Then it hit me.

Their behavior… it’s almost like Snagga.

My mind flashed back to a fight in a dark tunnel where Ris’kin had faced off against my enemy’s monstrous avatar Snagga. The foul creature had clearly been eager to continue tormenting her, but had been forcibly compelled to abandon its prey and return to its master after receiving some sort of silent signal.

Unfortunately for us, whatever these badgers were hearing, it was not orders to retreat.

The sounds of growling rose from all around. Then the badgers charged.

They moved in unison, making me even more certain that they were getting their orders from someplace else. But it was hard to focus on that as I watched them thundering toward the flimsy barricade that stood between them and my denizens.

Hoppit shouted what sounded like an order, aiming at the nearest badger as she prepared to launch her first bullet. At her cry, the other slingers did the same.

Hammer, on the other hand, jumped down from her wagon, bellowing an order for others to follow suit. Half the melee fighters accompanied Hammer in bracing themselves against the wagons to help weather the coming impact. I noticed that sacks of the heavier supplies had also been lodged behind the wagons’ wheels to make the barricade sturdier, while several layers of spidersilk girdled the outward-facing side. Binky’s thread would not only ensure the wagons held together for longer, it would also potentially hamper and maybe even hurt any creature unfortunate enough to brush up against its sticky surface.

The slingers launched their missiles just before the first badger crashed into Hoppit’s wagon. It had looked about to hit it head first, but at the last moment it twisted to the side, barreling into the wood with its muscular gray-furred shoulder instead.

Hoppit had seen it coming, of course, and the instant she released her bullet, she dropped down behind the wagon’s high side, stretching out her legs to brace herself against the opposite side. The wooden vehicle shuddered, and one of the wheels even lifted from the ground a little, but the badger’s attack was not enough to damage the wagon nor dislodge its armed passengers.

Successive crashes rocked the barricade as four more badger bodies impacted it. The wagons heaved violently, forcing the slingers on top to lurch to the side and grip the sides for balance, but gnomes and vehicles alike remained upright.

Dire Badger x 5 marked as hostile.

Red auras appeared around each of the enemy badgers, just like had happened with the tiger owl. It seemed the Augmentary only recognized new creatures as hostile once they’d actively tried to cause harm to my denizens or damage to their property.

There’s probably a way to alter that somehow. But not now.

They flung themselves at the barricade again. Though the wagons rocked and creaked, it seemed the badgers lacked the individual strength to tip them over fully.

Unfortunately, it seemed the badgers had realized that too. This time, two of them lined themselves up to charge at the same wagon. The sound of cracking wood rang out as they hit; the warriors bracing the wagon were pushed back, feet sliding on the leafy ground as the makeshift barrier tipped violently. The badgers retreated, one of them shaking its head as though dazed. Then, they regrouped and headed for the same wagon.

With a cry, Hoppit rallied the warriors from the other side of the circle to join the others in bracing the wagon on which the two badgers had placed a bullseye.

This time when they collided with it, the extra gnomes behind it meant it didn’t budge an inch. The warriors cheered as the badgers retreated once more, though it was likely they would try again. And again.

The cheers were cut short by a shout from the opposite side of the circle. The other three badgers, who up till now had been circling the barricade and making ineffectual attempts to break through on their own, had suddenly launched themselves at a different wagon. Like a fierce race to the finish, their claws dug into the ground as they pushed themselves forward, pink eyes fixed on their shared target with unnatural intensity.

Binky—Spit!

The spider had an excellent vantage point atop the tent, and didn’t even have to move in order to aim his goopy missile at the nearest enemy. The opaque ball of spider-spit splashed across the badger’s face with a sizzle, then erupted with tendrils that covered the creature’s eyes and entangled its legs.

Nice shot!

A quick use of Insight showed that it now held the ‘Slowed’ status in addition to ‘Fury.’

The other two were still coming. I ordered Binky to Web Shoot, but as soon as the first badger was hit with the spit, the others had started to zig-zag, and the sticky projectile sailed past them both harmlessly.

I cursed my lack of mana more vehemently than ever before. If I’d interpreted the Augmentary correctly, under normal circumstances Adjure would allow me to expend mana in order for Binky to use his abilities as often as I wanted him to. Without that option, both Spit and Web Shoot were on cooldown for the next minute or so.

I was out of options.

The slingers on the targeted wagon yelled in alarm, but to their credit they held their position, loosing bullets at the rapidly oncoming juggernauts. But while the slung stones embedded themselves in flesh and decorated the silvery hides with splashes of red, the badgers barely flinched, and a moment later both of them crashed into the wagon’s side.

Wood splintered, fragments flying like shrapnel from a grenade. The non-combatants who’d been herded to one side screamed and flinched, those on the outside using their bodies to shield the children from the sharp debris that whipped through the air. Sling-wielding warriors were flung from their positions as the very wood beneath their feet was shattered.

The badgers burst through the wreckage, snarling. The one that came through first seemed to have taken the brunt of the impact; blood streamed down its face from a plethora of cuts, staining the white stripes of its cheeks crimson. Shards of shroomwood still protruded from some of the wounds, but the creature seemed not to notice.

Already warriors were forming a shield wall between the badgers and the civilians. The latter were grouped in a large huddle as far away from the intruders as possible, but they were cornered. If the shield-gnomes couldn’t hold…

If only we’d had enough stonebows for the warriors as well as the scouts. A few point-blank shots from those weapons would have taken care of the creatures by now, as Longshank had already proved. Instead, the enemy was too close for the slingers to be effective; the risk of hitting an ally with their deadly bullets was too great. Everything now depended on our melee forces until Ris’kin and the scouts returned.

I reached out to my avatar to see if she was almost here, and was dismayed when all I received were impressions of combat, pain and frustration. The dire badger queen was not going down without a fight, it seemed. How is that thing still alive? It was on its last legs when I left, surely!

I recalled the massive creature. True, it had been gravely injured, but it had also seemed uncowed. And things fight most fiercely when they’re closest to death. When they have nothing to lose.

Well, we could fight just as fiercely.

As I well knew by now, gnomes were a primarily defensive race. Unless specifically ordered to, they would not seek to cause harm—even to enemies—until their lives or the lives of those under their protection were threatened.

But when they were threatened…

The pair of badgers that had breached our barricade hesitated at the sight of the bristling spears and line of interlocking shields. Pride washed over me as the gnomes stood their ground in the face of the enemy, cloistered behind their trusty wall of redcaps. Teeth bared, the dire badgers threw back their heads and growled their distress, pacing in tiny circles as though they wanted to retreat but were unable to. Behind the shield-wielding gnomes, Bruce growled back.

I was deliberating whether to interfere when a familiar large figure emerged from the trees.

“You’re back! Where have you been? Where are the others? What’s going on?” I yelled.

Coll pointed at the camp, mouth falling open in shock. “Badgers!” he shouted.

“Yes, I see them. Thanks. Where’s Ket?”

Something sparkled on his shoulder and then zipped into the air.

“Corey!”

“Ket!” I never thought I’d be so relieved to hear her voice. “Where were you? Did you… did you leave the Sphere?!”

“I’ll explain later! What’s with all the badgers?”

“I think the tracks we found were a trick,” I explained hastily. “When we caught up with the one that made them, we found more tracks leading back to the camp. Then Ris’kin and the scouts were attacked by the badgers’ queen.”

“Their queen? Wait, what? The badgers tricked us?”

Ket sounded incredulous. I couldn’t blame her. It sounded insane. Coll, however, was nodding slowly, as though it all made sense.

“It’s a classic deception tactic. Aleksandre the Almighty used it to defeat The Bonetaker at the Battle of Carsten Keep.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s exactly what inspired them.”

“Well, at least they seem to have calmed down somewhat. The ones inside definitely don’t like the look of that shieldwall.”

“Don’t jinx it—”

Too late.

Eyes rolling in panic, the two badgers inside the barricade threw themselves upon the shieldwall. This time it was obvious there was something strange going on. They were not doing this of their own volition. No animal would, no matter how territorial.

Despite their obvious unwillingness, the raging creatures still vastly outbulked the gnomes, and their shield line bowed alarmingly before the first charge. The badgers recoiled from the waiting spears as they pricked their faces and jabbed their chests, before turning to charge again, eyes rolling in an unholy mixture of fury and terror.

A third badger appeared in the wreckage made by the first two. Its chest was singed, the skin beneath its blackened fur pink and bubbling. But it was no longer slowed; the stuff that had encumbered it had dissipated, and now it was preparing to join the next attack on the shieldwall.

Not so fast.

Binky’s next Spit missile arced down to splash the dire badger, this time splattering across its back. The tendrils caught one of its legs; it stumbled and veered off to the side.

Coll was just standing there with his hammer out, looking helpless. From where he was standing he couldn’t see the other two badgers on the far side of the circle, and was clearly at a loss for how he could intervene without risking friendly fire.

“Coll, go and find Ris’kin and the scouts! They were fighting about half a mile to the north-east.”

“You’re sure you don’t need me here?”

I was sure I didn’t want him stomping around and accidentally smashing his hammer into friend and foe alike.

“We’ll be okay,” I said. “Just go. Hurry!”

His armor jangled as he ran off into the trees.

Inside the barricade circle, the shield wall suddenly parted. Bruce burst out to intercept the two charging enemies. The big badger rammed the left-most creature in the flank, driving it sideways and away from the shieldwall, but its momentum sent it crashing into the chariot instead.

No!

Thankfully, the chariot was as solidly built as the strongest wagon, and though it rocked slightly with the impact, it did not break or tip. The acolytes atop it held the ark steady, and Gneil even managed to jab the enemy badger below with his spear. But my high cleric’s triumphant shout died in his throat when he saw one of the hoot-hoots—which had hopped from its nest over to the chariot’s edge to see what was going on—had been knocked to the ground.

It hooted indignantly as it landed in a pile of leaf mulch, rolling in a fluffy ball before coming to a halt. It swayed a little as it rose to its spindly feet, shaking bits of leaves from its feathers and clacking its beak. It turned to look back up at the horrified acolytes on the chariot and raised its wings pathetically, as though asking to be picked up.

Gneil thrust his weapon into the hands of the nearest acolyte. Then my high cleric vaulted over the chariot’s side.

He stumbled a little as he landed, performing his own equally graceless version of the owlet’s roll. He rose to his feet, pink-faced, tugged his toga straight, then bent to lift the baby owl into his arms—just as a fourth dire badger burst through the breach in the barricade.

Its trajectory was already taking it straight past my high cleric, but it twisted its head to snap at him as it passed. Gneil just stood there, clutching his hoot-hoot protectively, and I realized that his selfless but foolish act of saving it might be the last thing my high cleric ever did.

There was a blur of movement off to the side. A bullet shot between the badger’s gaping jaws and smacked into the roof of its mouth. It squealed and twisted off in a different direction, colliding with the one still hampered by Binky’s Spit. The two of them went down in a pile of thrashing limbs and snapping teeth.

Gneil turned, his mouth agape, eyes as wide as the baby owl’s. Hoppit grinned at him, then sprinted off in pursuit of another target.

My high cleric climbed back up onto the ark, gently depositing the troublesome hoot-hoot back among its brothers and sisters. He took in the four badgers harassing the wall of shield-gnomes, still resolutely protecting the civilians pressed against the barricade. I frowned. Is it me, or is that group getting smaller?

For some reason, the chaos seemed to please Gneil. He nodded, then brought his fingers to his mouth.

His whistle pierced the air. Almost immediately three more badgers came running out of trees. My dismay quickly turned to relief when I recognized them as Helga, Clyde and Flea.

The trio of allied badgers made straight for the breach in the barricade. They drew to a halt and stood, shoulder to shoulder, teeth bared at the enemy badgers. Bruce remained in the center, defending the chariot and its contingent of armed acolytes, who refused to leave my gem. I considered using Divine Inspiration to persuade Gneil to lead them over to the civilian area, but decided against it. The chariot was as safe a place as anywhere else, for the moment at least.

The four dire badgers didn’t seem to notice the new arrivals; they were too focused on alternately attacking the shield wall and pacing in crazed circles, as if fighting against whatever was compelling them to attack. Like the dire badger queen, their pupils were strangely clouded. I wondered what they were seeing, if anything.

Whatever the reason, their increasing lack of coordination meant the melee gnomes were able to withstand their sporadic attacks, allowing the civilians to safely make their escape.

I hadn’t been imagining it; the group of non-combatants had been growing smaller. As I watched, another handful ducked beneath the back-wall flap, emerging on the other side of the portahut. Thankfully the dire badgers had so far avoided both huts. Though they were obvious weak points in the barricade, the creatures seemed suspicious of the octagonal structures, perhaps deterred by the scent of its animal-hide walls.

Now that the majority of enemies were trapped inside the barricade, my denizens risked crossing the open space away from the conflict, moving in the color groups they’d been assigned at the start of the exodus. They were guarded by an unarmored but spear-wielding militia—workers who had previously held the warrior vocation, I realized.

As soon as the last of the non-combatants left the circle, the warriors altered their formation, assembling into a protective tortoise and heading toward the chariot. The dire badger with a face full of shrapnel was harrying it fiercely; it had already managed to pull the spear away from one of the acolytes and was now snapping at the platform on which they stood.

I sought out Binky, thinking to use Spit again to help them out. Then I saw something that, if I’d had blood, would have made it run cold.

A gnome girl—the same blond child who’d been dancing obliviously before being kidnapped by the owl—was standing in front of the hut on the opposite side.

How the hells did she get out of the circle?!

Her small, slender form was dwarfed by the structure; her eyes were closed, and she was singing, swaying from side to side with every word. Once again she seemed completely unaware of the danger she was in.

The lone dire badger still on the outside of the barricade had up until now been throwing itself futilely against the still-standing wagons. Perhaps it was on a different frequency to the others, or maybe it just wanted to do its own thing, but thus far it had been causing minimal damage.

When it caught sight of the girl, though, it snorted excitedly and made a beeline straight toward her.

A large shape on the portahut’s roof moved. Binky was pressed flat against the thatch so he couldn’t be seen by the enemies below, but at my urgent signal, he leapt down to grab the girl, dangling in the air and then reeling them both back up to the roof.

Just in time. The charging badger passed barely an inch beneath her dangling feet. She squealed in triumph and punched the air, apparently exhilarated to have escaped harm yet again and uncaring that she was now suspended in the furry ‘arms’ of a giant venomous spider.

Unable to stop itself, the dire badger skidded through the portahut’s entrance and crashed straight into the supports. The entire structure wobbled.

Move! I commanded.

Binky immediately leaped down onto the nearest wagon, prompting another squeal of delight from his fair-haired gnomish burden. The hut collapsed behind them, trapping the badger beneath a pile of thatch, hides and sticks. Flea, who’d apparently gotten bored of his own guard duties, came snuffling around the edge of the barricade just in time to see the structure fall. He dived on top of it, snarling and squealing, using his own weight to stop the dire badger from bursting free.

My gaze lingered on the collapsed hut, an idea forming in the back of my mind.

I know what we have to do.

The melee warriors all encircled the chariot now. It was an island of safety among a sea of badgers, and Gneil was stuck right in the middle of it. For this task, though, I needed neither my warriors nor my high cleric. There were just two gnomes who could do what was needed. And I knew exactly where I’d find them.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Ket, suspicious of my sudden surge of enthusiasm.

“You’ll see.”

Emrys was leading the non-combatants who’d escaped the circle toward the shelter of Coll’s tent, out beyond the edges of the skynet. I zoomed ahead of them where, inside the tent itself, a pair of gnomes had already made themselves at home. Swift and Cheer had clearly been in there the entire time, and were happily rummaging through the humans’ belongings as though nothing was amiss outside.

Whenever I’d tried to command them in the past, they’d complied only reluctantly, and completed whatever task I’d set them with the barest minimum of interest. Now, though, matching grins split their faces when I selected an ability from their Augmentary menu and pointed them back in the direction of the main camp.

The two scavengers pushed their way outside, heedless of the line of denizens streaming in from the opposite direction. They headed straight for the nearest skynet support.

A shriek came from the fallen tent. Thatch erupted everywhere as the dire badger burst free, flinging poor Flea against the barricade and shaking itself off vigorously. Its cloudy eyes gleamed as it spotted Swift and Cheer moving toward the next support pole.

“We need to distract it!” Ket wrung her hands, sparks showering from her wings as she flitted from side to side in distress.

“Already on it,” I told her.

As Swift and Cheer continued to move around the outskirts of the camp, I focused on Binky.

Spit! I commanded.

The missile hit its mark. The dire badger shrieked in either pain or rage; as a species, they were internally resistant to most toxins, but that didn’t prevent its fur and skin from sizzling beneath the venom. It turned its full attention onto Binky, then charged the spider. Just as I’d hoped it would.

Run!

Binky scuttled away, leading the badger on a merry chase through the trees—and most importantly, away from Swift and Cheer. What I hadn’t realized was that the blond-haired child had attached herself to her eight-legged rescuer. She clung to Binky’s furry back as he scuttled ahead of the dire badger; her hair streamed wildly in the wind, and she screamed in what should have been terror but sounded suspiciously like delight.

There was a creak of wood, and the already crooked skynet lurched even further askew. Swift and Cheer were almost done.

All right, Binky, come back!

He hadn’t gone far; Binky might be growing more independent the more terrestrial he became, but he couldn’t yet leave the boundary of my SOI.

As the spider led the rogue dire badger back into the camp, Swift and Cheer sprung the trap.

The skynet dropped.

Unlike when the builders would dismantle it at the start of each day’s march, there was no careful folding of the webbing or retracting of the supports. Instead the entire structure came crashing down. The support posts toppled inward, some of them splintering against the wagon barricade as they fell. Luckily the slingers still standing on the wagons had been alerted by Cheer, who’d let out a victorious cry as she sabotaged the final post; they all managed to duck safely against their wagons’ outer edges.

No longer held taut by the supports, the sticky web that gave the skynet its name was now draped over the entire area, trapping everything beneath it. The instant it fell, I sent Binky in; the arachnid danced nimbly across the net, cutting free the warriors and acolytes at the center and ensuring the dire badgers were properly bound. He moved quickly, heedless of the wild-haired child perched calmly on his thorax like she’d been riding giant spiders her entire life.

The enemy dire badgers thrashed wildly against their bonds. How are they still fighting?! It was almost as though they didn’t feel the pain of their wounds. Two of them had venom burns from Binky’s Spit attack; all had suffered numerous nasty cuts and scrapes from either badger claws or gnomish weapons; and the one that had led the initial charge was still bleeding copiously from the shrapnel wounds in its face. Yet still they bit and clawed, snapped and snarled, even as their sticky bindings rubbed painfully against their fur and flesh.

Suddenly, all five of them fell quiet. Their struggles stilled. At the exact same moment I received a flash of emotion—relief, as well as triumph—from Ris’kin. The dire badger queen was finally defeated.

A soft whimper rose from the fallen skynet. The dire badger with the bloody face mewled pathetically, attempting to curl up into a ball but prevented from doing so by the sticky webbing. Gneil was already making his way toward it, wielding a cloth and a waterskin, but its fellows began a pained chorus of their own, all five of the wounded animals squirming and whining.

“Ket,” I murmured to my shell-shocked sprite, “what in all the hells just happened?”

Thirty-Eight

Not Crying

Benin

New ability acquired: Levitate

Levitate

(Evocation ability)

Balance the forces of air and fire, producing a ‘cushion’ of extreme thermal energy that allows the caster to levitate.

Cost: 10 mana per second

Benin found himself laughing uncontrollably as he fought for balance.

Who would’ve thought a pyromancer would be able to master levitation? They don’t teach that shit in the Guild.

He hovered almost a meter above the forest floor, the air beneath him shimmering with heat haze. The ground in the clearing below was blackened and smoking from all his previous failed attempts.

The air was a strange beast; it almost felt like trying to stand on a constantly tilting surface that was covered in ice. The concentration required to maintain it for more than a few seconds was—

“Argh!”

His arms windmilled as he lost his balance. Though momentary, the distraction made him lose his hold on his mana, cutting off the supply needed to maintain the spell. The treacherous ‘cushion’ that had kept him afloat dissipated, and Benin dropped to the ground, landing hard amid a pile of singed leaves.

Despite the slip-up, this only made him laugh harder. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed this much. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d laughed at all. It felt good.

“It lacks elegance, admittedly,” sniffed Bekkit. “But if it practices, one day it may soar through the skies like one of the greats.”

“When that day comes, will you finally stop referring to me as ‘it’?”

As expected, the strange little being deigned not to reply. For once Benin didn’t mind. He could handle a little disrespect in exchange for the sprite sharing its knowledge, especially if he continued gaining new spells as a result.

His excitement at mastering Levitate after just a couple hours’ practice began to fade when he pictured the others’ less-than-enthusiastic reactions.

He didn’t need them lecturing him on the impracticalities of practicing fire magic in the middle of a forest. He was more than aware, but it’s not like he had a choice. They were leagues from civilization, and he actually had an instructor who knew about pyromancy. He and Bekkit were to be ’brothers in fire’, according to the sprite. Despite its current attitude of disrespect, this was an opportunity he’d be a fool to pass up.

Spending time alone with the sprite had also yielded some rather interesting conversations.

“Back in my day they called me the Calamity,” he was saying now.

“You mentioned that once or twice.” Eight or nine times.

“I rained fire from the skies. Turned armies into ash.”

“Sounds impressive.” Benin tried not to let his skepticism show. He suspected the tiny creature was full of wind, but didn’t want to risk disrespecting the only person who had the potential to actually teach him something useful.

“I could have razed this entire forest in the blink of an eye. It could too.” The sprite sighed wistfully as he pondered the clearing. “Though given our allies’ presence in the vicinity, I suppose it is a good thing we did not.”

The only reason for that was Pyra. The emberfox had such mastery of her element that she could absorb fire as well as produce it, manipulating the very air to smother flames as easily as stoke them.

Why am I surprised? Of course she can do that. She’s an elemental creature—she’s literally of fire. Of course she can do whatever she wants with it.

Bekkit watched her too. “I have a question, if you will. Mages are usually accustomed to select an arcane companion of their paired element—in your case, air—or, very rarely, of an opposing one. Yet you chose to match your fire with yet more flame.”

There was a short pause. “You said you had a question?” Benin prompted, somewhat irritably.

“Why?”

“I…”

Why had he chosen the emberfox? It definitely hadn’t been what he’d had in mind when he entered the Menagerie.

“I saw her, and it just felt… right. When I first came close to her, I thought we’d bonded. We had this moment… but it turns out I was wrong.”

Tears stung his eyes. He blinked furiously. On the other side of the clearing, the emberfox twitched her tail in annoyance. It was something she always did when she sensed him spiraling into self-pity. It seemed the little creature had no empathy.

“I saved you!” he burst out. “Will you just quit your sulking and let us work as a gods-damned team?”

It turned to glare at him. He tried to swallow his frustration. He held out a placating hand and added more gently, “Please?”

The emberfox seemed to consider this. After a moment it trotted over, halting a few steps away and peering suspiciously at Benin’s outstretched fingers. It edged closer. He could feel the heat of its aura as its nose came closer, almost enough to touch…

Its whiskers brushed his palm. An instant later the skin they’d touched began to bubble and blister. Searing pain rushed up his arm and Benin cried out, snatching his hand back and cradling it against his chest.

He tried to glare at Pyra, but everything was blurry.

“Are you crying?” Bekkit alighted on his shoulder.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not crying! It’s just been… raining.”

The sprite squinted up at the sky, clear blue beyond the branches, then back at Benin. “On your face?”

The mage wiped a sleeve angrily across his eyes.

“You should bond soon, or seek out another,” Bekkit told him gravely. “As I’m sure you’re aware, familiars have vastly larger mana pools than most mages. You’ll need to draw on that, along with their other benefits, if you’re to maintain spells like Levitate for any reasonable amount of time.”

He wasn’t wrong. Benin had managed to keep the spell active for a mere handful of seconds, yet even that had taken a good chunk of his available mana.

“I rescued her from the Menagerie,” he found himself saying. “I thought she’d be grateful, but she seems to hate me. She’ll follow me around, but whenever I try to go near her she snaps at me. I don’t understand what she wants.” All the elation he’d felt at mastering his new spell was gone. The gray cloak of despair had returned.

“’Tis a noble and difficult goal, figuring out where one stands. One can spend their entire life on this world certain of their place within it, only to one day have it all pulled out from beneath them. The important thing is to keep seeking not only where one stands, but where one ought to stand.”

Benin eyed the tiny speck, barely visible on his shoulder. “Ket’s right. You really are a cryptic turd.”

“The universe works in mysterious ways,” the sprite replied.

Was that… a joke?

Benin crossed his arms. “You weren’t referring to yourself at all just now? All that stuff about not knowing where you stand?”

“What does it mean?”

“Well, since you emerged from that necklace like some sort of deranged djinn, you’ve been doing your best to help Corey. Yet one moment he’s taking your advice, and the next he’s telling you to shut up. Must be pretty frustrating, especially since you’re stuck with him.”

“For now,” he thought he heard the sprite mutter.

“I guess he would be suspicious, though,” Benin mused. “You did arrive at an… interesting time.”

“I was an amulet. I had no control over scheduling.”

“How did you get to be trapped in there, anyway?”

Bekkit surprised him by laughing bitterly. “I put my trust in the wrong person.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“A god. Forgotten to most, worshiped by just enough to still exist.”

“And the name of this god is…?”

“You wouldn’t know him. His followers call him the Lord of Light.”

“How very bland.”

“Isn’t it? ‘Tis also a misnomer. This being is a deity of deceit and death. As I learned to my ultimate misfortune.”

“Seems you’ve made a lot of enemies in your time. Even Ket hates you, and she seems to like everyone.”

“Alas, young Ketten has every right to despise me.” He gave another heavy sigh. Benin had to fight not to roll his eyes at the sprite’s melodrama, and instead just waited, knowing from experience that Bekkit would not pass up an opportunity to talk more about himself.

“As you know,” he continued after a moment, “I too was reborn as a God Core. My denizens were dragonkin, who regrettably came to feud with first Ketten, then Corey.”

“You mean the kobolds?”

“If it prefers.”

“But if you were a Core, how come you’re a sprite?”

“The universe works in mysterious ways—”

“I don’t mean literally how. I just mean, why did that come about?”

“If it would let me finish… the universe is apparently a great believer in second chances. When a Core fails, they are offered a chance to redeem themselves by serving as the next Core’s sprite.”

“Huh. So Ket was the god of gnomes before Corey arrived?”

“Correct.”

“And Grimrock took her gnomes for sacrifice? Then shattered her gem?”

“Well… she shattered her own gem in a misguided attempt to seek more information on her enemy. She over-exerted herself; her mana reserves ran dry. With nothing left to sustain her, she shattered.”

Benin shuddered. Every mage had received the lectures, heard the horror stories about what would happen were they to expend too much mana at once. It was one of the reasons pyromancy was so dangerous. The most unpredictable element could behave in strange ways, and a volatile spell could drain a caster dry in moments.

“So why is Ket mad at you?” he asked. “You could hardly have chosen who your Core was.”

“’Tis as she said. I betrayed her.”

Benin narrowed his eyes, waiting.

“Corey and Ket lead their denizens by example. Through faith. As did I. However, Grimrock uses…used… darker means.”

Benin grimaced. “Yeah, I saw his altar.” It had been made of bones. “A benevolent god he was not.”

“Sacrifice, not worship. Fear, not faith. He bred his denizens—my denizens—to be fodder, then slaughtered the weakest of them like they meant nothing.” His voice shook, though with anger or sadness Benin couldn’t tell.

“You told him about the gnomes so he’d stop tormenting kobolds?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“Let me guess. He didn’t stop.”

“No.”

“And then you lost the only friend you’d ever had down there.”

There was a heavy pause. He heard Bekkit swallow before continuing.

“I eventually appealed to the Lord of Light to aid me in my plight. Instead, that treacherous entity sent an agent—an adventurer of the Guild, no less—to secure Grimrock’s alliance in favor of mine. They faked his destruction, then restored his gem, removing all other witnesses. At that monster’s request, they removed me from the dragonkin Sphere, trapping me in stasis and keeping me in a secure location until they should once more have need of me.”

“Must have been a relief when we freed you instead.”

“Indeed. Though as we’ve discussed, I am somewhat dissatisfied with the limitations of my current form.”

“Understandable.”

“I wish to burn. To fly.”

“You’ve got wings. I’ve seen you fly plenty.”

“Untrue. It has seen me flit. Flutter.”

“Like a hummingbird,” Benin agreed.

“I wish to soar, young fire brother. Soar!”

Okay, crazy.

“I’m sure you will,” he told the sprite.

“It will help make this happen.”

“Like I said, keep teaching me the good stuff and we’ll see.”

Benin checked his mana. It had almost fully replenished during the course of their conversation. He picked himself up off the ground, brushing charred twigs and blackened leaves from his robes as he reached again for his magic.

“One more time before we go back,” he said, focusing on Levitate and trying to ignore the bruises on his backside from his last attempt.

“Is it sure? Our absence from the Sphere has surely been observed by now.”

“Not likely,” Benin told him. “I bet they haven’t even noticed we’re gone.”

Thirty-Nine

Seed

Corey

“Where in the hells have you been?!”

Benin didn’t seem to hear me. The human mage stared around at the camp, mouth open and eyes wide.

Four of the five dire badgers had survived the fight. Gneil and the acolytes were tending to their injuries, while the tribe’s regular badgers sniffed suspiciously at the now-docile creatures they’d just been fighting. One of the owlets had hopped down from the chariot and was now riding around perched on Bruce’s head.

“Hoot-hoot,” it said. Naturally.

The other owls, temporarily unsupervised, had taken it upon themselves to harass the carpenters, all four of whom were attempting to repair the smashed wagon. The owlets toddled around, getting underfoot and generally making a nuisance of themselves until some of the gnomish children came over to scoop them up and take them away from the busy workers.

Other children helped the builders to gather up the webbing that was strewn everywhere from the fallen skynet. They wore thick gloves made from what looked like mole-rat skin, and frowned in concentration as they sorted through the sticky strands for any that could still be salvaged.

Meanwhile, the gnomish medics were tending to the handful of injured warriors, most of which had thankfully only received superficial wounds.

“What happened here?” Benin managed to ask.

“Badgers,” said Coll.

Bekkit cleared his throat and rose from his perch on Benin’s shoulder.

“Honored Core, forgive me. I simply sought to train this young mage’s powers in a location safely away from your denizens—”

“Safe?! You left them without protection!”

Benin frowned. “Coll was—”

“Also off gallivanting in the forest,” I snapped. “That the humans behaved irresponsibly is no surprise—” Benin folded his arms and snorted “—but I honestly expected better of you, Bekkit. You too, Ket.”

“I’m sorry, Corey,” she said miserably. The sprite’s usually glowing form was dull, and her guilt crept across our bond.

“Why did you guys leave?” asked Benin, stepping aside to let a bloody badger bumble past. “You can’t have been training as well. Or are you telling me Ket’s been hiding a wealth of knowledge about the best ways to hit things with hammers?”

Coll glanced at Ket, who shifted uncomfortably but didn’t reply.

“The lot of you need to start talking. Now.” My voice was hard, and both sprites flinched. I didn’t usually play the hard-ass, but they’d just endangered the tribe and our entire existence with their reckless behavior. It was unacceptable, and they needed to know I wouldn’t tolerate it.

“Bekkit taught me a new skill,” Ket burst out. “Terrestrial Body.”

“You guys can share skills?” I said, momentarily distracted from my anger. “Wait—sprites have skills?”

“Of course.” She sounded affronted. “Ris’kin has skills. Binky has skills. Why are you surprised that I do too?”

“You’ve just never mentioned it before.”

She shifted. “Well, that’s because I don’t have that many.”

My sprite’s tiny body dimmed even further. Despite the circumstances, I felt bad for being so hard on her. Her own inadequacies as a sprite were already a sore subject. Not wanting to drag it out in front of everyone, I changed the subject.

“So, Terrestrial Body…” I prompted.

“Right! It basically lets me leave your Sphere by temporarily severing our connection. But it’s for a limited time only. Without my connection to you, my essence is no longer sustained by your Sphere’s ambient mana. It drains very slowly, but if I don’t return here to regenerate…”

“All right, that makes sense. I wish you hadn’t used it without first consulting me, though. Especially after the lectures you’ve given me in the past for doing the same thing!”

She squirmed, but along with the awareness of her own hypocrisy I also sensed fury.

“Bekkit said our bond would remain,” she cried. “He said I’d still be able to talk to you. As always, he lied.”

Everyone looked at Bekkit, who said calmly, “You still haven’t answered my fiery companion’s question. Why did you leave in the first place?”

Ket fluttered her wings in discomfort, but glared defiantly at Bekkit. “We came to look for you.” Addressing me, she said, “I convinced Coll to help me find where those two had gone. He’s up to something, I know it.”

“Your mistrust, though admittedly not unearned, grows tiresome, young Ketten,” said Bekkit.

He sounded as though she’d wounded him. The sprite was still shielding his emotions from me so I couldn’t know for sure, but I wasn’t buying it.

“Oh really? And how do we know for sure you weren’t behind this entire thing?”

He sputtered. “What?!”

“Did you actually witness Bekkit and Benin training together?” I asked my sprite.

“No,” said Ket. “We turned back before we found them. It felt wrong to be away from the Sphere.”

“Good.”

She glowed a little brighter at my approval.

I rounded on the other two once more.

“I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt this time. But I need to know that I can trust you.” Benin scowled and opened his mouth to argue, but I carried on quickly. “Your presence here is appreciated, as is your help so far. But if you’re to continue accompanying us, I need to know that you’re with us.”

There was a pause. Then Bekkit declared, “I am with you. To the end.”

“Me too,” said Coll.

Benin nodded. I figured that was the best I was going to get from him for now.

Seemingly relieved that the conflict was over, Ket asked tentatively, “What happened with the scouts? Where’s Shanky? And Ris’kin?”

“They’re on their way back,” I said. “We found the badgers’ burrow—and their queen.”

“It’s called a sett,” she corrected me, back to her old self. “And that can’t be right. Badgers don’t have queens.”

“These ones do. Look.”

I brought up the blueprint for the dire badger queen. Ket’s wings fluttered anxiously as she perused it.

“It makes no sense,” she murmured. Sparks showered erratically from her as she flitted from side to side, the aerial version of pacing back and forth. Bekkit also came over to look.

“It’s not like they’re unique in that regard,” I pointed out. “The mole-rats had a queen too, remember?”

“Yes, but they’re a eusocial species anyway. Aren’t they?”

I mentally shrugged. “I only know what the Augmentary tells me. I know we fought a queen, and…” I swiped through to find it. “Yeah, a dire blesmol queen. Her blueprint mentions the ‘eusocial’ thing.”

“Interesting…” Bekkit was scanning the other blueprints. “The Augmentary describes the owlets as tiger owl ‘offspring.’ However, the dire badgers are referred to as the queen’s ‘spawn.’ I wonder if that is significant…”

“There’s something else bothering me as well.” I told them about the dire badgers’ behavior, and how it reminded me of Snagga. Bekkit shuddered at the name, as though it brought back unpleasant memories.

“If they were indeed compelled by their queen’s signal, should they not have retreated?” he said. “If the queen were under attack by Ris’kin and the scouts, and if she was near-death as you say, would not her instincts be to withdraw them from combat to defend her instead?”

“Just like Grimrock did with Snagga,” added Ket.

“To do otherwise goes against all of nature’s survival instincts.”

“Perhaps they’re not natural.”

He frowned. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “Even so, in this situation it makes no sense that they would have been urged to attack our camp instead of returning to protect their queen.”

“Unless their orders weren’t coming from the queen. Or hers were from elsewhere, even.”

We all turned to look at Coll, who was sitting cross-legged on the ground. Two of the new badgers, already bandaged and stitched by Gneil’s team of impromptu veterinarians, were exploring the warrior’s feet. One began to chew on his boot, all traces of the creature’s former animosity gone.

“Why do you say that?” I asked him.

“Well, if an army’s behavior don’t make sense, chances are they’ve either got themselves an incompetent leader, their plans are different to what you think they are, or they’re getting their orders from somewhere else. Ain’t that right, Mr. Snuffles?”

“What? Oh.”

He was talking to the other badger, which had now climbed into his lap.

“Mr. Snuffles? Really?” I asked him.

“Yup. An’ this bitey one’s Bodger.”

“Of course it is.”

Benin snorted. “And you wondered why I didn’t let him name my emberfox.”

“I came up with good names!” Coll protested.

“Lady Firepants is not a good name.”

I sniggered. “I disagree. I think it’s an excellent name.”

“No wonder you two get along so well,” sighed Ket.

I was about to demand she explain what she meant when Ris’kin and Longshank returned with the scouts.

Well, most of them.

The four scouts walked with heavy steps and bowed heads, as though they were carrying a weight greater than the sacks of badger meat and pelts they’d harvested from their pair of kills.

Where’s the fifth scout? I asked Ris’kin, expecting him to arrive at any moment. But the scout named Hindmarch was already here, handing a bloody silver-furred pelt to the tribe’s tanner. Hindmarch always brought up the rear. Always. Which meant…

A flash of sadness from my avatar confirmed the worst. The fifth scout was dead.

As always, Ket focused first on her favorite. “Look at poor Shanky!”

“What are you talking about? Shanky’s f—”

I’d been about to say “fine,” but thought better of it. Longshank’s armor was torn, and rivulets of blood were coagulating in the wrinkles of the mole-rat hide. His knuckles were sliced and bruised, though I noticed he still carried the clump of brambles he’d used as impromptu knuckle dusters.

He and the other scouts were beat-up and tired. But at least they were alive.

Ket sensed the direction of my thoughts and finally looked up from her favorite gnome long enough to notice the missing scout. Her hands flew to her face.

“Oh, no,” she whispered through her fingers.

Many of the gnomes reacted similarly to the news. Others showed signs of grief, but stepped up to shoulder extra tasks to give their fellows more space to grieve.

The wagons were a flurry of activity as Buttress oversaw the distribution of pelts, claws and meat. The two farmers were squealing quietly in unison at the sight of some small item; a closer look revealed it to be some sort of seed. It was silvery in color, rounded at one end and pointed at the other, with black grooves running lengthwise along its surface.

Weird.

I watched absently as they scurried away with their prize after the overseer nodded her permission for them to take it. I had bigger things to worry about.

We were down to just four scouts. I couldn’t assign more; the scout vocation required scouting experience before it could be assigned to an individual. And for me to send non-scouts out beyond my Sphere required mana—mana I didn’t have access to.

Even Swift and Cheer, whom I’d sent to scout on several occasions in the past, had not done it enough to unlock the vocation; besides, their two basic vocation slots had already been filled.

Still…

With a blink, I opened up Swift’s Augmentary profile and examined her scavenger skills.

Detect Site, Dismantle, Sabotage… Scavenge.

Scavenge

Scavenger ability

Venture beyond one’s immediate surroundings in search of discarded items of potential use.

I’d noted Scavenge before, but had assumed its use would involve targeting something specific, like with Sabotage and the skynet. Actually, though, it seemed to function much more like Scout, minus the mana cost. Given previous results, I couldn’t say I had much faith in the scavengers’ dedication to their task, but perhaps their recent increase in approval would make them more willing to help their fellow gnomes.

The pair were still basking in the praise of the non-combatants who’d witnessed their actions first-hand. Many had gathered around the scavengers to shake their hands and pat their backs—though the latter abruptly stopped after Twain’s palm came away embedded with what looked like hedgehog spines.

While the somewhat bewildered sawyer went in search of a medic, the nearby warriors continued to re-load the undamaged wagons, rolling their eyes at Swift and Cheer’s sudden popularity.

However, even the scavengers’ reputation paled compared with that of the rogue blond child. Binky had managed to shake her off, so she’d roped Flea into becoming her latest steed. She rode by serenely, pale hair floating in the breeze, singing softly under her breath and patting the badger’s flank.

“You’re a strange one,” I muttered. “And lucky to be alive.”

“A child of pandemonium, that one,” Bekkit agreed.

Pandemonium… heh. I guess I’ll name you”Pan.

It was strange; everywhere she went, gnomes smiled to see her; not just as though they were happy, which they clearly were, but as though their overall morale was lifted. It reminded me of the change I used to see when a denizen converted to become Faithful; they became lighter, more enthusiastic, filled with purpose. Ris’kin’s presence had a similar effect.

I examined the little gnome more closely.

Pan

Gnome (juvenile)

This young gnome has survived plenty of unlikely circumstances, so much so that her tribe-mates regard her as something of a lucky charm. The universe itself recognized this and granted her ‘periapt’ status.

Unique trait: Periapt (+5 morale to allies within 3 meters)

So the impetuous child had basically become the tribe’s mascot. It made about as much sense as anything else, I supposed.

Pan and Flea ambled past the remains of the portahut used to trap one of the dire badgers. That reminded me.

“Why were the huts and wagons set up like this, Ket?”

“It was time to rest. The gnomes need to keep their stamina up—”

“Yes, but why was the entire camp assembled just for a rest stop? And in this way? It’s almost like they were expecting an attack.”

“Well, that’s actually really interesting,” she said. “Bekkit and I decided it was time to call the halt. Of course, we can’t communicate with Gneil like you can.”

“They asked me to try,” Coll chipped in.

“We did. He couldn’t get through to them either—”

“Though it was amusing to watch its attempts,” added Bekkit.

“—so he went on ahead and pitched his tent in their path. They seemed confused, but Buttress and Rattail seemed to agree it was time for a rest. Those two being the overseer and quartermaster, the others followed suit—after getting Gneil’s approval, of course.”

“Of course,” I said, though this seemed a little strange to me. Why would my overseers defer to my high cleric? I realized there was a lot I still didn’t know about gnomish hierarchies. But there’d be time to figure it out later.

“Once everyone was settled, as you know, Coll and I left. But,” Ket continued quickly, not wanting to re-stoke my disapproval, “when we came back, Gneil was arguing with Hammer. Hoppit got involved. She stuck up for Gneil—of course—and after a bit more back and forth they all started issuing orders.”

“For the camp to be assembled like this? But why?”

Her wings fluttered as she shrugged.

Huh. When I tried to communicate to Ket that hostiles were on the way… is it possible that Gneil picked up the warning instead? And prepared for attack from either ground or sky?

That was interesting. But Bekkit’s voice prevented from pursuing that line of thought.

“If I may make a suggestion…”

I sighed. “You can always make suggestions.” Whether I’ll act on them is another thing altogether.

“Your armed contingent has just two officers. Both are drill sergeants. Correct?”

“Right. Hammer and Graywall.”

“I’m not sure how familiar you are with military hierarchy and roles…” On the contrary, his tone suggested he was fully aware I knew absolutely nothing about that stuff.

“Spit it out. What am I doing wrong and how do I fix it?”

The sprite seemed surprised. “Well, it’s just that drill sergeants are typically used only to train new warriors, not direct them in battle. They may act as regular sergeants when an army is large enough to be broken down into smaller squads, but generally warriors are led by commanding officers like captains and lieutenants.”

“Huh. So you’re saying it’s time for some reshuffling?”

“That would be prudent.”

The warriors were already split between groups for the duration of the exodus. I didn’t want to confuse things too much by assigning them into different fighting squads as well. Besides, to do so didn’t make sense with our army as small as it was right now. I said as much to Bekkit.

“Reasonable,” he agreed. “However, the presence of commanding officers provides bonuses to your warriors while in combat, much like a high cleric motivates acolytes. It may be worth promoting a couple of your best fighters to sergeant even if you do not intend to form squads. And an army should have a single general regardless of its size.”

Bored of his explanation, Ket had already flitted away to check in on Ris’kin. Benin was equally uninterested in military-themed discussion, and sloped off to disassemble his and Coll’s tent. The emberfox skulked several paces behind him as usual.

Coll stayed behind, chatting affectionately to his new dire badger friends while keeping one ear on our conversation. The gnomes continued to pack up camp around us while we perused my options.

Back when I’d promoted Hammer and Graywall, ‘drill sergeant’ had been the only officer vocation available given our then-rookie warriors’ lack of skills. Now, though, my army’s combined skill levels in melee and ranged combat fulfilled the prerequisites for assigning a general, as well as a maximum of two regular sergeants.

But who to promote?

Hammer and Graywall were my most experienced warriors. Furthermore, both had experience in directing units in battle. Drill sergeants were only needed for training new troops, which we wouldn’t have for a while. It made sense for me to make them regular sergeants, at least.

But something held me back. When I expressed my uncertainty, Coll surprisingly agreed.

“Just because they’re good drill sergeants don’t mean they’d make good commanding officers,” he pointed out. “Different set of skills, you know? If they’re good at what they do—which is training other fighters—then why not let ‘em keep doing it? Promote others who’ve shown strong leadership instead.”

After a brief discussion, the three of us unanimously agreed that Serene and Magnus should be granted the captain vocation. Both were well-respected among their peers, both were excellent—albeit very different—fighters, and according to Coll both had acquitted themselves well when responding to Gneil’s warning and Hoppit’s orders.

It seemed the latter had been instrumental in making sure the tribe was as prepared for the latest attack as possible. If she hadn’t been there to listen to Gneil…

I pushed away the guilty feeling that I was rewarding her for her relationship with my high cleric. Nepotism much? But it wasn’t as though that were the only basis on which I was promoting her. The savvy slinger had proved her worth on many occasions, and was more than suited for the role of our small army’s general.

“We’re almost ready to go,” said Ket. “How are you doing?”

Her tone was bright, but I also sensed wariness. She was worried I was still angry at her. I was, kind of, but we had much bigger things to think about right now.

We’d been led by the nose. Something had intended for us to follow those badger tracks; to get us far enough away from the convoy for the others to attack it without Ris’kin being there to help. Something wanted to hurt us; there was a greater intelligence behind this, and I seriously doubted it was the tormented badger queen we’d killed.

“I’m worried,” I admitted to Ket. Then I raised my voice so Bekkit and the humans would hear.

“Something strange is afoot. We have to be extra careful from now on.”

It felt odd saying such things in the daylight. It was barely mid-morning; above the branches, the sky was pale blue and clear, the autumn sun clean and bright (though not bright enough to make me flinch any more).

I added one last warning. “No more unauthorized trips away from the tribe, okay?”

Benin immediately began to protest.

“I’m not saying you can’t ever leave,” I clarified. “You don’t need to ask permission to empty your bladder or anything. Just make sure you let me know before you whisk either of my sprites away on a romantic jaunt through the forest. Agreed?”

The two humans assented with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

“Then let’s be off. We still have a long way to go,” I said. “And be careful. We’ve already lost a scout. I won’t lose anyone else.”

I really hope that’s a promise I can keep.

Forty

Finger Flingers

Corey

The scout’s death—the first casualty of the exodus—felt significant beyond the simple fact; an ominous turning point. Though Bekkit pointed out we’d been lucky thus far, and that statistically one denizen out of a hundred and one was a more than acceptable margin, it didn’t feel that way.

“They’re gnomes, not numbers,” I snarled at him the third time he tried to console me with facts. “The only ‘acceptable’ casualty margin is zero.”

I’d had serious concerns about our newly acquired quartet of dire badgers, but now that their queen was dead there was nothing ‘dire’ about them. Of course we already knew they were fierce fighters, but otherwise they were as docile as dormice. Following the lead of Bruce and the others, they soon grew accustomed to yokes and harnesses—not to mention extra food and behind-the-ear scritches—and soon enough it was like they’d been part of the tribe all along.

On another positive note, days of experimenting had finally allowed the carpenters to unlock upgrades for the wagons, on which I immediately instructed them to begin work. Ket grew very excited, and gushed about absorption and energy and interfaces and other things that made my attention drift away completely.

Is this how she feels when I go on about how neat ghoul’s beard and other plants are?

I tuned out most of Ket’s explanations, but as far as I could tell, the latest upgrade mostly involved a process called sapping, so named for its use of a rubbery material made from dried sap. When applied to the parts connecting the wagon’s bed to its wheels, the sap provided a sort of insulation, absorbing much of the vibration caused by the uneven terrain. The carpenters also carved carefully-angled grooves into the wheels’ outer surface to give them improved traction. These new improvements allowed my denizens to travel much more quickly over rough surfaces without risking the snapping of important components. It also made for a smoother ride for those on board; my warriors and scouts were able to rest more thoroughly and for longer, regenerating more stamina and improving morale.

The time we saved—now that we were no longer having to stop for repairs every hour—meant we were making better progress than ever before. Coll estimated we were managing to cover around twelve miles every day. Initially I was underwhelmed by this number, but when I factored in how short the gnomes’ legs were it was actually quite an impressive distance.

The more ground we covered, the more new resources the tribe gained. As I’d hoped, Swift and Cheer’s Scavenge ability compensated somewhat for the loss of our scout. In particular, the pair had an uncanny knack for finding new mushroom species, many of which promised to be very useful at some point in the future.

Blunderball

Fungi

The blunderball expels compressed air when exposed to excessive noise or force. The concussive blast produced has earned it the nickname “pistol shroom.”

I didn’t know what a pistol was, but it sounded fun. However, my excitement at the idea of exploding fungi quickly faded after the first demonstration. The “concussive blast” mentioned in the Augmentary’s description was more of a limp-sounding fwip, barely any different than the sound made by a puffball mushroom, and without the bonus of expelling choking spores.

However, when my farmers used Assess on the new specimen, I received a pleasant surprise.

Advanced vocation unlocked: Botanist (fungi)

The pre-requisite for the vocation was for an individual to have gained the blueprints for fifteen different species of fungi, which both of my farmers apparently just had.

According to its description, a botanist was much more skilled at harvesting spores and useful materials from existing specimens. Furthermore, they were able to combine existing fungi into new hybrid species—something the farmers had thus far struggled to accomplish. Not from lack of trying; each of the farmers’ handcarts was filled with soil and was home to a variety of specimens that had been hastily transplanted from the Grotto’s shroomeries before our departure. Throughout the journey they’d been gathering samples of soil and leaf mulch from each new area and gradually introducing them to the mobile shroomeries. I’d even seen them doing this with animal droppings, presumably—hopefully—for use as fertilizer.

As soon as I assigned them the ‘botanist’ vocation, a wealth of new Augmentary options became available to me with the addition of a ‘botany’ tab. It seemed that similarly to my Creation ability, which allowed me to combine the blueprints of existing creatures into a hybrid at the cost of varied mana and Creation slots, the botanists now had access to similar information that granted them knowledge of how to breed different species of fungi to create new ones. I could either leave them to their own devices, or direct their efforts myself.

Naturally, I chose to meddle. My cackling while I scanned through blueprints for the most fun options drew several curious glances from human and sprite alike, but for now I kept my ideas to myself.

Several days later I received a ding from the Augmentary, alerting me that the botanists’ labor had borne fruit. Dangerous fruit—err, fungus.

Finger Flinger

Hybrid fungi

First bred by gnomish botanists in the wilds of Sethanan Forest, finger flingers expel compressed air when exposed to excessive force. Whilst growing, the fungus takes in dust and grit from its surroundings and coats them in mucus that hardens into a stone-like consistency. Their expulsion upon detonation makes the finger flingers particularly deadly when used as projectile weapons.

Yes!

It was exactly what I’d hoped for. The new and improved blunderball-puffball hybrids would react to force but not noise, meaning they would only explode upon impact—perfect for throwing, or perhaps even slinging. Even better, they’d now shoot out shrapnel, damaging enemies as well as just stunning them. The description made them sound like miniature bullets. Dangerous projectiles—if you were fifteen inches tall.

“This is so neat!”

“Please stop saying that,” groaned Ket, flitting over to see what had me so excited. She rolled her eyes when she read the description of the new mushrooms. “You couldn’t have focused on something more useful?”

“Finger flingers are useful!” I protested.

The sprite wanted me to have the botanists focus on adapting the broilcups instead. The large bowl-like mushrooms were pretty unwieldy, and Ket had suggested we create much smaller versions that could be dropped inside a cooking pot and then fished out afterward. It made sense, and I definitely would have them work on that at some point.

For now, though, there were just so many more interesting options, especially with Swift and Cheer bringing back new and increasingly exotic samples the further into the forest we traveled.

The pair had shown an affinity with fungi since their earliest scouting expeditions. Ket suggested it was because the scavengers had the social skills of a toadstool and recognized the mushrooms as kindred spirits. I countered by asking if she was saying Swift and Cheer were ‘fun guys’. She didn’t talk to me for the rest of the day.

Recalling an old incident with a puffball mushroom, I elected to set a guard on the botanists’ carts at all times. One thing we definitely didn’t need was the children getting their hands on our explosive new toys.

Something had been bothering me about the children, beside the usual fact of them being loud and annoying. I eventually realized it was that they were still just that: children. We’d been traveling for almost three weeks; that was usually more than enough time for a gnome to have grown to maturity, especially those who’d started the journey as older children. But they’d barely grown at all.

“Of course they haven’t,” said Ket when I raised the issue with her. “The only reason they grew up so fast before was the creche.”

Of course. It was obvious now she’d pointed it out. The creche had accelerated my denizens’ maturation so that they’d reached adulthood in just a handful of days. Without it, they were growing at their natural rate—still much faster than larger species, but much, much slower than I’d become accustomed to.

The circular structure had also accelerated the gestation period for pregnant gnomes. Those currently with child were stuck that way for a much longer period than they would have been with the creche nearby. They seemed not to mind so much, thankfully; the big-bellied female gnomes went about their tasks as usual, only occasionally taking turns to rest on the wagons despite the addition of more draft animals providing more opportunities for them to do so.

The children’s immaturity was clearly starting to wear on the rest of my denizens; with the exception of Pan, who always seemed perfectly content doing her own thing, they required constant management. When they weren’t getting underfoot or begging for treats or attempting to climb the warriors so they could ride on their shoulders, the children were generally being a pain in everyone’s backside—especially those whose bedrolls they laced with brambles.

Coll pointed out that part of the reason for this was that the children spent the day’s march riding on the wagons. This had been to keep them safe, to stop them getting left behind, but it was definitely contributing to them ending the day with pent-up energy and boredom—the worst possible combination for a child without the outlet of entertainment and a safe area in which to run around and play freely. They’d had toys and games to keep them busy during the ride, of course, but the novelty had understandably worn off by now.

Since my avatar was the only one who could truly keep them in line—except Nails and Emrys, who were both occupied with their role as group leader—I set Ris’kin the task of solving this particular problem. Instead of pranks and arguments and fitful napping, my avatar filled their days with activities. These mainly seemed to involve bringing her pointless items like sticks and rocks, then going off to put them back, though she also held running races alongside the convoy. Instead of whining and arguing at the nurses’ tired reprimands, each day’s march was now accompanied by competitive shouts and hysterical giggles, as well as outraged wails when my avatar almost-but-not-quite let them win.

When we made camp in the evenings, rather than getting underfoot, the children were practically asleep on their feet—though they perked up whenever Sir Fura the squirrel tossed kernels from his nut stash at the emberfox, making popcorn which the badgers barged in and promptly snaffled.

The dire badgers’ injuries were healing nicely, though they’d bear the scars forever.The sight of their pinkish acid-burns gave me another idea. I switched to the Augmentary’s armory tab and quickly found what I was looking for: mount armor. However, the option to select it was grayed out. I’d expected it; the Augmentary had foiled my plans on many occasions with its arbitrary requirements, but it was still annoying.

“Why do we need stables to be able to craft armor?” I’d complained to myself. “Surely just having the animals is enough!”

Apparently unfamiliar with the concept of rhetorical questions, Bekkit had replied, “The Augmentary does not ‘register’ an animal as a mount unless it has officially been assigned to a building of the ‘stable’ class. The universe—”

“Works in mysterious ways, yeah.”

Still, it was nothing a bit of Divine Inspiration couldn’t fix. We subsequently spent a rather enjoyable evening watching Gneil and the acolytes attempt to demonstrate the concept of badger armor. The extremely patient Helga stood placidly while the gnomes alternately wrapped her in various materials and balanced things on her head and back. After a while I suspected the armorers were deliberately playing dumb so as to extend the charade. They’d drawn quite a crowd, and morale seemed high, so I was happy to oblige.

I sensed Gneil was, too, though that may have had something to do with the fact that General Hoppit was watching. The young gnome laughed especially hard when my high cleric ended up knocked on his backside. Apparently, trying to put boots on a badger was crossing a line even Helga would not tolerate.

I smiled as my new general helped Gneil to his feet and brushed dirt off his toga, though the warm fuzzies were somewhat dampened by the constantly blinking timer in the corner of my vision.

Time remaining for Exodus: 20 days, 9 hours, 35 minutes

I pushed it from my mind and tried to continue basking in the glow of our little victories, but a sudden burst of flame several meters away had the gnomes jumping and reaching fearfully for their weapons.

Damn it, Benin.

True to his word, the mage only left my Sphere after asking my permission. Each day he and Bekkit would go off on their own, ostensibly to train. I still didn’t quite trust them, but Benin did seem to be mastering quite a few new abilities, and they rarely went far enough away that we couldn’t still see or hear them most of the time.

My denizens quickly recognized that the fire was no cause for concern, but my good mood was ruined. Another burst of flame stoked the uneasiness I’d been feeling ever since the dire badger incident. Though the creatures were now firmly part of our tribe, the memory of their earlier behavior still unnerved me. Something had been driving them, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched. And Benin’s fireworks would only make us easier to track.

Am I being paranoid?

It was impossible not to worry, especially with so much at stake. We were now over halfway through the exodus—officially past the point of no return. Not only had we yet to reach the forest’s edge and sight the mountains that supposedly housed our destination, we’d also failed to find an alternative refuge en route. Though the forest held animal burrows aplenty, it was surprisingly lacking in the extensive-tunnel-systems-with-cozy-caves department. Without having found a backup option, the pressure to reach our new home was weighing more heavily than ever.

20 days, 9 hours, 20 minutes…

20 days, 9 hours, 19 minutes…

Even the forest itself seemed to conspire against us. The undergrowth grasped at wheels, paws and booted feet alike; the surrounding plants and trees were growing thicker and spikier, and the gradually sloping ground was definitely getting damper, almost marshy in places. I hoped the wagon upgrades—not to mention the gnomes’ morale—would be strong enough to withstand whatever new challenges awaited us.

20 days, 9 hours, 4 minutes…

It shouldn’t get much rougher than this. We’ll be out on the other side any day.

20 days, 9 hours, 3 minutes…

We’re through the worst of it now.

20 days, 9 hours, 2 minutes…

Right?

Forty-One

Stay on Topic, Old Man

Tiri

In Search of Immortality: A Treatise on Elves and the Art of Soul-Shifting by Ar’bek Kitt.

Of all the books Tiri had browsed up till now, this one definitely had the most encouraging title. Who better to consult about God Cores than the race that purportedly invented them?

After discovering Varnell’s secret study, Tiri had decided to make the best of her time trapped in the underground Librarinth while she waited for the Guildmaster’s return. Once an entire day passed, though, she was forced to acknowledge that she needed a new plan.

Slowly, painstakingly, she’d retraced her steps, unraveling thread from her jacket to map her route and guide her back here. There was no assassin waiting for her when she emerged in the burned-out office of the late Professor Knox. The hallway outside had been roped off, and Tiri was able to use the secret passage to return to the Librarinth again and again. She’d have been a fool not to. With such a wealth of knowledge surrounding her, who knew what sort of lost lore she might uncover?

However, despite her current book’s promising title, it soon became apparent that its writer—this ‘Ar’bek Kitt’—was fixated upon some ancient conspiracy theory surrounding the death of an elven deity. Tiri sighed as she turned the page to find yet more pointless equivocating.

“Naturally, we are all aware of the tales of the night elves’ ‘wickedness’—a trait believed by many to be racially inherent, and embodied in the figure of their deity: Garim R’ok, the Tyrant of Darkness. Yet in spite of the innumerable accounts by (no doubt prejudiced) elvish historians convinced of precisely the opposite, this humble dragon is of the opinion—”

Tiri frowned down at the page, thinking the weak light of her chemsphere had conspired with the tiredness of her own eyes to play tricks on her. But no, the scholar really had just referred to himself as a dragon.

After a moment’s consideration, she shrugged wearily. Eccentricity was something of a requisite for becoming a noted scholar, after all, along with age and obsession. The three together had produced… interesting results over the centuries, and it appeared Ar’bek Kitt was no different.

“—this humble dragon is of the opinion that the Lord of Light’s disappearance was not, in fact, a consequence of betrayal by his night elf allies—”

She stopped again, this time narrowing her eyes at the word “allies.” Light elves and dark elves – or night elves, as this old scholar called them – were the bitterest of enemies; even the densest novice in the guild knew that, and Tiri was neither dense nor a novice.

Shaking her head at this outlandish—and, she was beginning to suspect, senile—writer, she skeptically read on.

“—the Lord of Light’s disappearance was not, in fact, a consequence of betrayal by his night elf allies (though such an act would certainly suit the prevailing narrative around that reclusive and much-maligned sub-race). Archaeological excavations of the site known as Bone Gorge reveal a very different picture: a cluster of night elf skeletons (identifiable by their size, obviously, as well as their low bone density, a result of their sunless existence) surrounded by the remains of several hundred light elves—almost certainly warriors, given the evidence of previous injuries upon so many of the bones.

“In situ, the radius of encircling light elves is said to span almost a league. How could their destruction have possibly been instigated by a lesser force that was clearly so vastly outnumbered?”

Hmm.

All right. That was interesting.

Not only were historical instances of night elves venturing to the surface rare enough for a three-toed sloth to count on one hand and still have fingers to spare, the Bone Gorge site was inaccessible and had been for centuries, thanks to its unfortunate location at the heart of what was now the Sythvan Empire. That this writer, deranged as he seemed, knew enough of the site to have either visited it himself or been in contact with someone who had was astounding to say the least.

Why in the stacks is Guildmaster Varnell keeping this hidden down here?

Even as she asked herself the question, her tired mind belatedly made the connection between the “Lord of Light” mentioned in Lila’s journal and this light elf deity’s moniker. That was not something she’d expected to find in an old book by a rambling (and apparently delusional) academic.

But the elven gods died centuries ago—well before Varnell’s time. It can’t be the same Lord of Light. Though this account does refer to his “disappearance” rather than “death”…

Intrigued, she read on.

“To understand the scope of this quandary, we must first consider the writings of Qarinas. In his Essays on the Nature of Existence—"

“Gah! Stay on topic, old man,” muttered Tiri. She rolled her eyes and scanned the rest of the page, but Ar’bek Kitt had apparently forgotten all about the subject of the Bone Gorge’s secrets in favor of a dull philosophical digression.

A few pages later, she too had forgotten her curiosity about long-dead gods and was once more simply searching for something—anything—relevant to the book’s actual title.

What is it with these historians? Bearded old men—and bearded old women, probably—whose inflated sense of importance and love of their own voices had somehow translated to the written word, all the better to torment poor innocent academics centuries later.

The ponderous texts were not the only thing making her irritated. The fact that this treasure trove of knowledge had been sitting unused for so long—directly beneath the feet of those best equipped to utilize it, no less—had been filling her with a growing sense of outrage in the hours since she’d first discovered the place. Its existence was a wonder, and its concealment was a travesty—no, a crime. Knowledge was power; a thing to be shared with the guild, not hoarded, though this library’s jealous guardian clearly felt differently.

As though being master of the northern Adventurers’ Guild wasn’t enough for him.

She flipped to the next page with more force than intended, and the ancient paper announced its objection with a soft tearing sound. She froze in horror.

What am I doing?

Talking to herself? Disrespecting the words of ancient scholars? And now vandalizing priceless Guild property out of nothing more than her own impatience? She shook her head. This behavior wasn’t like her at all.

I blame Benin and Coll.

The pair were definitely a bad influence. Though she could hardly blame them for her current situation given that they were several leagues distant right now. Or at least they should be.

I hope they’re all right.

She felt a pang of guilt. She’d almost forgotten about them and the gnomes in the midst of her investigations into Varnell.

She was still reeling from her earlier revelation. The Guildmaster is a warlock.

Unlike mages, warlocks had no innate spellcasting talent. Tiri knew little about it except that warlocks had to make a pact with a powerful magical being in order to gain their abilities, which were usually granted over time in exchange for fulfilling their patron’s wishes. It sounded to Tiri’s pragmatic mind a lot like the relationship between a cleric and their god, except warlocks had a much more unsavory reputation.

Making pacts with demons will do that.

Shaking her head to clear it, she apologetically stroked the page she’d just torn. Closing the book, she returned it carefully to its shelf and selected another. A little puff of dust accompanied this one as it slid free of its fellows, making Tiri sneeze. Though she knew she was alone down here, she still caught herself glancing around to make sure no one had heard.

Something about this place kept her on edge. Though she’d been coming down here for weeks now, she still felt as though something were watching her—which was, of course, ridiculous. The Librarinth was empty.

Then someone cleared their throat, breaking the dusty silence.

The blood in Tiri’s veins turned to ice.

Someone’s here. What should I do? What should I do?!

She forced herself to keep calm and consider what her friends would do in her situation.

Coll would give away his presence with a nervous fart. Then he’d probably smash the stranger’s head in with his hammer. Benin would set fire to the entire place and run away. Neither was a strategy she particularly wished to emulate.

Lila, though…

“Assess your surroundings,” she pictured the ranger saying. “The only thing more dangerous than inaction is acting blind.”

A quick glance over at Varnell’s study area confirmed that the wall-mounted chemspheres remained unlit, the door at the top of the stair still closed. If she did indeed have company, it hadn’t triggered the chemspheres, which meant it was either microscopically small, or incorporeal.

A ghost?

She silently scoffed at the thought, even as her academic’s mind began formulating questions to ask this hypothetical spirit.

“Hello?” Her voice sounded small, as though the dust and paper around her swallowed all sound.

“Hello?” she said again, louder this time. Her voice rang out across the seemingly empty expanse of the old library.

She waited, feeling more and more foolish with each moment that passed.

Did I imagine it? Her logical mind railed against the idea. I couldn’t have imagined it. But—

“Hello!”

Tiri started violently and spun around. It had sounded as though the voice were right behind her, but there was nobody there.

“Are you quite all right, miss?” asked the voice, now up near the ceiling. “Your pulse appears to be racing in an unhealthy way, and your eyes look about to pop out.”

The voice was unquestionably the same one she’d heard talking to Varnell weeks before. “Where are you?”

“Everywhere. And nowhere.”

She sighed. “Helpful.”

“But if you would prefer something to focus on while we converse, I am over here.”

The voice guided her back over to Varnell’s study area.

“Warmer… warmer… stop!”

She found herself standing directly in front of the pedestal that held the creepy demonic bust. The statue’s eyes stared blankly. The monstrous face was completely inert, yet her skin prickled at its proximity.

She folded her arms. “You expect me to believe you’re a talking statue?”

“Am I not?”

The voice did now seem to be coming from the stone head.

Fine. Be that way.

“Gardos, was it?” She forced herself to sound casual, as though greeting an acquaintance at a dinner party rather than an unseen entity in a dungeon. Not that she’d ever been to a dinner party.

“Indeed!” The voice sounded quite delighted. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember. It’s been a while since you eavesdropped on my conversation with yon master of the guild. I must admit I was surprised to see you return—and so frequently!”

She hardly had time to be shocked and outraged that it had been watching her all this time, for it was still talking.

“I’d had you pegged as a goody-goody scholar. Wrong place, wrong time, and all that. Yet here you are, breaking all the rules and continuing to defy your so-called betters. If I had a hat, I’d take it off to you.”

“That can be arranged.” Tiri eyed the marble bust. “Would you like me to measure you?”

“And cover up these magnificent horns? ‘Twould be a veritable crime.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Mm-hmm. How did you know I was here that time? I was hidden while the two of you were talking.” A terrible thought hit her. “Does Varnell know I’ve been here, too?”

“As I said, young miss. I am everywhere.” She jumped as the voice seemed to whisper directly into her ear. “And nowhere.” Back in the statue, it said, “Fear not. The master learns of nothing I do not wish for him to find out.”

“It almost sounds as though Varnell isn’t the master here.”

“It does sound that way, doesn’t it?” the voice agreed pleasantly.

“Are you his patron?”

Her interlocutor tutted. “Come, now. You know I am not. In fact, though you may not quite realize it yet, I believe you’re beginning to formulate your own suspicions as to the identity of that particular entity.” The voice paused, then laughed. “Hah. I’m a poet, and… I didn’t even know I was rhyming those words. But it happened anyway.”

“Remarkable. What do you mean about his patron’s identity?”

“You’re the one who’s been reading Arb’ek Kitt. You tell me.”

I’m talking to a statue, she realized. What have I become?

Out loud, she said, “First, tell me who—or what—you are.”

“I am Gardos. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tiriani Moon.”

How does he know my name?

“Stop trying to distract me.” She congratulated herself on how calm she sounded, despite this entire scenario starting to unnerve her more and more. “Even at the Academy we’re taught never to trust something if we can’t see where it keeps its brain.”

“Sound advice.” Was it her imagination, or did she detect a hint of wariness in the voice? She pushed on.

“Isn’t it? Tell me, Gardos.” She took a step closer to the plinth. “If I were to break open those ‘magnificent horns’ of yours, would I find your brain? Or would I find something else?”

There was no reply.

“Only one way to find out, I suppose.” She reached out as if to push the statue off its pedestal.

“I assure you there’s no need to break anything,” said the voice. “Though I’m sure your friend Collson would be impressed by your barbaric threats.”

“Does this mean you’re going to give me a straight answer?” she asked, hands still poised just inches away from the stone bust.

“Why tell you when I can show you?”

She frowned.

“Lift me up. Go on.”

Gardos’s sudden willingness was a little suspicious, but picking up the statue wouldn’t do her any more harm than smashing it. She shrugged, placed a hand beneath each of the protruding stone horns, and lifted.

It was much lighter than she’d anticipated. She almost overbalanced, stumbling back a few steps with the statue in her hands before she registered the thing still sitting on the plinth.

The demonic bust was light because it was hollow. It was hollow because it had been hiding… this.

“Well? What do you think of me, miss? Am I pretty?”

Gardos was no more than six inches high. Smoky gray in color and roughly oval in shape, his multifaceted surface glinted dimly in the light from Tiri’s chemsphere, revealing hints of swirling shadows deep within.

Gardos wasn’t a ghost or a demon.

He was a God Core.

Forty-Two

Mr. Stiff's Sword Sharpener

Benin

The haunting cries of loons were already beginning to rise from nests in the surrounding reeds.

Benin was drained, sweating with exertion, but it felt good to be using his abilities. Every day he felt himself becoming stronger.

He ran his fingers through his hair; it crackled slightly with static.

Maybe I overdid it with the lightning.

He ducked inside his tent, seeking a change of socks. Before they’d begun on Lightning Ball, Bekkit had drilled him yet again on Air Displacement, once more confirming that marshland did not provide the best terrain for magical training. He was pretty sure Bekkit had positioned him near that flooded sinkhole on purpose. Git.

Coll was sitting on his bedroll. Hammer in his lap, he was rummaging through one of his packs, frowning. Without looking up, he waved at a corner of the tent behind Benin. “Can you pass me that bag?”

As he handed over the satchel, Benin’s fingers momentarily brushed against Coll’s, and the other man leapt back with a yelp.

“Calm down, I wasn’t trying to hold your hand or anything,” said Benin, eyebrows raised.

“You shocked me.” The big man rubbed his knuckles.

“Yeah, well, don’t worry, I’ll warn you next time.”

“No, I mean you actually shocked me. With electricity.”

“Huh.” His mouth twitched into a smirk. “Are you saying—”

“No.”

“—that there’s a spark between us?”

Coll groaned. “Shut up.”

Benin clapped him on his mailed shoulder. This time he saw the blue-white spark jolt between his fingertips and the metal. Practicing air magic will do that.

Though air was a pyromancer’s secondary element, he was still surprised at how easy it had been to master the basics. What Bekkit was teaching him was far more complex than at the Guild, but somehow it made much more sense. His instructors had had it wrong; the world’s fabric was not simply “divided” into the four elements. Or rather, those elements were not so diametrically opposed as they’d been led to believe.

All those times he’d envied his peers for their abilities; how long he’d wished to have been born with a different affinity. The other elemental schools were permitted to use their magic freely past a certain point in their education; after the age of sixteen, those he’d grown up with flaunted their new skills before him, teasing each other with personal rainclouds or sending misty butterfly messengers to one another in the hallways. Benin was strictly banned from any such activity.

Even the chemspheres that lit the hallways had supposedly been established to replace torches and braziers. According to the Guildmaster, the fewer opportunities there were for a pyromancer to lose control, the better, though Benin didn’t really understand how removing sources of fire from the reach of someone who could simply conjure it from thin air was meant to help. But it was the intention that had always grated. That he alone could not be trusted.

Benin had been stifled, never explicitly told but always reminded that his fire affinity was a source of shame. The few occasions he’d gotten to practice practical skills rather than the dull theory that was the majority of his existence, it had taken place in a stone room deep underground. And his instructors—Knox and Holloway, who’d undoubtedly undergone the same stifling program during their own time under Varnell’s tyranny—had little to teach him that he hadn’t already taught himself.

Their freedom hadn’t been the only thing for which he’d resented his peers. He’d also been painfully envious of their ever-present familiars—another thing he’d remedied on his own.

Sort of.

He glanced habitually at Pyra, then started in surprise. She’d followed him into the tent and was right behind him. She met his gaze and twitched her tail, as if to say, “Don’t get too excited.” Then she licked her lips.

Every day since rescuing the emberfox, he’d offered her a piece of jerky from his own rations. She liked to find her own fresh meat, and could easily fend for herself, but he’d intended the gesture as a peace offering—anything to bridge the gap between them. Every day, she’d turned her face away and ignored him, only eating the jerky when he left it on the ground and moved away.

Now, though, when he unwrapped the food in his pocket, her nose twitched. Hardly daring to hope, he crouched and extended a hand.

He had to stop himself jumping up and down when she crept warily closer. She glanced constantly between his face, his feet, and the dried meat in his hand, also throwing glances at Coll. Her nervousness re-stoked the rage he’d felt at seeing her confined to a cage. Whoever had been in charge of the Menagerie had clearly made the little creature’s life a misery.

Varnell has a LOT to answer for.

Nose still twitching, she edged closer. Stretching out her snout, she bared her teeth and reached delicately for the jerky in his open palm.

A spark of static leapt from his fingers. The emberfox flinched and backed away, eyes wide and startled.

Damn it!

To his utter amazement, she began to creep forward once more.

When she neared his hand, the same thing happened again. This time when his skin sparked she retreated into a corner, where she let out a little sneeze and then stared at him balefully until he gave in and tossed the jerky at her feet.

He cursed himself and the elements, but at the same time he also rejoiced. This was definitely progress.

Fingers crossed it doesn’t deter her from trying again.

Oblivious to everything that had just occurred, Coll continued rummaging noisily in his satchel.

“Hah!” He finally pulled his hand from the bag. “Knew you were still in there somewhere.”

In his meaty fist was clutched a bottle, spherical, with a cork in its thin neck. “Borrowed some sword sharpener from my roommate months ago,” he explained. “Never got around to using it.”

“You don’t have a sword,” Benin pointed out.

Coll paused in the middle of pulling out the cork. “No. But I think it’s just oil, same as any other kind. Better’n nothing.”

With a grunt, Coll pulled out the cork. Several small, cobalt-blue objects fell from the bottle and pattered onto his bedroll.

Benin raised his eyebrow. He took the bottle from Coll and examined the label.

“Mr. Stiff’s Sword Sharpener,” he read out loud. “Guarantees the firmest sword in the kingdom. Stay sharp for hours!” He grinned. “Er… you know this isn’t meant for actual swords, right?”

The curly letters were accompanied by a rather unrealistic sketch of a buxom woman swooning on the arm of a heavily muscled man. Smaller words at the bottom read, “New blueberry flavor!”

“What?” Coll snatched the bottle back and stared at the label.

Benin rolled his eyes at the man’s idiocy, though his grin remained.

Coll was still staring at the bottle, understanding eventually dawning. “That’s a real shame.”

“Why? You don’t use a sword,” he said again.

“I’ve got a little knife.”

“Oh, then in that case—”

Coll pulled a dagger from his belt and waved it around.

“Ah. You’re right. That is quite little.”

Benin had a whole host of quips about Coll’s tiny blade, but the pair of them were distracted by the arrival of two gnomes. Like most of the others, these fellows had no qualms about barging in on their resident humans on a regular basis. The fact that the culprits were most often the cooks made Benin suspicious that they were hoping to catch him sleeping, or maybe even dead. The meat of an entire human would keep the tribe going for weeks, after all. And I bet mine is delicious.

The latest arrivals were indeed cooks—Benin could tell from the size of their stomachs. After a quick assessment of the tent’s interior—including what he took to be a disappointed grumble at the sight of both Benin and Coll awake and alive—their eyes fell upon the spilled pills. The pair began to mutter excitedly among themselves, nudging each other with their elbows. With another shifty glance at the humans, the cooks hurriedly gathered up the blue spheres and scurried away to stash them with their other ingredients.

Eyebrows now raised as high as they could physically go, Benin glanced at Coll. The look on the big man’s face made him splutter, and then they were both laughing. A passing gnomish warrior leaned in and shushed them fiercely, as though they were in a library rather than a camp in the wilderness. It only made them laugh harder.

“I hope they don’t put Mr. Stiff’s magic pills in the communal stew,” said Benin, wiping his eyes.

“I dunno. Might be having three legs instead of two’ll help them walk faster.”

Benin chortled, stretching out on his bedroll. He’d been sleeping a lot better since Corey had started sending the scavengers out in the evenings to do… whatever it was scavengers did. It was nice to finally have his bedroll to himself again, though the scruffy little rascals still managed to sneak in during the night when they returned, determined to leech his body heat.

There was a crunch, and he looked over to see Coll crushing some of the blue tablets into powder, which he then rubbed into his weapon with an oil-stained rag.

“Don’t stay up all night rubbing your dagger,” he yawned. “Or your hammerhead for that matter. You’ll go blind, you know.”

The warrior nodded sagely. “Working in dim light’s bad for the eyes, it’s true.”

Outside, the loons continued their lament. The eerie cries were a stark contrast to the distant snigger of a third voice. The vague sense of someone else’s amusement he felt confirmed that the Core had been listening to the entire exchange.

Benin shook his head again, though he found he was still smiling.

Loons.

Forty-Three

Gno Man's Land

Corey

Time remaining for Exodus: 15 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes

“Will these marshes never end?”

I was getting more than a little tired of the mage’s complaints by now, but I couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. It felt as though we’d been slogging through the wetlands for months rather than days. The swath of low ground was represented on the humans’ map as a darker-shaded section of forest between us and our destination; nowhere had it indicated we’d face such impossible terrain.

What began as occasional wisps of ground mist eventually became a thick carpet, obscuring the uneven footing and making it near impossible to avoid the sucking bogs and flooded sinkholes it concealed. Our environment grew darker with every step, the atmosphere more oppressive.

Laughter was already a distant memory; adults and children both were confined to the wagons, trusting the badgers to find a path through the murk. Longshank and the four remaining scouts were each mounted atop a badger, helping to steer them through the murk. Gneil also sat astride Bruce’s back, murmuring encouragement to the badger alpha and to the acolytes huddled miserably on the chariot behind him.

I found myself missing the forest we’d left behind. The root-laden ground had played havoc with the wagons’ structural integrity, but at least it hadn’t tried to kill us with every step.

Even the flora here seemed out to get us. Everywhere I looked there sprouted some sort of carnivorous plant or murderous mushroom. Not the playful danger of ghoul’s beard and blackwort; these marshy monstrosities could dissolve bone and necrotize flesh. Judging by the expressions on my denizens’ faces, they reeked just as badly as you’d expect them to.

The badgers’ innate toxin resistance made them immune to the evil plants, as well as the marsh snakes and biting bog-skippers that Insight showed me lurked within the pools of water we had to cross. However, the dangers here didn’t just come from below.

The trees were getting sparser, each one’s sprawling roots pushing the nearest gray-black trunks away as though trying to hog all the space for itself. Despite this, the canopy was thick and tangled; the branches were longer, growing up and out from the trunk like the ribs of an umbrella and tangling with those of the surrounding trees. From it all dangled leafy vine-like branches.

I was watching one of the clothiers—an old man I’d dubbed Cotton—skilfully mending a holey sock when a sinuous shape dropped from one of those hanging branches and onto the wagon. Cotton cried out and collapsed.

Ris’kin was already pushing her way over to investigate when another clothier gave a shout, grabbed his knitting needle, and stabbed the snake. The force of the blow drove the bone needle through the snake’s body and into the wagon’s wooden bed, pinning it in place. It hissed and thrashed, but the gnomes had managed to back far enough away that the head could no longer reach them. The other clothiers were armed with their own needles now; a few more stabs and the serpent fell limp.

Just before it died, I recovered enough presence of mind to use Insight.

Tree Viper

Reptile

This venomous serpent makes its home in the swamps, marshes and jungles of Kelaria. As a member of the pit-viper subspecies, the tree viper possesses heat-sensing pit organs on either side of its face, allowing it to detect prey using infrared ‘vision’ even in the limited visibility of its typically mist-laden environment.

And I thought tiger owls were bad.

The dead tree viper was twice as long as most gnomes were tall. Its scales were acid green in color; the brown-black camouflage it had assumed while in the tree faded as rapidly as its life.

It can see using heat detectors as well as normal vision… unfair advantage, but neat. My mind was already beginning to race with new Creation possibilities when Ket pulled me back down to earth.

“Poor Cotton,” she moaned.

My sprite was perched on the edge of the wagon. Her wings drooped as she watched the clothiers attempt to revive their fallen fellow. The old man lay awkwardly where he’d fallen. Sweat covered his flushed face, and his eyelids fluttered but did not open. Blood soaked his neatly darned toga, spreading from the pair of puncture wounds in his shoulder.

Where’s Longshank?

I located the hunter quickly, and ordered him to take the scouts out and bring back as many different non-toxic leaves and plant samples as they could find. One of nature’s rules was generally that where there was harm there was also healing: stinging nettles grew in the same vicinity as soothing dock leaves; fire wasps made their nests in gellan trees, the sap of which neutralized the pain of their corrosive stings. Chances were good that we’d find an antidote to the viper’s venom somewhere nearby.

Soon enough, the scouts returned, Hindmarch proudly brandishing a sprig of verdroot. But no sooner had the nearest cook unlocked the recipe for a brew to counteract the viper’s venom when Ket announced sadly, “We’re too late. He’s dead.”

Gods damn it!

I had to force down a surge of unexpected rage. At first I was shocked because I thought myself angry at Cotton for dying. Then I realized I was angry at myself; at my lack of control.

Ket’s concern and reassurance flowed across our bond, which soothed me somewhat. I also took comfort in what Bekkit had said back in the Grotto. The exodus isn’t a rout. It’s a controlled relocation. I’m still in control.

We’d reached a patch of raised ground, high enough to be damp but not entirely waterlogged. I called a halt.

While the gnomes climbed down to stretch their cramped legs, I gazed around at the marshy expanse. There were hanging vines everywhere.

There’s no way this won’t happen again. We’ll have to go back. Find a way around.

Even as I thought the words, I realized how impossible it was. We barely had two weeks remaining. If we turned back now, we might never make it out of this damned forest before the timer ran out.

If we don’t turn back now, we might not make it out at all.

“We have to find another way around,” I grated.

“Or we could have the gnomes construct shelters for the carts,” offered Ket.

“Oh. Yeah. That would also work.”

I felt a little foolish for not thinking of that myself. We already had an abundance of hides and sticks; a moment’s Divine Inspiration conveyed the idea from Gneil to the builders, and within a couple of hours we had the prototype and the blueprint. I decided we’d remain camped until the following morning, allowing the builders time to erect snake shelters for every cart, and giving the gnomes time to bury and grieve for their dead elder. I made sure the warriors combed every inch of the rise for threats before setting up portahuts. When they were done, there was a pile of dead vipers.

I also had the scouts bring back as many of the verdroot leaves as they could find. The rest of the cooks gained the antidote recipe from assessing the leaves, and I set them to producing as much of it as they were able to store.

Of course, the cooks still had to provide food for the tribe, and we had a bountiful supply of ingredients at hand. Though the tree vipers and swamp asps were venomous, they were not poisonous.They were delicious, judging by the enthusiasm with which the gnomes devoured their snake-meat skewers a short while later. Benin grumbled louder than ever when I bullied him into conjuring flames in his palm for the gnomes to grill their meat, though the emberfox didn’t seem to mind being used for the same purpose. The little fox was like a four-legged charcoal brazier.

Our legless new nemeses came with a few unexpected perks. When one of the chefs harvested the venom from the snakes’ fangs, he unlocked the ‘apothecary’ vocation—as did Swift and Cheer, who managed to disappear a sizable number of the fangs for themselves, the reasons for which I preferred to remain ignorant.

Another upside was that my denizens soon found a use for the discarded snake skins. The clothiers seemed to take vengeful satisfaction in turning them into clothes. It was rather heartwarming to watch.

It was less heartwarming to see my scouts attired in the results the following morning. In addition to their atrocious mole-rat chest-pieces and mantles, all four of them and Longshank were decked out in snakeskin from the waist down. The scaly material had been skilfully assembled into matching high boots and tight trousers, perfectly tailored to each scout’s size.

Predictably, Benin burst out laughing, and there was really nothing I could say in their defense. But at least their legs and feet were now adequately protected from the dangerous ground-dwelling creatures.

Yet another upside of their new garb was that all four scouts soon unlocked the hunter vocation, since they met its prerequisite—to bring death to a creature while wearing the skin of its species—many times over. Aside from increasing the cap from 10 to 20 for skills like Tracking, the main advantage of a hunter was that they were able to manage a team of scouts.

Regrettably, I couldn’t really take advantage of this right now. Since I was currently unable to meet the criteria for assigning more scouts, I decided not to promote any of my current four to hunter just yet. If our journey had shown us anything so far it was that there was safety in numbers. The scouts were vital to the tribe’s continued survival; I didn’t really want them venturing off separately, especially in our current predicament.

Most of the water was no more than ankle deep for the humans. Both men wore leather boots, so their feet were safe (though Coll observed that his were rather leaky, full as they were with bite marks from badger teeth). Benin’s heat aura constantly shimmered the air around him; it was denser and more concentrated than before, presumably a result of Bekkit’s lessons refining his focus. Anything that tried to drop down on the mage was in for a nasty surprise.

While Coll’s shoulders were protected by his ever-present chainmail, his neck and head were vulnerable. Rather than donning the chain coif he carted around in his bag, he elected to simply pull up the hood of his oilcloak. However, this did nothing to deter the ever-present biting bugs that swarmed the warrior like the walking banquet he apparently was.

Coll’s plight was made slightly less miserable by my new apothecary. Under Rattail’s supervision, he’d assessed the leaves and roots brought by the scouts and formulated an oily-looking lotion. Made from sarroway sap and cedar bark, when applied to skin and clothing the new repellant—apparently named ‘Fly Away!’—was as effective at keeping midges and mosquitoes at bay as Benin’s fire aura was at incinerating them. The mage was constantly accompanied by sizzling hisses as insects sought to feast on his flesh and instead met a fiery end. The sounds of immolated insects would have been maddening enough on their own without the oppressive orchestra of marsh sounds to accompany it.

My denizens clearly felt the same way I did. The children weren’t even arguing, despite the close quarters. They just huddled in their wagons, quiet and fearful. The sounds that filled the air were alien, far removed from the familiar birdsong of the forest, and even more ominous than the cry of owls. Here, there was hissing, rustling, and creaking warblers, croaking insects, and the occasional plop or splash of something breaking the water’s surface just beyond sight.

And the frogs. Gods, the frogs.

My first experience with the wretched amphibians, and I instantly hated them.

They were everywhere. Yelling and ribbiting, squelching and croaking, I despised their obnoxiously smug faces, their mucusy skin, their buggy eyes, their weird toes, and most of all, the freakish way their legs moved… I shuddered. Even when I couldn’t see them, they were always there, a constant chorus like a mockery of cicadas.

To take my mind off the little hopping horrors, I watched Binky instead. The fluffy arachnid was the only one who seemed unaffected by our environment. Binky’s long legs kept his body out of the shallow murky water, and despite the young gnome Pan once again riding on his back, the spider seemed perfectly content. I was a little concerned at the child’s exposure to falling snakes, but reassured myself that she’d basically proved herself immortal by now.

The new canopies—which the Augmentary had playfully dubbed ‘Snakeaways’—were doing their job and keeping my other denizens safe. They were simple enough, and hadn’t taken long to make; they were basically just hides stretched out on top of supports affixed to each corner of the wagon. The hides were scraped thin enough to be translucent; whenever a snake landed on top of it, the gnomes below could see it easily, waiting until it was near the edge and using sticks to fling it safely away into the swampy murk.

Every wagon also had a flask of antidote at the ready, just in case. However, there was no antidote for bacteria. The murky water grew even more so in our wake as the cloying air made my denizens sick to their stomachs. Having already drunk their previous stores, the gnomes were also forced to consume water from the raincatcher, which was basically just marshwater.

No wonder they’re ill.

After I instructed them to Improve the raincatcher, the builders devised a series of filters that improved the water’s quality somewhat, though still did not entirely purify it. Thankfully, after a few days, the majority of my denizens returned to full health as one by one they developed full resistance to the dodgy water.

“Hardy creatures, these gnomes,” said Bekkit admiringly. “So small, yet so persistent! Like the mighty cockroach.”

“Need I remind you what became of the last individual to call us cockroaches?”

“No offense was meant, young Core, I assure you.”

“I know.” He was right. Cockroaches were small, hardy, and persistent. My denizens were all of those things. No matter what happened, the gnomes would always come together and carry on, even when the odds were stacked against them. Especially when the odds were stacked against them.

Whether it was an army of kobolds or a deadly hostile marsh, we would take it on and emerge victorious on the other side—literally, in this case.

And hopefully soon.

Time remaining for Exodus: 12 days, 3 hours, 26 minutes

Forty-Four

Frogs

Corey

Vocation unlocked: Wetland Ranger

I blinked away the notification. This was the fifth time I’d seen it, which meant all of my scouts and Longshank had maxed out their passive Marsh Terrain skill. Though progression in any skill was usually cause for celebration, I withheld from assigning this particular vocation to anyone, since I was fervently hoping we’d have no need to set foot in a swamp ever again.

The maxed-out skill proved its worth, though. My scouts could now go for several hours before needing to return to the convoy, pale and sweating (which the Augmentary assured me was from exhaustion and not some kind of swamp fever). The bramblecramps attached to their shoes also helped some, as did their atrocious new snakeskin armor, but even so it was all they could do to find us a safe path through the marshy ground.

What I wouldn’t give for a couple of boulderskins right now…

The amphibious armored lizards were perfectly suited to this sort of environment. They would have been invaluable—assuming the gnomes ever overcame their innate fear of my god-born creatures.

That said, I’d noticed they were much more relaxed around Binky. I supposed the journey had forced them to grow accustomed to his presence, not to mention all the times he’d saved their skins. A glance at Binky’s Augmentary details showed another reason.

All my Creation slots were empty except one. It seemed Binky had passed another threshold in his journey to become terrestrial.

I gulped. For some reason it made me both proud and sad, not to mention a little bit worried that he’d run off as soon as he was able.

They grow up so fast.

The steady diet of predatory marsh creatures meant the spider was physically growing as well, as were the badgers. Snakes aplenty meant a constant supply of both meat and skins for everyone, which—regretfully—meant that my entire complement of warriors were soon equipped similarly to the scouts. They tugged uncomfortably at the tight snakeskin trousers, while those on the wagons—spread out a little better now thanks to the warriors’ ability to safely walk again—ogled them shamelessly.

“Is it just me, or are the snakes getting bigger?”

“I think that’s just the trousers,” said Benin. “They are very tight.”

I snorted. “I meant the actual snakes.”

In addition to the tree vipers and slender, brown marsh snakes, we’d started to encounter mud adders and brook asps. Though initially not much larger than the acid-green tree vipers—which were still far too large for comfort, by approximately their entire length—they did appear to be getting longer and thicker the deeper we traveled.

Luckily, my snakeskin-clad warriors were able to take care of them. Now that I had a general and two captains, I could command them directly to attack a specific target without using mana. To help us spot threats more quickly and direct the warriors appropriately, Bekkit suggested color-coding things on the Augmentary map—as I’d suspected earlier, it turned out I could manually designate certain species as ‘hostile’.

The results were pretty terrifying. Once I’d assigned the ‘hostile’ label to every venomous species I’d identified, the map was overwhelmingly flooded with clusters of bright red dots. This place really is out to get us.

“That’s… a lot of red,” Bekkit agreed.

“What are all these turquoise dots?” asked Ket, frowning at the map. “There are almost as many of those as there are red.”

“Those are frogs,” I told her.

Most of them were poisonous rather than venomous; they were technically only a threat to my denizens if they decided to pick one up and lick it—which, let’s face it, was not outside the realm of possibility. The Augmentary hadn’t marked the frogs as hostile, so I’d taken matters into my own hands.

“Okaaay…” said Ket. “But… why?”

“We need to keep an eye on them. Insidious little bastards. I don’t trust them near the gnomes.”

It was much harder to protect my denizens from themselves. I found myself needing to watch them more carefully than the frogs. Several times an hour, I’d catch child and adult alike playing with frogs they’d “rescued” from the overhanging branches. I’d have to send Ris’kin along to take them away, though she always insisted on placing the nasty creatures back in the marsh rather than giving them the merciful, quick end I suggested.

I’d long ago evolved my avatar with the same toxin resistance as the badgers. However, she shunned the marsh’s murky waters, preferring to keep her feet dry by leaping between wagons and dancing along their edges. It wasn’t easy, given the lack of space on the vehicles, not to mention her impaired balance since the loss of her right eye. But she was adapting amazingly, in spite of the chittering squirrel that remained constantly affixed to her shoulder.

Gneil and the other acolytes had their work cut out for them making sure the hoot-hoots did not try to eat the poisonous frogs. I had to send Coll in on more than one occasion to forcibly remove a frog from an owlet’s beak after the acolytes lost their own tug-of-war with the belligerent bird.

The badgers, of course, had no issues consuming the brightly colored amphibians. They had little trouble eating anything. The world was their buffet.

At least someone’s enjoying themselves.

The armorer finished the first set of badger armor, but I refrained from equipping it for now. In this terrain, the last thing they needed was to be even more encumbered; they weren’t currently at risk from large wounds but rather tiny bites in places that armor wouldn’t protect from, and to which they were immune. The ravages of the marsh threatened the animals in other ways though, and at the end of each day’s travel, Gneil went from badger to badger, carefully washing their clawed feet to make sure they were free of injury and rot. Now that I thought about it, it was amazing they hadn’t developed bog foot or some such.

The marshes really were a sort of no-man’s land. It felt as though we’d traveled back in time to the world’s primal beginnings—especially when we passed a half-submerged skeleton. It was thoroughly mummified; its skin stretched across its bones, brown and tight and tough like leather. And it was gigantic. At least twice the size of Coll, even in its current shriveled form.

The gnomes stared at it in awe as we trundled past. Even Benin fell silent in its presence.

The world really is a big place. Thankfully not as big as it used to be, though.

* * *

Time remaining for Exodus: 7 days, 18 hours, 2 minutes

I hadn’t imagined it. The ground snakes were getting bigger. Our new shortbows and stonebows proved their worth tenfold, allowing the warriors to take down most of the serpents without risking close combat while also gaining skills in ranged combat. Thankfully, the tree vipers remained the same size. I wasn’t sure the new canopies would withstand the weight of heavier ones.

Stonebows had also been distributed to some of the non-combatants on the wagons—mostly those who’d previously held the warrior vocation—and so, along with the snakeaway canopies, my denizens were as well protected as they could be.

Even so, the tribe’s morale continued to suffer. It seemed the constant threat of danger was sapping the gnomes’ spirits, as was the dark dampness of the marsh. Odd, for a species that lives underground, I mused.

It was lucky we’d gained four more badgers to pull the wagons; all non-combatant gnomes now fit inside the carts. They were clearly not happy with the cramped arrangements, but it was necessary. Though there was more room now that the warriors and scouts were suitably equipped for walking, it was still crowded.

The badgers weren’t the only animals that had been growing larger. The hoot-hoots were big enough that there was no longer room for all five of them on the chariot, so the responsibility for their care had been spread around the other wagons as well. Though initially delighted to have the company, the novelty soon wore off, and the gnomes’ excitable cries of “hoot-hoot” soon became grumpy mutters. The owlets were getting bigger and my denizens clearly did not appreciate sharing such limited space with the feathery nuisances.

Apparently the owls felt the same way. One by one, they elected to leave the wagons, choosing instead to ride on the backs of the badgers. As soon as the first one hopped aboard, two more followed suit, the trio forming a crowded bundle swaying atop Bruce’s back. The remaining two owls hooted indignantly and tried to fling themselves on to Bruce as well, despite there clearly not being enough room. Both splashed gracelessly into the swamp.

Finally accepting that Bruce’s back was all booked up, they each floundered toward different badgers and climbed aboard, shaking mud and algae from their feathers and muttering to themselves in a way that sounded remarkably similar to the gnomes’ earlier grumbling.

Benin still complained with every squelching step. The misty air plastered his hair to his head whenever his fire aura was deactivated. Pyra spent her days huddled on top of his satchel, claws digging into the canvas as she stared down mistrustfully at the marshy ground, growling and snapping at every insect that dared fly by. Even Coll was grumbling; apparently this environment was a haven for rust, and he was running low on oil for his weapons and armor.

Though I’d tried to remain positive, I found myself becoming dragged down by the pervading negativity and the oppressive atmosphere of the marsh. On top of that, the constantly counting timer—now in single digits—prompted even more worrying thoughts.

What if the timer ran out while we were still stuck trudging through these godsforsaken marshes?

The hostile environment would be its own defense against external enemies, true, but that didn’t really matter if we couldn’t survive it ourselves. How long until I’d be able to use exodus again if that happened?

I thought to ask Bekkit, but decided I didn’t want to know the answer. Besides, giving voice to the possibility of failure would only make it feel more imminent. It was better to just push it down and hope for the best.

Ket tried to bolster my morale by reassuring me that this was simply the darkness before the dawn. I didn’t really understand this phrase; since the darkness had always been my home, to me this felt more ominous than reassuring—similarly to another phrase she’d taught me, “the calm before the storm.” But hopefully it meant this was the last leg of the forest before we’d emerge among the mountains. The trees were growing even sparser, which I hoped was a sign that we were finally nearing the forest’s edge.

I couldn’t wait for us to find a suitable new home and rest in safety once more. It felt like forever since we’d been able to truly relax. Here in particular, my denizens rested fitfully if at all.

Even the children had picked up on the growing tension. They constantly glanced over their shoulders and out into the darkness. It was as though my denizens shared my suspicion, which was rapidly becoming a conviction.

We were being watched.

Forty-Five

Out of the Woods

Corey

“The good news is, we’re almost out of the woods.”

We’d stopped for our third rest of the day. Coll had taken out the crumpled map yet again and was pointing at where he guessed us to be.

“And what’s the bad news?” Benin asked him.

“What bad news?”

“Well, when you start by saying ‘The good news is…’ it implies there’s also bad news.”

“Oh. Well, there isn’t.”

Benin rolled his eyes. He seemed even more on edge than usual. Like me, he was clearly expecting something bad to happen before we got out; for the marsh to make one last effort to keep us from escaping its cold, damp embrace. For the storm that followed the calm,, or however the phrase went.

It caused me some discomfort to realize that I had more in common with the mage right now than I did with anyone else in my Sphere. What have I become?

“We just have to cross this last bit of marsh,” Coll was saying. “After that, there’s a stretch of hills—no more than a few miles—then we cross the River Emonand head into the mountains.”

I peered at the map. Coll’s finger rested on a thin band of marshland just before the forest’s edge.

“Is this area a different color?”

“What?” Coll peered closer, then held the map at a different angle, trying to catch the dregs of gray light. “Huh. It does look a bit… red, doesn’t it?”

There was a definite reddish tinge to the area we were about to cross. Looking carefully, it extended across the entire forest perimeter on the north and west sides.

“If Tiri were here, she’d be able to tell us exactly what the mapmaker meant by it,” said Benin. I glanced at the venomous creatures color coded as red dots on my own map and thought I could probably guess.

Darkness before the dawn indeed.

Still, whatever lay between us and the forest’s edge couldn’t be much worse than what we’d faced already. Unless it was a horde of grumpy hoot-hoots, in which case I suspected my denizens would surrender immediately.

Ket said it was just growing pains that were making them act out. She suggested they just needed time to mature out of it. I suggested they should mature into stew for the cooks. She called me a monster and suggested I tell Gneil to drop my gem in the bog and leave me behind.

The owlets were actually being quite well-behaved right now. It was as though they could sense imminent danger. Or maybe they’d finally exhausted themselves after days of being noisy little arseholes.

The unspoken tension rose as we all waited for the scouts to return. I knew the others had the same fear I did: that they wouldn’t return at all.

* * *

Despite my concerns, it seemed the scouts had encountered nothing untoward in our immediate path and proceeded to lead the exodus toward the edge of the marsh and our mountainous destination.

Not a minute too soon.

Time remaining for Exodus: 6 days, 6 hours, 51 minutes

The scouts climbed onto the badger’s backs once more, the better to guide them and keep them on the path, and also to defend them with their stonebows if need be. The ground was more treacherous than ever. Up till now, the groundwater had collected into shallow stagnant pools amid the squelchy raised pathways we’d taken. Here, though, the entire surface was beneath murky water.

Darker parts indicated the presence of sinkholes, which curiosity had me popping down into to take a look—perhaps I’d see another neat skeleton like the one we’d found yesterday. But all I saw were snakes and animal bones, and, once, what looked like a human child’s skull. I stopped looking after that.

Thanks to their advanced skills, the scouts were able to lead the wagons carefully around these deeper areas. The gnomes peered over the wooden sides, looking fearful but relieved to be safely ensconced within their shelters, while the warriors picked their way alongside them on foot, weapons ready to lash out at any enemy that dared show its face. Benin and Coll brought up the rear.

The trees were growing sparser, though it seemed even darker than before. The rising mist was almost opaque, swallowing sunlight and muffling noise. Most of the marsh’s ambient sounds had fallen silent; the loons were no longer wailing, the insects were quiet, and even the frogs had taken a break. Every remaining noise became more sinister—it was impossible to tell how far away something was, whether it was the plop of a diving frog or something bigger.

Other shapes loomed out of the mist, revealing themselves to be what looked like fallen trees. The oddly curved humps rose and fell, patterned in black and brown like tree bark. It reminded me of something, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it was.

Our progress was slow but steady, and Coll predicted we’d be out of the forest by nightfall. Despite my Augmentary map showing a swath of red that indicated an abundance of snakes, the reptiles were keeping their heads down; though we saw plenty slither past in the water between the wagons’ wheels, and heard hissing and rustling in the branches overhead, not a single one tried to attack us, which was actually sort of unnerving.

At least there aren’t as many frogs here.

After a couple of hours, I noticed something interesting. From the shallower parts of the water—the “paths” we were following—there started to spring a type of mushroom I’d never seen before. Greenish-black in color, they resembled slimy moss-covered logs jutting vertically from the ground. As we got closer, I revised my assessment; they looked more like rotting hands protruding from the watery earth, complete with a dozen tentacle-like “fingers” drooping from their caps.

Curiouser and curiouser.

I waited impatiently for us to get close enough; as soon as the nearest one was within my Sphere, I activated Insight.

Shrieker Shroom

Fungi

I hurriedly scanned the description for the words “venomous” or “toxic” and relaxed when I didn’t spot them. The smaller size of my Sphere meant the scouts leading us were almost upon the mushrooms before I was able to identify them. I’d been prepared to order an emergency halt, but it seemed we were safe enough for now.

I wonder why they’re called shriekers…

Just as I was about to return to the Augmentary’s description, the first badger in the convoy—Steelpaw, one of the dire badgers—splashed his way past the first shrieker. The scouts had passed by earlier without incident, but the moment the badger’s forepaw disturbed the water around the dead-looking mushroom, it screamed.

The drooping finger-like fringe jerked up and out to circle its cap like a decaying halo as the shrieker earned its name a million times over. Steelpaw shied away from the noise, shaking his striped head violently as though the frequency were actually hurting him. The gnomes on the wagon behind him cried out as well, hands covering their ears, confused children adding their own frightened screams to the din.

The dire badger slipped, one foot splashing into the deeper water of a hidden pool at the side of the path. The wagon lurched sickeningly, and I almost cried out myself at the sudden image of them all tipping into the deep water and being set upon by serpents. But Steelpaw was sturdy and surprisingly agile. Under Longshank’s guidance, he righted himself, then trotted along the path past the shrieker, still shaking his head and huffing in distress.

A few moments later, the shrieker stopped.

The immediate silence was almost as painful as the sudden noise had been. I sensed both Ket and Bekkit’s shock through our bond and saw it mirrored on the faces of the humans.

“Shriekers,” I explained hoarsely. “Noisy bastards, apparently.”

“Yeah, well, let’s not do that agai—”

Benin stopped abruptly when an entire section of nearby ground shifted. What I’d thought to be a massive submerged log off to our right slowly began to move, its shadow sliding darkly beneath the murky water.

I stared around in horror as the other shapes I’d thought were fallen tree trunks also began to shift. It was difficult to tell in the thick mist, but it seemed they were moving in unison, as though with one mind.

A deep hiss filled the air, low and reverberating like that of an alligator, and I finally realized what the pattern on the “trunks’” surface had reminded me of.

Snakes.

No; not snakes.

A snake.

We were surrounded by the coils of a single, unthinkably massive creature.

I tried to keep watch on all the moving parts, but there were too many. How big is this thing?

Most importantly, where was its head? If we could figure that out, and if we were careful, maybe we could avoid it altogether—

A wedge-shaped snout dipped down from the misty canopy, hanging barely a meter above the convoy. Its black-and-brown coloring mirrored that of the monstrous coils all around us, though much of its head was covered in algae and pond weed that hung from its brow ridges and mouth.

Directly below it was Ajax. The warrior had frozen along with the rest, eyes wide, but now his grip shifted on his spear. His eyes flicked up to the creature’s head, gauging the distance.

But this was an opponent not even Ajax could beat. The snake’s head was twice as long as Ajax was tall. Its tongue flicked out, tasting the air.

It happened in an eyeblink. One moment Ajax was tightening his grip on his weapon. The next moment the serpent struck. Its massive head jabbed downward, its jaws open wide, and when it drew back, the space where Ajax had been standing was empty.

I stared numbly as the Augmentary text flashed before me:

Marsh Zolom marked as “hostile.”

Forty-Six

The Marsh Zolom

Corey

“It ate him,” Benin breathed. The mage’s eyes almost bulged from his head. “It just… ate him!”

The colossal serpent finished swallowing my most fearsome warrior and reared its massive head. As it bared scimitar-length fangs, old habits kicked in and I activated Insight.

Marsh Zolom

Reptile

A hybrid combination of the marsh boa and the now-extinct umbral constrictor, the Marsh Zolom is a remnant of the Godswoken Era and is capable of surviving for thousands of years.

The Zolom can spend decades hibernating without needing sustenance, though it is notably more aggressive when first awakened. Its powerfully muscled coils are designed for constricting prey, while its sharp teeth allow it to also tear chunks off anything too large to be swallowed whole.

Sure enough, behind the fangs were rows and rows of teeth. I was pretty sure I glimpsed rotting meat and bone and even a flash of metal armor caught between some of them, and I was glad I couldn’t smell the creature’s no-doubt fetid breath.

My denizens could, though. Those on the second wagon cowered below it, visibly trembling. Some of them covered their faces, as though not being able to see the giant snake would make them invisible to it in turn. Solid logic.

Their wagon was pulled by Flea. The badger shuffled his feet and whimpered, and the Marsh Zolom immediately turned its face toward him, tongue flicking out as it glided closer. It opened its mouth wide, nearly unhinging its jaw, and I realized it intended to swallow them whole, wagon, badger, gnomes and all. There was still a lump sliding down its throat—poor Ajax. I couldn’t let that happen to anyone else.

A second before its gaping maw plunged downward, a piercing shriek blasted through the air. The massive snake jerked its head in the direction of the sound, momentarily distracted.

At my command, Ris’kin, who’d been riding on the first wagon, had urged Longshank and Steelpaw to keep moving forward—right into the zone of the next shrieker shroom.

The Zolom slithered over to the screaming mushroom and snapped at the air beside it, but Longshank had already pushed the sturdy dire badger onward. The Zolom scented the air with its tongue as though searching, until Steelpaw triggered a third shrieker.

This time when the serpent darted toward the sound, it was forced to stop short—the branch around which its upper body was wound held it back. It hissed in frustration and withdrew.

Quick! Keep going! I urged Ris’kin.

I took advantage of the snake’s unraveling of itself to Divine Inspiration Gneil, who signaled to General Hoppit that everyone should keep moving as quickly as possible. The convoy splashed along the nebulous path, triggering shriekers every time they passed them. The badgers were wide-eyed with terror; it was a miracle they were paying attention to their riders at all.

As the snake unwound its massive coils, hissing menacingly, I asked my companions, “Suggestions?”

“Holy shit,” was Benin’s less-than-helpful response.

Branches cracked and leaves tore as the serpent plowed through them. Its wedge-shaped head drove into the water at the side of the path, sending a wave of murky water to drench those in the nearest wagons. When it resurfaced, some of the black weeds that coated its brow had been dislodged, revealing not eyes but dark empty sockets.

Like it wasn’t terrifying enough already.

“The serpent is blind,” announced Bekkit.

“You think?” muttered Benin.

I thanked all the gods in all the hells that the Zolom was a boa, not a pit viper like some of the other snakes we’d encountered. If it had possessed those same heat-sensing pit-organs, it would have been able to “see” us all easily despite its lack of eyes.

“It’s got no eyes,” said Coll, late to the party as ever. “But it can still detect us by taste and sound.”

As though its ears were burning—did snakes have ears?—the Zolom twisted toward the sound of Coll’s voice. He clamped his mouth shut, but it was too late.

The serpent lunged at the warrior, sending more water splashing over my denizens on the path as it surged past them all toward Coll at the rear. He sidestepped just in time, and its jaws snapped harmlessly at the air beside him. In one smooth motion, the warrior brought his hammer down with both hands on the top of the Zolom’s head. I could already hear Benin’s impending complaints about being splattered with snake-brains.

The hammer bounced off.

The unexpected force of the recoil sent Coll stumbling back a couple of steps. His foot found a sinkhole, and then he was falling, his armored form landing with a heavy splash.

This time, the Zolom could not miss. Its teeth sank into Coll’s arm with a crunch. Though I didn’t think they’d pierced the chainmail, the force was clearly enough to bruise, and Coll yelled when it refused to let go. As its teeth squeezed tighter, threatening to break the man’s arm in its attempt to force its way through his mail, Coll panicked, hitting the snake over and over again. Everywhere his hammer struck, the snake’s rippling scales seemed to go oddly rigid; just for a few seconds, but it apparently caused the creature enough discomfort to slacken its grip. Coll yanked his arm free, then spun and smashed his hammer into the serpent’s nose.

Clearly not expecting any level of resistance, the Zolom hissed and withdrew, slipping beneath the water and out of sight. A glance at the Augmentary’s map assured me it was still there, waiting.

“It’s all right!” I called to Coll, who was shaking his arm furiously as though trying to shake off a spider. “Its bite isn’t venomous. You’re fine.”

The warrior swore and muttered something about that being easy for me to say, but my reassurance seemed to calm him somewhat.

The rest of the convoy were making steady progress, led by Longshank and Steelpaw, but the latter had faltered at the sight of more shriekers lining the path ahead.

I eyed them thoughtfully. I wonder…

I focused on my map and selected the nearest shrieker. Just like I had with the frogs, I chose a random color and assigned it to the shrieker shroom species.

An array of amber dots appeared on the map. They were arranged in a rough circle, spaced around five or six meters apart. We’d had the misfortune of triggering the ones at the circle’s very eastern edge. Had the scouts found us a path just a little further east, we might never have known the shriekers—or the Marsh Zolom—even existed.

My denizens could not avoid the shriekers now; if they strayed from the path even a little, the wagons would become mired, and more casualties would no doubt follow. I had to help them get past and out of the Zolom’s territory. Luckily I had just the thing.

I eyed the amber dots on my map, rising to the upper limits of my Sphere to better pinpoint the shriekers’ locations. Below me, Ris’kin sensed my intent, reluctantly lowering herself down from the lead wagon and wading through the shallow water back down the length of the convoy. Binky attempted to follow her, but I ordered him to remain with my denizens. For the first time, I felt resistance, but in the end he succumbed to my instructions.

“Ket, Bekkit—stay with the ark,” I instructed. “Benin, Coll—protect their rear.”

“W-what are you doing?” asked Ket.

I grinned. “Buying you some time.”

An instant later I was looking at the world through my avatar’s lone eye. The usual disorientation that came with activating Double Sight—the suddenly localized sounds, the shift in perspective—was exacerbated by the newly unbalanced vision, as well as by the addition of extra senses. Namely smell; the marsh reeked, of fetid standing water and rotten wood and venomous plants. Shallow murky water clung to our leg fur, cold mud squelched between our toes, and I was overcome with the uncomfortable realization that anything could be down there, waiting to bite our feet…

Sir Fura tugged on Ris’kin’s ear, pulling us both back to the urgency of the situation. The convoy was approaching the next shrieker on the path. Ris’kin’s sharp vision—though only in one eye—let me easily pinpoint the shriekers along the opposite side of the Zolom’s lair, and we raced over, arriving at the first shrieker just as Longshank’s wagon was about to trigger the next one on the opposite path.

I waited, tense. The moment the other shrieker started to scream its outrage at Steelpaw’s presence, Ris’kin and I leapt in front of our own shrieker.

Nothing happened.

The Zolom was weaving its way over to the first wagon. Its route within the mist was marked only by rasping scales that seemed to come from everywhere at once; the Augmentary map showed me exactly where it was, but its targets were glancing around nervously, blind to the approaching danger.

My avatar waved her arms frantically, but the shrieker remained silent, refusing to trigger. Panic surged through us both.

Why isn’t it working?

The scouts hadn’t set off the shriekers during their reconnaissance. We’d only discovered their existence when the badgers and wagons had gone near them.

Ris’kin isn’t that much bigger or heavier than a gnome, I realized. She isn’t large enough to trigger them!

But Binky is.

I scanned the area for the sulky spider, regretting my orders for him to stay with the convoy. Where did he g—

The shrieker behind Ris’kin started to wail. The volume and proximity made my avatar’s ears throb, and the squirrel beside her head jumped so violently all four of its paws momentarily left her shoulder.

We whirled around to see eight black eyes glinting mischievously at us from beside the shrieker he’d just triggered. The spider waved his palps, as if to say, “You’re welcome.”

“You disobeyed my orders!” I exclaimed, weak with relief.

He clicked his chelicerae as though laughing.

Oh, you. Though I chided him silently, I couldn’t stay mad at the adorable arachnid. The shrieker had distracted the Zolom away from my gnomes, and it was heading this way—just as I’d planned.

“All right, then. Let’s work together.”

Binky agreed. The spider lowered his body until he was half-submerged in the water; with his greenish-brown coloring, he didn’t look out of place in the marsh himself. But he wasn’t hiding. This was an invitation.

The Zolom was almost upon us. With a thrill of excitement, Ris’kin leapt onto Binky’s back and the three of us took off toward the next shrieker.

Each time the convoy triggered one of the shroomy sentinels, we’d set off a different one on the far side, keeping the Zolom distracted long enough for my denizens to escape the area. Binky’s nimbleness made sure we easily avoided the serpent’s clumsy attacks; the passive terrain skills he’d gained alongside the gnomes meant he practically danced through the murky water. I almost felt sorry for the serpent as I watched it throw itself blindly at unseen enemies over and over again.

Eventually the gnomes moved beyond range of the last shrieker. The downside of this was that my Sphere was receding too. Binky might be growing more independent, but he wasn’t yet fully terrestrial, and as long as his existence still utilized at least one Creation slot, he was still subject to the influence of my Sphere.

However, this didn’t quite mean the same for him it had before. My early, “celestial” god-born had been unable to pass beyond its boundaries at all; when Ris’kin was still just a regular forrel, I’d seen her bounce right off like an invisible but solid wall. Now, for Binky, it seemed to be more of a force than a wall. It pulled on him, but he resisted as best he could.

However, it was clear this was not a fight he could win; as long as he was struggling against the pull of my Sphere, he was distracted and vulnerable to attack. In the end, I urged him to give in and join the retreat. The gnomes were safely away, and it was time for us to follow.

The Zolom, no longer harried by the conflicting cries of the shriekers, was now homing in on the last remaining source of noise: the two humans bringing up our rear.

“It’s coming your way,” I warned them. “Can you hold it?”

Benin gulped but nodded. He rubbed his hands together; sparks crackled between his palms. The emberfox flinched, huddling deeper inside the mage’s bag.

Coll gripped his hammer with both hands and set his legs wide, facing firmly in the wrong direction. He adjusted his stance when I told him, then assured me, “We can hold it. Get the little ‘uns out of here.”

Though it made sense, part of me rebelled at the suggestion. I hated that we were once again on the run—facing an enemy we couldn’t defeat, hiding behind humans, running rather than attacking.

“There’s no shame in running,” Ket’s voice floated across our bond. “Just because we’re not standing our ground doesn’t mean we’re not fighting. It’s just that our fight is for survival right now.”

“When the choice is between fleeing and living or standing and dying, ‘tis no choice at all,” agreed Bekkit. “We must trust in our human allies.”

“But Ris’kin can—”

“Ris’kin’s presence could hamper rather than help,” said Ket firmly. “Let Benin and Coll handle it. Your denizens need you more. Who knows what we’ll find when we leave this forest?”

Even through the mist, I could see the trees were thinner and the light brighter. For the second time in recent weeks I found myself reluctantly fleeing toward the sun.

When I looked back, the last thing I saw was the shadow of the Zolom rearing up, followed by a flash of fire. Then there was only mist.

Forty-Seven

The Jaws of Death

Benin

“Nothing’s working!”

Yet another spell—Kelarian Candle this time—ricocheted off the serpent’s body in a shower of fiery sparks.

Benin’s fire-based abilities were more powerful than the new air-based ones, but the snake’s natural resistance—not to mention the fact that its scales, along with every other surface in this thrice-damned marsh, were wet—meant the flames splashed harmlessly off its unnaturally hard skin. Even the Lightning Ball spell Bekkit had taught him seemed merely to irritate the snake.

“Okay… so it’s immune to magic, and hitting it with my hammer only stops it for half a moment.” Coll threw him a glance. “I say we trigger those mushrooms and run.”

“We don’t know that the others are safely away yet,” Benin argued. They both stepped aside as the snake snapped at the air between them, drawn by their voices.

“Besides,” Benin added, nodding toward the slight lump in the serpent’s throat. “We have a rescue mission to complete.”

“Are you kidding?!”

Coll ducked just in time to avoid the snake’s lunge. Its head impacted the tree behind him with a crack. For a moment Benin dared to hope the sound had been the serpent’s skull. But no; the cracking grew louder, and with a splintering snap the top half of the tree toppled sideways. The broken trunk remained rooted, jutting up from the water in deadly shards.

He couldn’t blame Coll for sounding so incredulous. A month or so ago Benin himself would have laughed at the very idea of risking himself to rescue one solitary gnome—a gnome who may well already be dead.

But with every day that went by, Benin became more and more conscious of the fact that he had contributed almost nothing to the exodus. He’d been absent during the dire badger attack when he was needed most, and still didn’t have enough control over his abilities to use them in fights without fear of collateral damage.

What am I training for if not to actually help?

Past-Benin would not have thought saving one gnome was worth the risk; that it wouldn’t make a difference. But he’d spent enough time among the tribe and its God Core to know that every gnomish life mattered. He’d witnessed their grief when their scout had failed to return, and again when the old clothier had popped his clogs. He still couldn’t honestly say that he himself would grieve if the swallowed warrior turned out to be beyond saving, but he knew others would, and he wanted more than anything right now to be the reason they were spared that.

“Coll,” he called, leaping away from the snake’s next attack and almost turning his ankle on the slimy ground. “When I say so, make a really big noise right over there.”

He pointed. When the warrior began wading in that direction, Benin checked if Pyra was still safely tucked inside his bag. He was fairly sure she’d be fine if she fell, but given her clear mistrust of the flooded environment compared to her previous confidence, even in heavy rain, he didn’t want to risk it.

The snake had raised its head again, forked tongue flickering in and out of its fanged mouth. Blood from Coll’s arm still stained the tips of its teeth.

We’ll teach you not to mess with us.

Benin drew on his mana and cast Levitate.

It was still like surfing on a silk cushion, but at least it no longer felt as though the cushion were actively trying to buck him off. He raised himself higher, then, once he was certain he was stable, he channeled a trickle of his rapidly draining mana into his hand and snapped his fingers.

A noise like a thunderclap burst through the air, and the serpent immediately snapped in his direction. But he was too high, beyond its grasp. For now. It hissed in frustration, just like before, and withdrew to uncoil itself further from the trees and extend its reach.

Benin anxiously watched his mana drain. Come on, come on, come on…

As soon as he spotted it coming back, he yelled, “About time! Dinner’s up here, snakey!”

It rose, hissing, and continued to rise. Benin was floating at least five meters in the air, almost above the level of the mist and the tops of the trees, and he gaped at the sheer scale of the massive reptile. Its tongue still flicked the air, tasting for him.

“Now!” he shouted.

The snake’s jaws gaped open, but before it could strike at Benin, there was a concussion down below. Hammer Smash sent tremors through the flooded ground, pushing the water away from the point of impact. It instantly came rushing in again, but not before the snake’s head plummeted downward toward the sound.

Just as he’d hoped, the jagged base of the broken tree trunk pierced the snake’s upper body, driven into and through it by the force of the serpent’s own momentum. The creature let out a terrible hissing scream.

Benin hurriedly lowered himself back to the ground. He winced as waves of cold water splashed up his legs, soaking his robes all the way to his waist. The serpent was thrashing ferociously, the seemingly endless coils of its body shaking the surrounding trees, sending surges of water everywhere, and triggering shriekers to add to the cacophony of its own agony.

The mage waded toward the broken trunk, careful to avoid the thrashing coils.

“Coll?” he called.

He almost fell over when the snake’s head lunged toward him, snapping at the air just in front of his face. The trunk impaling it had stopped it dead just before it could bite his head off.

“It’s still alive!” yelled Coll.

The serpent lunged back in his direction. Benin heard him swear. There was a splash, followed by sounds of a scuffle and more swearing.

He waded urgently closer, sparks crackling in his hands, though Levitate had left him almost entirely drained. He stopped dead when he rounded the thick trunk and saw Coll rolling around in the water, his arms and legs wrapped around the snake’s thick body as it writhed in a futile attempt to shed its unwanted rider.

There was a glimmer of metal in the warrior’s hand. Was he… was he going to try and cut the gnome out of the snake’s gullet?

It won’t work, you idiot.

“I can’t cut it!” Coll sounded surprised. Benin rolled his eyes, but the warrior had already tossed the knife aside. He began working his way further up toward the snake’s head.

“What are you going to do, choke it out?” He was only half jesting. There was very little Coll could do that wouldn’t surprise him.

“Get over here,” the warrior grunted. The gloved fingers of his left hand closed around the serpent’s snout, while his right hand gripped the edge of its lower jaw in between its front fangs.

It thrashed as Benin waded closer, but the warrior held its head firmly in the crook of his elbow. Though its violent movements dragged him back and forth, it wasn’t able to move its head enough to attack them.

“Go on, then,” said the warrior, teeth gritted with the exertion of holding the monstrous snake’s jaws open.

“What?”

“Get the little ‘un.”

“What?!”

“Hurry up. I can’t do this all day.”

Benin stared into the jaws of death.

He’s right. This is the only way.

“Hurry up,” Coll grunted again.

Benin rolled up his sleeve, held his breath, then plunged his hand into the snake’s mouth.

Its breath was hotter than he expected. He managed not to actually touch any part of the snake until he got to its throat. The surface was grossly smooth, as though lubricated. The same thing that helped it swallow its prey so easily now worked in his favor as he grimaced and pushed his hand deeper.

He could feel the hot, powerful muscles in its throat contracting around his arm, trying to swallow him too. He pushed down the urge to scream and flail and instead forced himself even further inside.

His fingers brushed against something hard. He pushed deeper; leaning in, his entire shoulder was now inside the snake’s mouth, its teeth just inches above his head. He made the mistake of glancing up, and almost passed out at the sight of more teeth. Even more so than the protruding fangs at the front, these curved backwards toward the throat. Benin now also noticed the angled ridges in the roof of the snake’s mouth, also angled toward the throat. Presumably this was all to prevent prey from climbing back out again.

He’d basically just stuck his arm inside a bag of very large, very warm needles. And the only thing keeping it from snapping shut on him was the grip of a single human warrior.

“Don’t—let—go!” he grunted to Coll.

With one last push, his hand closed around what definitely felt like a very small, booted ankle. He fished around until he found the other ankle, then grasped them both firmly together in his hand.

He tugged. The gnomish warrior shifted a little, but was stuck fast, trapped in the beast’s muscled esophagus. I doubt he can breathe in there at all.

The thought of slowly suffocating to death while entirely unable to move filled him with horror. With a renewed effort, Benin thrust his other arm in, leaning all the way down the snake’s throat and pushing through pulsing flesh and muscle to better grip the gnomish warrior.

This time, when he pulled with both hands, the gnome came slithering out. Benin fell back on his backside, and the gnome landed in his lap. Benin pulled his sleeves back down and used them to wipe the thick layer of saliva, or whatever it was that covered the little guy’s face, but he wasn’t breathing.

“Can we go now?”

Sweat poured down Coll’s face. His arms were beginning to tremble. It wouldn’t be long before his stamina gave out.

“Just a little longer.” Benin glanced at his mana globes. He was still low, but he had plenty for this. He only hoped it wouldn’t fry his target.

He held a hand out over the gnome’s chest. The emberfox climbed up his back and onto his shoulder, curious.

A spark leapt from his palm to the gnome’s chest. Its entire body jolted. When nothing else happened, Benin prepared to do it again—but then the gnome gasped suddenly, eyes opening wide. He looked around wildly, coughing and gasping. Gradually his face changed from its bluish pallor to something more closely resembling its usual ruddy-cheeked pink.

“Now can we go?”

Coll’s entire body was shaking violently. Even as Benin watched, the snake’s jaws began to force themselves closed inch by inch.

“When I say, let go and roll away.”

Coll nodded, veins and tendons in his neck standing out starkly with the strain. Swirling sparks crackled in Benin’s hand as he took aim between those monstrous jaws.

“Now!”

Benin launched the Lightning Ball. It sailed into the snake’s mouth just as Coll let go; its jaws snapped shut around the crackling ball. Benin clenched his fist and the ball detonated.

He’d been half-hoping for a dramatic explosion. Instead, the snake shook its head as if confused. Tendrils of smoke wafted from its mouth.

He had the barest sliver of mana remaining, hardly enough for the meanest cantrip. It was clear Coll was empty too. He could barely stand, let alone lift his hammer. Stamina was to a warrior what mana was to a mage, and wrestling this ancient behemoth had drained his companion almost dry.

They were both done.

We have to go, he signaled to Coll, who nodded wearily.

Benin leaned forward to scoop up the gnome, who was thankfully in one piece, snakeskin trousers and all. He was heavier than he’d expected, and clearly unhappy at being carried like a babe, but they needed to get out of here as quickly as possible.

But the snake was angry. Rather than listening for its prey, tasting the air, or resting its jaw on the water’s surface to feel for vibrations, it was snapping unpredictably at the air all around it. And Benin was on the wrong side.

As he turned to look for a different path around the snake, it twisted and snapped at him. It came so close its fangs grazed his chest, and he gasped in shock. When the snake, having confirmed his location, came back for another bite, he stood frozen.

Before it reached him, though, something shot in from the side, and its face and neck were coated in a sticky, web-like substance. It snapped its jaws closed prematurely, then found it could not open them again thanks to the sticky fluid.

Hardly able to believe he was still alive and whole, Benin scanned the heavy mist in the direction the projectile had come from. From the twisted branches of a tree only just within sight, eight eyes gleamed in the weak sunlight.

Then the spider was scrabbling at the tree, trying to resist being dragged back by some invisible force, presumably the Core’s influence.

The gnome he was carrying saluted the spider weakly. Benin found himself following suit, raising his free hand to the arachnid. It seemed to relax, and let itself be dragged away, though its cluster of eyes continued to stare back at him. He still found it unnerving, but far less so than when he’d first met the creature.

“Ben!”

Coll’s shout made him turn just in time to see the snake lunging for him yet again. Even as he stumbled backwards with a yell, lifelong instincts had him reaching for his fire, and a weak stream of flames burst from his outstretched palms into the serpent’s face. It shrieked at the heat but its skin remained uncharred.

Idiot, he berated himself. Fire doesn’t work. Its scales don’t burn!

Binky’s webbing did, though. The flames licked at it ravenously, as though delighted to have finally found a substance they could consume. The giant snake—impaled, enwebbed, and now incinerated—writhed furiously, screeching and shrieking in defeat as it sank beneath the water.

“Is it dead?” Coll asked.

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Let’s go.”

With the emberfox on his shoulder and the regurgitated gnome warrior under his arm, Benin hurried along the path in the direction he’d seen the spider disappear. Other than a tense moment in which they triggered one last shrieker shroom, their retreat was uneventful.

He couldn’t help glancing back. Smoke from the burned webbing lingered in the air, hanging oddly among the mist. The broken tree on which they’d impaled the serpent was now a distant silhouette, a vague jagged shape that could as easily have been any old log as the final resting place of an ancient reptile.

I never liked snakes much anyway.

Forty-Eight

Creature Intersection

Corey

Despite my wish to never again set foot in a marsh, sending scouts back later to harvest spores from the shriekers was a must. If we could cultivate them in our new home, the shriekers would basically serve as free guardians, with no mana or Creation cost.

Unless I infuse them with Growth… I wonder if giant shriekers would make enough noise to actually damage intruders?

My thoughts also lingered on the massive snake we’d encountered. The terrifying fact of its very existence notwithstanding, something about the Marsh Zolom’s description niggled at me. The Augmentary had called it a “hybrid”—which, until now, was something I’d only seen on descriptions of god-born, as well as Benin’s emberfox familiar and, of course, my own avatar.

But that was a problem for future Corey. Right now, we had to focus on what was directly in front of us and keep looking forward.

Time remaining for Exodus: 5 days, 13 hours, 59 minutes

The humans’ map had been correct. After finally emerging from the trees, we pushed on through the evening and night, crossing a series of blessedly flat grassy meadows until we finally reached the river in the shadow of the mountains. They loomed before us now, the rays of the rising sun dusting their peaks with misty golden halos.

Coll and Benin caught up with us just as we reached the river. I was shocked to see Ajax accompanying them, since the last I’d seen of the gnomish warrior he was disappearing down the Marsh Zolom’s gullet. I was even more shocked when they regaled us with the tale of his rescue.

“It was Benin’s idea to save Ajax? Really?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” The mage’s usual bitterness was already returning to his voice, the hint of a sneer curling his lip.

Just as being a God Core had changed me, I’d noticed that accompanying us on the exodus seemed to have gradually changed Benin as well. At first he’d been quick to complain, quick to mock, and quick to—well, quick to do anything negative and unhelpful. But in recent days, he’d seemed a little more relaxed, more patient, and even willing to smile. He seemed happier with who he was becoming, and I did not want to be the one responsible for making him revert to his old moody, peevish self.

“Not hard at all,” I lied. “I just… I feel bad that I didn’t even consider it an option.”

That last part was no lie. Ever since laying eyes on Ajax I’d felt a gnawing guilt at how I’d abandoned him without a second thought. It compounded the worry and responsibility that was weighing me down as a whole. I’d sworn to keep the gnomes safe, yet I’d accepted this one’s death as given the instant he disappeared from my sight. What kind of god was I?

“You also grieved for him, Corey,” Ket reminded me. “You weren’t unaffected by his loss. You’re not a monster. You simply had to prioritize the rest of your denizens.”

“You can’t do everything on your own,” Benin surprised me by saying. He looked uncomfortable, but the sympathy in his voice was undeniable.

“Yup. That’s why you’ve got us!” added Coll.

“Indeed,” added Bekkit.

I swallowed, a sudden rush of emotion making it difficult to speak. Luckily, I was spared the need by a minor commotion at the water’s edge.

The gnomish fishers were going wild. They’d dropped their fishing tackle, the better to clap and cheer, and were currently off their tiny faces with surprised delight. I immediately saw why.

One of the fishers had managed to land a river eel. In his excitement he’d lost control of it, and now it was making a break for freedom, sidewinding its way along the grassy bank. The fisher called to the nearest warrior—who happened to be Ajax—who then, to everyone’s surprise, scurried over to Coll. Ajax patted the human’s knee, then gestured at the wriggling eel, miming what was without doubt meant to be a hammer blow. He gave a half bow, as though inviting Coll to proceed with some great honor.

Coll glanced around at us all, then shrugged and strode forward, bringing his hammer down on the rogue eel. I expected an explosion of scales and fish-guts. Instead, the eel’s entire body went rigidly straight, as though upon death it had snapped to attention.

While the gnomish fishers rejoiced, calling over the cooks to remove the corpse and prepare its bounty for later feasting, Coll inspected his hammer’s head, which I now saw was tinted with grains of blue powder.

“All hail Mr. Stiff,” sniggered Benin.

“You know, that’s a good name for a hammer,” said Coll thoughtfully.

“You’re right,” I said. “As God Core of this tribe, let it be known that this great weapon shall henceforth be referred to as Mr. Stiff!”

The cooks chose that particular moment to cheer. They were clearly rejoicing at the sight of the dead eel, but Benin fell about laughing nonetheless.

“When do you intend for us to cross the river?” asked Ket, keen to change the subject.

Since we’d traveled through the night without rest, I’d decided to give my denizens a little down time. Time was running out, but morale and stamina had both taken a hit and we’d be more likely to succeed if my scouts and scavengers were operating at full capacity.

“I’ll send the scouts across this afternoon,” I told the sprite. “The scavengers too. I’ll have them comb the mountainside for cave entrances. For now, though, they need to rest awhile.”

“And bathe,” she agreed, pinching her nose.

The river was quite deep—at the middle of the shallowest crossing even Ajax would have to swim—and the far side was all rocks and gravel. I decided there was no harm in remaining camped on the grass until the time came to move.

Apparently the gnomes weren’t the only ones who needed baths. At Gneil’s suggestion, the badgers waded into the river to rinse off the muck of the swamp. My high cleric and the scouts went over them with combs and brushes to make sure the more caked-on filth came off. Meanwhile the acolytes each picked up an owlet and took them to the water’s edge, gently cleaning their feathers of algae and brown water. The young owls thanked them by squawking with outrage and pecking their hands viciously.

When they were done, and the hoot-hoots were huddled once again on the wagon, preening their bedraggled feathers and muttering crossly to themselves, the acolytes went off to bathe themselves, though I spotted one of them behaving rather oddly.

One of the acolytes, Gnils, was crouched in the shallows, cradling something in her hands. I zoomed over to take a closer look and immediately regretted it.

“What is it about frogs that they love so much?” I complained, watching the gnome stroke the ugly amphibian’s head with her finger.

“What is it about them that you dislike so much?” Ket countered.

“You mean apart from the irritating sound they make, and the creepy way they move?”

The sprite laughed. It was good to hear after so long in the stresses of the oppressive forest marsh. It lifted my spirits even further when she called out to Benin and Coll.

“Why don’t I properly introduce you to some of the gnomes?” she suggested. “You’ve traveled with them long enough now.”

The two humans shrugged and agreed, trudging exhaustedly toward the water in the wake of the sparkling sprite. I was about to follow when Bekkit cleared his throat.

“I appreciate the need to rest,” he began, “but we should not tarry overmuch.”

“I’m sending the scouts out this afternoon,” I told him, though he must surely have heard me say the same thing to Ket just a few minutes earlier.

“Every moment idle is a moment wasted. There remains just five days, twelve hours, fifty-seven minutes—”

“And forty-three seconds,” I finished. “I’m more than aware. I’m also aware that morale and stamina are dangerously low. Let them have their rest. We need this.”

“I must—”

“We need this,” I repeated firmly.

I took off after Ket, and to my relief Bekkit did not follow.

Ket was pointing out individual gnomes to Benin and Coll. In their excitement at the prospect of fresh water, most of my denizens had neglected to undress before entering the river, and were now splashing around fully clothed.

Most of them.

“And this, as you know, is Longshank,” she announced, just as the hunter proceeded to drop his pants. Ket squealed and averted her eyes as though Longshank’s privates might somehow start spitting acid.

The pyromancer sniggered appreciatively. “Perhaps you should have named him Dongshank instead. Or Longd—”

“Let’s move over to the fishers,” Ket resumed loudly, her voice growing more and more high-pitched as she led them away from Longshank, who was continuing to strip. My sprite gestured at the nearest fisher. “This young man is named Chub.”

Her usual white glow, already tinged with pink, turned fuchsia when Benin snorted and then immediately began cackling. I couldn’t help but smirk as well at the unfortunate sequence of introductions.

“Why do you call him Chub?” Benin managed to ask. “Seems a bit… judgy.”

“What? He’s a fisher. We named him after the first fish he ever landed: a pale chub.”

She scowled at the now-howling mage and folded her arms. I swooped in to rescue her.

“Chubs were the only kind of fish we had in the Grotto,” I explained. “We named all the fishers after the different kinds. The small gnome beside Chub is Sprat, and the long-faced fellow over there is Bleak. Then you’ve also got Porgy. All different kinds of chub.”

Benin had finally gotten his laughter under control. “What about the last two?” He nodded toward a pair of rotund gnomes fishing further upstream than the rest. Unlike the other fishers, they carried spears rather than rods, both standing patiently in the knee-deep shallows with weapons poised.

“We’d run out of chubs by the time we got to them,” I admitted. “I wanted to name them Bloater and Floater, but Ket was boring—”

“Ket was sensible,” she corrected. “Those two are named Finn and Gill. They’re a little more… practical than the other fishers.”

“The chubs.”

“Yes.”

“By ‘practical’ she means that they don’t throw a party every time one of them catches a fish,” I told the mage. “Which the others do.”

“Every time?”

“Every. Time.”

On cue, a pattering of applause from downstream told us another fish had been landed. The clapping was of standard enthusiasm, suggesting this was probably not a new species of fish, but as usual the other fishers had all dropped their rods into the water in order to free their hands for the celebration. The subsequent splashing while wading out to retrieve their equipment, as usual, scared away every fish within a five-meter radius.

“They’re excited, bless them,” Ket said, clearly sensing my mental facepalm.

“It’s just not efficient,” I told her, not for the first time.

She spluttered. “E-fish-ent. Good one, Corey.”

I glared at her. “Why do you only ever appreciate my puns when they’re not deliberate?”

At least the fishers were getting more opportunity to practice their skills. I’d noticed they’d hit a plateau very early on, and their gains from fishing in the Grotto had been almost non-existent after a time. Now, in new terrain and catching new species, they would level up much faster. They could probably have leveled up their skills further in the flooded marsh, but since most of the creatures that dwelt there were at best inedible and at worst deadly poisonous, I hadn’t wanted to waste their stamina—or risk any member of the convoy consuming their deadly catch.

The abundance of river fish here at least provided plenty of materials to keep my craftsmen busy. The carpenters began to experiment with scrimshaw techniques, carving the larger bones to make new tools and weapons, while the armorer and tanner worked together to try and figure out a way to turn fish scales into armor. And I thought our warriors’ ensemble couldn’t get any dodgier.

The new bowyer—whom I’d decided to name Catgut, after the material that made up bowstrings—also attempted to incorporate the finer fish bones into arrow fletching, though she had yet to succeed in crafting one that would fly as straight as those fletched with the more traditional feathers.

Speaking of feathers, now that the overseer was making them bring every single catch over to me, we discovered something new about Insight and the Augmentary: when I used the ability on multiple different individuals of the same species, it unlocked more detailed information about that species, increasing my pool of knowledge the more of them we encountered. Ket suggested I do it on each of the five owlets, and then proceeded to immerse herself in the new information.

“Did you know that when they’re fully grown they’ll basically eat anything? Voles, woodchucks, ducks…” She trailed off, hands over her mouth as she read. “And even rabbits. That’s horrible!”

I shrugged. “They’re opportunistic feeders. It’s in their nature.”

“But… bunnies, Corey. Bunnies!”

I fought not to laugh at the sprite’s indignation. “Most of the creatures we’ve Insighted—Insought?—have been carnivores, including those grass-cats you found so ‘adorable.’ Hells, the gnomes hunt and eat meat every day. So why does this offend you so much?”

“I just can’t believe they’re such brutes. I’d have hoped for better, you know?”

She was acting as though the entire owl species had personally betrayed her.

“They’re birds of prey, Sparky. What did you expect?”

“Don’t start calling me that again. And I don’t know. They’re so… cute? Look at that one. It looks like it should be running a museum or something.”

It was true. The one she was gesturing toward had developed coloring that made the downy feathers on its chest look like a smart checkerboard jumper. A rumpled leaf hung from the bottom of its beak in an uncanny replica of a bow tie. Eyes closed, it was hooting softly to the owl beside it, seemingly not noticing that its companion was gradually edging further away along the wagon while rotating its head in all directions, as though mightily bored of the checkerboard-owl’s blathering and seeking an excuse to politely leave.

Nearby, in preparation for their imminent epic scavenging mission, Swift and Cheer were sorting through the myriad contents of their packs. Cross-legged, they were surrounded by small mountains of what they likely thought of as treasure, but any sane person would describe as “crap.”

I’d glimpsed them tinkering with some of it throughout the journey, but had been too distracted by other things (like gnome-eating snakes) to pay them much attention beyond ensuring they weren’t extorting other members of the tribe again. Now, though, I got to see it all.

They’d been ‘borrowing’ bits of the materials used by the clothiers, and though they already had their own set of snakeskin leggings and boots, they’d also used hardened skin to make bracers, which they fixed upon their wrists now. Brightly-colored frogs’ legs and berry-painted bones, they hung in their hair and from their belts, so that they looked more like primitive shamans than scavengers.

By far the most disturbing of their belongings were the remains of the tiger owl. I vaguely recalled them dragging its body away after Hoppit shot it from the sky. The phrase ‘waste not want not’ was apparently a scavenger’s maxim, and they’d utilized every part of the dead bird. I had to admire their imagination. In addition to feathered cloaks and matching shoulder pauldrons, they’d also crafted wicked-looking daggers from the owl’s talons, as well as flutes and what looked like wind chimes from its hollow bones. They’d also used the curved beak to craft what looked like some kind of plague-doctor’s mask.

The mask went back in their bag, as did the musical bones, but everything else they donned or otherwise equipped, Cheer adding the brace of talon-daggers to her already-bristling bandolier and tucking others into her boots and belt.

”I’m not even surprised anymore,” said Ket. “I’m barely even appalled. No, wait—yes I am.”

“Well, I for one look forward to the superb owl party they’re clearly planning on throwing.”

She watched the scavengers with distaste. I decided to try and change the subject. “Hey, since our hoot-hoots have been hanging around with the acolytes so much, d’you think that makes them birds of pray?”

It worked; Ket suddenly no longer wanted to talk about owls.

In all seriousness, the birds offered tremendous possibilities once I regained access to my Creation menu. They were natural predators, and their power of flight made them extra versatile—potentially perfect for guarding my future Sphere of Influence. Wings weren’t necessarily a boon in cramped tunnels and other underground places—hence I’d yet to make any flying god-born, despite having the blueprints for creatures like moths and bats—but perhaps our new home would have more expansive tunnels than our previous territory. I hoped so; as much as I’d grown to love the Grotto and its environs, my denizens deserved something grander.

Not that it takes much to impress them, I thought, glancing down at the latest kerfuffle on the bank.

For reasons unfathomable to me, Gnils the acolyte—apparently bored of playing with frogs—had placed one of the hoot-hoots on Binky’s head and was now calling the others over to look at it. The owl seemed to be enjoying the experience; it kept glancing over at its siblings on the wagons and then lifting its head smugly, clearly experiencing delusions of grandeur at being singled out in such a way. Binky on the other hand just looked confused. He glanced from side to side as though seeking an escape route through the gathering gnomes, all of whom were laughing delightedly at the unlikely duo.

I was struck by a sudden image of the two creatures as a god-born hybrid. A tarantula with the head of an owl… Even I shuddered in horror at the thought. It would be unnatural. Maybe if I put eight eyes on the owl part instead of just two…

I shook off the fantasy. I could spiderize as many animals as I wanted just as soon as I had my mana back. Enough daydreaming. We’ve got work to do.

Forty-Nine

Bear Necessities

Corey

After three days of searching, I was starting to feel overwhelmed by a sort of manic urgency.

My instructions had been simple: look for cave entrances, sinkholes, animal burrows—anything that might indicate a likely cave system.

Less than two days remained on the Exodus timer, and I was forced to seriously consider the possibility we’d have to establish our new base right here by the river. To be fair, it wasn’t a terrible location; we had a plentiful supply of fresh water and fish, and the gnomes’ advanced huts kept them sheltered from the nippy autumn nights. But it was hardly what you’d call defensible.

How were we going to find what we were looking for in time?

Though it was a short rest in the grand scheme of things, I almost regretted giving them time to recuperate; the shenanigans by the river had allowed them to recover their stamina and raised their morale, sure, but I should have kept pushing them. Maybe we would have found the place by now.

Our task was made more difficult by the fact that we had no idea what we were actually looking for. The Grotto had been found by outsiders only when they’d literally stumbled upon it, but I had to assume the gnomes’ ancestral home would be better hidden—probably much deeper underground.

Coll thought we should look for simple crevices and caves; that a natural, unassuming entrance was the ancient gnomes’ most likely form of defense. Contrarily, Benin suggested we ought to look for subtle signs that might indicate hidden doors, much like those the dwarves were rumored to dwell behind, while Bekkit argued that we should instead seek evidence of rockslides.

“’Tis more likely after all this time the entrance may have been covered by nature rather than design,” he insisted.

Ket seemed unusually quiet, thoughtful. I often caught her gazing up at the mountain peaks with a sad, wistful sort of frown on her face. When I questioned her about it, she seemed confused, as though I’d snapped her out of a daze. All she said was, “This whole place seems familiar, somehow. As though I’ve been here before…”

“I’ve actually been meaning to ask—what were you before you became a Core?” asked Benin curiously.

The question seemed to startle her. “I… don’t recall,” she said. Then she quickly flitted away.

The mage narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Then his face lit up when the emberfox took a piece of jerky from his hand. After a moment’s consideration, he tossed a piece in Binky’s direction too. Ordinarily I would have been thrilled that Binky had made a new friend. But it was difficult to take satisfaction in anything with the weight of our task pressing down on me so heavily.

We were so close I could almost taste my mana again; could almost see the tendrils of green Faith flowing from my denizens and into my gem.

I longed for things I’d taken for granted and even complained about in the past. I missed using Growth on shroomtree mycelia and witnessing my denizens’ awe at seeing them sprout instantly like magic. I longed to Create new god-born, to use Evolution on Ris’kin and Binky, and to order a greater number of gnomes to go scout so that I could unlock the profession for more of them.

But all of that cost mana, and so among my denizens our seekers were limited to Longshank and the remaining four scouts (Toc, Strider, Artemis, and Hindmarch) as well as Swift and Cheer, since their Scavenge ability allowed me to send them out beyond my Sphere without expending mana.

Benin and Coll were doing the best they could to help, as was Ris’kin, but it was clear we needed to spread our net even wider.

“Coll, Benin—keep searching around the base of the mountain. Take Bekkit with you—you can travel further and send him back with word if you find anything.” They both nodded and started packing away the remains of their breakfast. Bekkit activated Terrestrial Body, his sparks disappearing as he became a mundane sprite. I’d no longer be able to communicate with him in this state, but it allowed him to travel outside my Sphere of Influence for a limited time.

“The scouts will comb the trails again. Maybe this time they’ll find more than just shallow caves and animal burrows.”

“What about you?” asked Coll.

“I’ll go with Ris’kin.” Down below, my avatar faced the shadowed side of the nearest mountain. “We’ll climb the far side, see if there’s anything further up. If we don’t find an entrance, maybe we’ll at least find a cave big enough to shelter us all.”

I knew that sounded less than ideal, and the skeptical looks worn by the humans confirmed it, but they nodded anyway. The scouts shouldered their stonebows and followed Longshank, hitching a ride across the river on the badgers’ backs.

Ris’kin looked up at me. Her ear twitched. Ready? she seemed to ask.

I activated Double Sight, and an instant later was looking out of her one eye. My nose stung pleasantly with the crisp clean smell of the mountain and the cold water of the stream.

Let’s go find our new home.

* * *

The cave was perfect. Sort of.

It had taken us around four hours to reach it. We’d inspected every likely-looking crack and crevice on the way up here, had followed a few inside the mountain, but all of them had petered out into dead ends or become too narrow for even a skelemander to pass, let alone the gnomes and their wagons.

An overhang protected the cave’s entrance from the elements, providing a sort of sheltered porch. Nice and defensible. I like it.

The downside was that the cave was already inhabited.

We’d seen no signs of life yet, but the air inside the cave was thick with musk. Ris’kin’s nose and mouth were full of it, and her natural instincts had her hackles rising further with each step we took inside. Everything about the scent warned, “Danger: predator.”

Our growing unease was compounded as we passed mounds of bones. The broken skulls of small animals stared blankly at us as we passed, and Ris’kin bared her teeth at the sight of one that looked remarkably fox-like.

The cave itself was definitely large enough for our needs, and the sound of trickling water somewhere at the back was reassuring. It would require some… tidying up, of course, but the necessities were all here. I can work with this.

It wasn’t perfect, but it would serve just fine as our new home.

Except for the bear.

I only glimpsed it because of Ris’kin’s darkvision. It wasn’t until it ambled out of the shadows that I fully appreciated just how menacing it was.

Mountain Bear

Mammal

Dwells in the mountain ranges of Kelaria and Rilanon. The mountain bear is best known for two things: its ability to climb sheer surfaces, and its incredible sense of smell. With almost double the number of scent receptors as the average dog, the mountain bear’s olfactory capabilities allow it to detect food even through several meters of ice or water, and they have even been known to target prey up to 20 leagues distant.

The mountain bear typically spends 3-4 months of every year in hibernation. The rest of its time is spent hunting, mating, rearing cubs, and dismembering anything foolish enough to wander into its territory.

It towered over my avatar. Sir Fura squeaked in terror, and Ris’kin and I both barely swallowed a similar noise ourselves. The bear was as tall at the shoulder as Coll, and must have weighed more than thirty dire badgers put together.

The bear’s warning growl reverberated around the cave. I felt it as well as heard it, a deep vibration in Ris’kin’s very bones that triggered the most primal of instincts in both of us.

Run, you idiots! they screamed.

The mountain bear’s roar seemed to shake the very ground as we fled the cave. The bear thundered in pursuit.

We had a moment’s indecision when we emerged back out onto the mountainside, but it was obvious the only way was up. The bear would easily chase us down if we descended; our only hope of surviving this chase was to outrun it, and our only hope of outrunning it was to out-nimble it.

We leapt for a nearby outcropping, hauling ourselves up and pausing just long enough to get our balance before reaching for the next. The bear skidded to a stop on the ‘porch’ and sniffed the air, then turned its head toward us and roared again. Pebbles pattered down from above, stinging Ris’kin’s face and making Sir Fura squeak and clutch her shoulder tighter.

Angry we out-climbed you? I thought with some satisfaction. Don’t worry, Mr. Bear, there’s always next time—

The bear launched itself at the rocks below us. Its plate-sized paws and knife-like claws didn’t need to find holds for purchase; they made their own, puncturing the steep rock face as easily as an awl into leather. It began to climb.

Oh. Oh, no.

Ris’kin needed no urging. She kept moving up the mountainside with all the agility she could muster. Her muscles began to burn but still she kept putting hand in front of hand, climbing up by the trickiest paths in the hope that they would slow the bear down, or perhaps make it give up the chase altogether. It didn’t.

Worst of all, it was gaining on us. Every path we took, no matter how difficult or how much dexterousness it required, the bear simply thundered up with brute force. I’d never seen anything like it. Its claws not only penetrated the very rock, they also held the bear’s incredible weight as it climbed the ever more precarious terrain, marching up near-vertical surfaces with no more difficulty than a spider might.

How are we going to lose it?

There was no way we’d survive if it caught up to us. I could almost feel its hot breath on the back of our heels. Panic and adrenaline surged through Ris’kin she gave in to her flight instincts and continued her panicked climb nimbly yet mindlessly.

A bit of rock gave way and we were forced to leap to the side and catch another one. The bear continued the same path—blindly following rather than seeking its own path. That was probably the only reason it hadn’t caught us sooner.

Mindlessly…

Something clicked into place. My racing mind slowed enough to formulate the barest bones of a plan.

Up there, I told Ris’kin. A few meters above us was an outcropping that jutted out from the mountain to form a ledge for those above it, and a near insurmountable obstacle for those below.

My avatar stared up at the outcropping doubtfully. Then the bear roared again. This time I could definitely feel its hot breath right below our feet.

Ris’kin surged into action, drawing on reserves of strength cultivated and enhanced by weeks of forced marching. Sir Fura chattered encouragement into her ear, the squirrel’s tiny claws prickling her shoulder as he clung on for dear life. When she reached the outcropping, brave Ris’kin did not hesitate. She reached first for one handhold, then another. I’d half expected her to let go with her toes, legs dangling above the drop below as she monkey-barred her way along. Instead, she simply sought footholds in the rock and continued to climb as she had been.

I knew if she were to glance over her shoulder, we’d see the dizzying drop below as we clung to the outcropping’s underside like a strange rust-colored spider. Thankfully she remained focused on where we were going, rather than where we might end up. Carefully, she moved her hands and feet as though climbing a regular wall, though her entire body trembled and her fingertips burned with the weight of keeping us anchored. I couldn’t help but remember the last time we’d been in such a situation—the mole-rat fight, so long ago now. How far we’d come since then.

And it will all be for nothing if we fall here.

The thought of our task pushed us both on, and soon enough we were hauling ourselves shakily up over the outcropping’s edge. We rolled onto the ledge, allowing a few seconds to catch our breath.

The bear intended to allow no such thing.

Heavy growling and snorting announced its presence just below. It had somehow followed us even here. But we were ready for it. Though Ris’kin’s limbs were still trembling, she pushed herself up onto all fours, raising her tail expectantly and baring her teeth in what I knew to be a wicked grin.

One of the bear’s massive paws thudded into view, claws scraping against the rock and then digging in with a crunch.

Wait for it…

A second paw appeared.

Wait for it…

The instant the bear’s face loomed into view, Ris’kin unleashed the most powerful weapon in her… arsenal.

Defensive Spray

Expel strong-smelling musk from the anal glands in order to disorient and deter predators.

The beast got a faceful of the pungent liquid. Its snout spasmed, the creature’s sensitive olfactory organs no doubt burning in agony as they attempted to process the foul fox musk it had just inhaled. It shook its head violently, snorting and huffing, and its claws slipped a little on the rock. But it still didn’t fall.

A stone smacked off the bear’s brow ridge. A second later, another stone clipped one of its incisors, chipping the tooth and making the bear roar even more furiously.

Sir Fura jumped up and down, then spun in a circle as he launched his third stone. This one smacked the bear straight in the middle of its nose. Its head jerked back, and one of its massive paws lost its grip on the ledge, but it still hung on with the other.

Inspired by her squirrel partner’s bravery, Ris’kin crawled closer to the edge. The bear roared in her face, saliva flying, eyes still squinted shut from the musk. She snarled right back at it, curled her fingers into a fist, and punched it square on the nose.

With one final roar, the bear fell, clawing deep gouges into the stone before its weight pulled it down. We leaned over to watch it fall—to make sure it wasn’t still somehow clinging underneath the ledge—and were satisfied to hear its roar as it hit the mountain far below and continued to roll down the sheer surface until it was out of sight. It would take several hours for it to climb back up here, assuming it was uninjured enough to do so, and we’d be long gone by then.

Ris’kin lay back to recover her strength, and for a few moments we stared up at the cobalt-blue sky, reveling in the sensation of having just punched a bear in the face. The air was colder up here, especially so on the shadowy side of the mountain; the sun was reaching its zenith, but had yet to crest the peaks and begin its crawl down the other side. My avatar’s breath steamed, as did her fur, her body rapidly cooling after the strenuous chase.

“Ow!”

She sat up abruptly, rubbing her leg. Beside Ris’kin, Sir Fura hopped from foot to foot, then raised his gray-furred arm to throw another stone at us.

“We’re getting up! We’re getting up.”

It couldn’t hear me, obviously, but it seemed satisfied, and tucked the stone into its stomach pouch instead. I frowned at it. How much could it fit in there anyway?

The squirrel bounded along the ledge in front of us. We appeared to have stumbled upon a trail of some sort, which was unexpected given that we were nearly at the mountain’s summit. I squinted up the path.

We’re almost at the top. May as well keep going. Perhaps from that new vantage we’d finally spy what we were looking for among the valley below.

* * *

I’d expected a peak. What we found was a caldera.

The shallow crater stretched out before us like the promised land. It was easily wide enough for the Grotto to fit inside it a hundred times over.

My gaze was immediately drawn to the area directly beneath us, where a lake of deep blue sparkled in the sunlight. Small ripples here and there confirmed the presence of fish, and its position at the very top of the mountain meant it was guaranteed to be freshwater.

And not a single bear in sight.

Fresh water, fish, a natural barrier against the outside world—just like the cave below, it had all the bare necessities for our survival.

No, I realized as my gaze traveled further. It’s much more than that.

Beyond the lake, what I’d initially dismissed as rock formations were in fact ruined buildings. Among the broken rocks were weathered bricks, dessicated wood foundations, even glints of glass and metal. Poking up here and there were walls that had remained intact, and even one or two entire buildings that had somehow survived whatever cataclysm had befallen this place.

It was tricky to determine scale from where we stood, but it was clear from the remaining doorways that these structures were once home to a civilization of folk who were much, much smaller in size than elves or humans.

What looked like catapults of some kind were spaced out all around the edges of the crater, and at the far side were unbuilt expanses of what I hoped was tillable earth. Beyond those were a range of raised mounds, as though a miniature mountain range had begun to push up through the ground. Even Ris’kin’s eyes could only pick out rock and rubble.

Part of me wanted to investigate more thoroughly. But the blinking timer in my vision reminded me there was no time to lose.

Time remaining for Exodus: 2 days, 7 hours, 32 minutes

When we’d looked up at the mountain from below, there was no indication that its summit contained such a treasure, no hint of this hidden valley from any angle. But there was no question that this was the place we’d been searching for.

We hadn’t been able to find the gnomes’ ancestral city because we’d been looking in the wrong place. It wasn’t a cave, or a tunnel system. It wasn’t hidden by a magic door or a rockslide. It wasn’t buried somewhere beneath our feet.

It was here.

Fifty

The Crossing

Corey

The riverbank buzzed with anticipation. As industrious as an ant colony, ninety-nine gnomes, eight badgers and one very special spider went about their business packing up the camp and preparing the wagons for the crossing.

We’d found what we came for. We’d located the gnomes’ ancestral home, and all that lay between it and us were the river and a few more hours of hiking.

Time remaining for Exodus: 1 day, 23 hours, 48 seconds

Though Bekkit and the humans had rejoiced at the news, Ket had seemed less excited than expected. She still carried an air of wistful sadness, which was now tinged with trepidation. Every time I caught her like this, I gave her a mental nudge, and gently pushed as much hope and optimism through our bond as I could muster. Still she seemed distant.

The sky had clouded over during Ris’kin and my trek back down the mountain, casting the camp in shadow and making the river look darker and more ominous than it had previously. Despite the threat of rain, the peak of the mountain—where the hidden city sprawled inside its secret crater—was caught in a stray beam of afternoon sunlight, lit golden like a tantalizing promise.

Soon enough we’ll be up there, and the journey will finally be over. I’ll have my powers back, and everything can go back to normal. Just a little further.

“D’you think the wagons will make it to the top?” asked Benin. The mage had washed his robes for the first time since we set off; the damp cloth was steaming in his aura of heat, already almost dry. “The trail we found wasn’t exactly smooth.”

I’d been thinking along the same lines. Though we were still operating under a deadline, that only applied to setting my gem in place and sanctifying my new altar. According to Bekkit that would be enough to mark the exodus as successful, end the timer, and restore my god tiers and abilities. The wagons could wait.

Even the chariot wouldn’t need to pass. If it came to it, I could just ask Coll to carry the ark to the top, so long as Gneil accompanied him to fulfill the sanctification ritual’s requirements. Still, it was better to be prepared.

“Coll, do you think you could go on ahead and find a clearer path up to the summit? Or maybe hammer one for us.”

That last part was a joke—mostly—but Coll just nodded amicably and splashed across. The water came up to his knees at its deepest part, which meant it shouldn’t be more than chin-deep for my gnomes.

The badgers and wagons should be able to cross without issue. So long as we made sure the children and less able-bodied denizens rode the wagons, and maybe roped the rest of them together so they wouldn’t get washed away by the current.

The emberfox paced along the water’s edge, clearly in some distress at the prospect of crossing. Both Benin and Ris’kin attempted to calm her. Though she no longer snapped at the mage when he came near her, she still clearly favored her fellow foxkin; in the end, my avatar picked her up gently and set her atop the chariot. Gneil gave the emberfox a reassuring smile and then resumed tending to Bruce, whom he was preparing to yoke to the chariot for this final leg of our journey.

I was more than a little uneasy at having the fiery little fox situated so close to my wooden ark, not to mention my acolytes. However, it seemed Pyra’s flames only damaged her surroundings when she wanted them to. I hoped. Ris’kin’s calming presence nearby also helped.

Benin had remained in place and had now taken Pyra’s place pacing along the bank. Rather than scouting with Coll, an endeavor in which we all knew he’d be a hindrance more than a help, he’d elected to remain in my Sphere and protect my denizens, perhaps still feeling some guilt about his absence when the dire badgers had attacked, but also because he wanted to spend time training with Bekkit. All of that meant that, like the majority of the gnomes, he’d yet to make the crossing himself.

It was time. Steelpaw was already stepping into the river. At my prompting, Gneil had rearranged the wagons’ passengers so they were no longer in color groups. Instead, the first two wagons contained only children and nurses. They would cross first, accompanied by two scouts and six warriors. Days of scouting had revealed no immediate dangers on the opposite bank, but if there was anything I’d learned by now, it was that there was no such thing as being too careful.

As soon as the second wagon, pulled by Flea, entered the water, Binky followed of his own accord. The young badger had calmed considerably throughout the exodus, and was usually too tired after the day’s exertions to pursue his favorite pastime of harassing the spider. In return I’d noticed Binky was always close by, keeping his octet of watchful eyes over his former nemesis and protecting him as fiercely as he did the gnomes. The two owlets riding on the back of Flea’s wagon hooted cheerfully at the spider, who acknowledged them with a cordial wave of his furry palps.

The relatively relaxed atmosphere was broken when one of the children screamed. The accompanying warriors waded over as quickly as they could, peering into the water at where she was pointing, but it seemed the alarm had been raised for nothing.

The child who’d cried out—Pan, I realized—continued to call to the surrounding warriors, pointing at the water around them, but they shook their heads and ignored her. A nurse beside Pan gently reprimanded the child, then put his arm around her in an attempt to calm her down. In the second wagon, though, Emrys was frowning—his old warrior instincts kicking in, perhaps. He peered down at the river suspiciously.

Despite the alarm, both wagons reached the opposite side without further incident, as did the two that followed.

The chariot made it halfway across before stopping abruptly. Gneil frowned, then shrugged and urged Bruce to pull harder. The badger strained, and for a moment the chariot looked as though it was about to break free of whatever held it.

Then there was an ominous crack.

Stop! I told Gneil.

“What’s happened?” asked Ket. She, Bekkit and Benin were each watching one of the other carts, with instructions to immediately report any sign of danger or other issues.

I dipped beneath the water, my god’s-eye vision permitting me to travel through any surface within my Sphere. Peering through the silt that had been disturbed by our passage and now clouded the darkening water, I quickly spotted the problem.

“It’s stuck,” I told the others.

“You think?” Ket and Benin said together.

I resurfaced and flitted over to them. “It’s caught on a driftwood log that’s wedged into the riverbed. One of the wheel bits has cracked.”

“’Wheel bits’?” Ket’s voice was tinged with as much amusement as concern. “You sure that’s the technical term?”

I located Dovetail and Groove, my carpenter repair team, and immediately sent them both in. Dovetail hopped down from the wagon behind the ark, while Groove waded back into the water from the opposite side.

“How are they going to fix it if it’s underwater?” asked Benin. I could sense his agitation, probably because of Pyra’s presence on the stranded chariot. To his credit, though, his eyes remained fixed on the wagon I’d asked him to watch. Pulled by Helga and led by Hammer, it was the least likely to run into trouble, and was almost at the other side.

“I was hoping you could help with that. Is there any way you could, I dunno, make it not be underwater?”

“Eh?”

“Well, you’re good at fire, and now you can do air and a bit of earth as well. Can you maybe take the water away?”

The mage had finally looked away from his charges. Unlike Coll, who usually addressed either the sky or my gem when conversing with me, Benin’s arcane abilities let him sense my presence and approximate location even when in my god’s-eye form, and he now stared at me in disbelief.

“’Take the water away’? Are you mad?”

“All right then, reroute the river or something. Just for a few minutes.” I pushed down panic as I watched the carpenters struggle, reassuring myself we still had plenty of time.

Bekkit alighted on the mage’s shoulder and the pair began murmuring about displacement barriers and the pairing of something-or-other.

All the time they talked, Benin eyed the water nervously. Then I realized.

“Are you afraid of the water?” I asked incredulously.

He scowled, hands fidgeting inside his sleeves. “Little bit.”

“But you were fine in the marsh!”

“I was crapping my breeches with every step. And it was barely an inch deep in there.”

“You have to overcome your fears,” I told him. “I did.”

“Says the Core who’s afraid of frogs.”

“I am not!” I spluttered. “Ket, you traitor—”

“Something’s wrong.”

My sprite’s voice was hard and deadly serious.

“What d’you mean?” I asked, all levity instantly evaporated.

She’d been watching the rear-most wagon. Pulled by one of the dire badgers, it mostly held non-essential supplies: spare animal hides, shroomwood cast-offs, sticks and other materials gathered from the forest. Swift and Cheer were the only gnomish passengers; still decked out in their owlish attire, they’d been rifling through the wagon’s supplies like the unscrupulous opportunists they were. Now, though, Swift was clutching her netgun in front of her, and Cheer’s knuckles were white around the daggers she gripped in each hand. Both scavengers’ stares were fixed on the water.

“Where’s Garda?” I asked, suddenly realizing that the lone warrior set to accompany the final wagon was nowhere in sight.

“I don’t know,” said Ket. The sprite wrung her hands. “One moment she was there. When I looked again, she’d gone.”

Waves of mounting panic crashed through our bond, and I struggled not to be swept away. A little way upstream, Benin was staring at the place the warrior had disappeared, his eyes wide.

“I’ll take a look,” I tried to reassure them both. “She probably just slipped.”

Once again I ducked into the river. The sky above was even more heavily overcast now that evening was approaching, making the water darker and colder. Mud and silt from the bottom was even more churned up than before, and even with my god’s-eye vision I struggled to pierce the murk. I headed deeper, checking in all directions for any sign of the missing warrior.

A pale hand loomed suddenly to my right.

“Found her!” I told Ket. “Just let me check she’s all r—”

Cold dread filled my entire being as I stared at what I’d found.

“What is it?” Ket almost shouted, having sensed my sudden shock at the sight of the gnome’s hand. Her disembodied hand.

“She’s not all right,” I said faintly.

The ragged flesh and jagged wrist bones suggested her hand had been chewed off rather than cut. Which meant…

There’s something in the water.

Fifty-One

Red Water

Corey

I shot up out of the water and immediately Inspired Gneil to give the signal to retreat. I felt bad abandoning Garda, especially after what happened with Ajax, but it seemed unlikely she was still alive, and right now I had to focus on saving those who could definitely still be saved.

Helga heaved herself onto the far shore, leaving just two wagons and the chariot remaining in the water. The signal to retreat had been passed around, and the scavengers’ wagon was soon approaching the stranded chariot. Its contingent of warriors stood a wary guard around Bruce and the two carpenters, who were understandably struggling to complete repairs since they could assess the damage no better than they could breathe under the near-opaque water.

Where’s Coll when you need him?

Cursing myself for sending the warrior on ahead, I turned to Benin. “If you can’t magic the water away, we’ll have to abandon the chariot. Can you go in there and bring the ark across?”

The mage flinched as something broke the surface beside the chariot, but it was just Dovetail coming up for breath. She’d barely taken her first gasp of air when she was yanked beneath the surface.

Ris’kin, who was doing her best to try and keep Bruce calm, unsheathed her spear and stabbed down in one smooth motion. Graywall, standing beside her, reached down and hauled Dovetail back to her feet. The carpenter coughed water from her lungs, wincing at whatever injury she’d sustained, but she was alive. Graywall and Ris’kin nodded to each other and kept wary eyes on the water.

“We need to get them out of there.” I connected with Gneil again and instructed him and the acolytes to climb across onto Swift and Cheer’s cart. He saw the acolytes across, but when I reiterated for him to follow, instead of the high cleric’s usual enthusiastic obedience, all I got was a sense of steadfast refusal. I attempted to convey that Benin would soon be collecting the ark, and that I wasn’t being abandoned, but still he flatly refused to leave my gem.

Furthermore, when Gneil tried to signal that the warriors should also seek the safety of the shore, they in turn refused to acknowledge his orders, as unwilling to abandon the high cleric as he was to abandon the ark.

“Noble idiots,” I cursed. “Benin, Bekkit—how’s that magic solution coming along?”

They muttered and didn’t respond, deeply focused in a debate about the best way of dealing with the situation. I wanted to scream at Benin to just wade in there and pick up my ark, but the memory of my own crippling fear of the surface world—laughable to Ket, but downright terrifying to me—made me bite my tongue. Besides, things were tense enough already. At least one of us had to remain calm.

“I’m going back in there,” I said to Ket. “We need to see what we’re dealing with.”

“Be careful.”

Whatever was in the water couldn’t hurt me in god’s-eye form, and probably couldn’t even damage my gem if it got hold of it. Still, Ket’s anxiety was starting to affect me as well, and I was tense as I slipped beneath the water for the third time.

It seemed even more threatening than it had before. The dark water and the knowledge that something was picking off my denizens had me jumping at every sign of movement. Though it was only shallow, it was like a different world beneath the water.

The memory of Grimrock’s deep-water monstrosity rising to devour my sinkhole boulderskin rose unbidden, and I shuddered.

I floated amongst the legs of my warriors over to where the carpenters were still attempting to fix the wagon, despite my orders to retreat. Despite the recent attack on Dovetail, there didn’t seem to be anything lurking beneath the chariot. I passed through one of the shroomtree-cap wheels—

—and came face to face with a monster.

Black scales glinted metallic in the faint gray light that filtered through from above. Red eyes gleamed, a glowing band of crimson around a deep black pupil like portals to the hells. Triangular teeth zigzagged around the entrance of a perpetually open mouth.

Dire Fangfin

Fish

The spawn of a dire fangfin queen. The fangfin’s teeth are strong but hollow, allowing them to siphon the blood from the flesh they pierce before tearing it apart for consumption. This is so as not to alert competing species, such as black piranha, to the presence of fresh food.

A distant relative of the tigerfish, the fangfin usually dwells in the silty river waters of jungles and tropical rainforests, though this particular specimen was encountered in the River Emon in Kelaria.

Tropical rainforests? This fish was far, far from home. I distantly recalled thinking the same thing about the mole-rats we’d fought, which the Augmentary had claimed were usually desert creatures.

Another fangfin flashed past on my other side, followed by a third, and then the water was alive with deadly shadows. A carpenter’s tool floated past as Groove was dragged under the chariot and immediately lost beneath a fury of flashing scales and thrashing tailfins.

“Benin!” I yelled, bursting from the water. “Help them!” If he’d just go in and carry the ark across, the warriors and Gneil would follow.

But the mage was staring at the churning red water. “I’m not going in there!”

We’d already doubled our entire exodus’s casualty count, and more were sure to follow once the fish were done devouring my poor carpenter.

I considered inspiring Gneil to order the unfurling of the skynet, but there’d be no way to use it now the creatures were in amongst the gnomes. If I’d thought of it earlier, we could have used the net to rope off a safe crossing area and avoided this whole situation. I’d praised myself for being cautious despite the present urgency, yet I hadn’t even considered that we might face danger from the water itself.

The gnomes have been fishing and bathing here for almost two days. Why are we only now under attack?

Unlike the venomous stings of the marsh creatures, the badgers were not immune to these teeth. The fangfins had foregone their whole blood-siphoning thing and instead seemed to have entered a feeding frenzy. Those that couldn’t find a place amongst the ravening school beneath the chariot spread out, attacking gnomes and badgers indiscriminately, and tendrils of red soon stained the murky water.

Even stolid Bruce was beginning to lose it. The whites of his eyes were showing and he shifted in his yoke, on the very knife-edge of going berserk.

A thrashing shape darted through the warriors and tore a chunk from the badger’s flank. Near-submerged in bloody water, being eaten alive by unseen enemies, and the stench of blood rising from the water finally broke Bruce’s domestication and triggered his animal instincts. The badger snarled and threw himself forward, desperate to escape the water. The yoke held him back, and he strained and heaved, even snapping at the gnomes around him who tried to help.

With a splintering crack, Bruce broke the yoke. The badger barreled toward the safety of the bank and kept running once he reached the other side, his wet fur stained with blood. I saw Pan break away from the other children to run after him, chased by Emrys, and I knew Bruce was in safe hands.

Bruce’s breakout had left a long crack down the front of the outer frame, and the chariot was filling with water. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if not for the emberfox. She’d been huddled behind the ark this entire time, and I’d forgotten she was even there. Recognizing the danger, Gneil lifted her up and placed her carefully on the chariot’s outer frame, the highest point. But another crack, this time from the footboard, warned that more damage had been done than I first thought. The chariot began to list to one side, and Gneil was forced to focus on holding on to the ark, which threatened to slide completely into the water.

“Pyra!”

His fear apparently forgotten, Benin waded into the stream, heading straight for the beleaguered chariot. The emberfox perched atop the ark, baring her teeth at the water below and barking with every violent shift of the chariot.

“Take the water away,” the mage was muttering.

He wasn’t the only one fixed on saving a loved one. Abandoning her position on the bank, General Hoppit sprinted to where the first wagons had been brought further inland. With a few practiced movements, she unyoked Steelpaw from his wagon, swung herself up onto his back and the pair of them charged into the water. She called out instructions to her captains, Serene and Magnus, who began relaying orders to the warriors. Those in the water converged on the panicking badgers, forming protective circles around the animals, while those on the bank loaded stonebows and strung shortbows, scrambling up onto the scattered rocks in hopes the increased elevation would let them better spot our attackers.

The scouts joined them, led by Longshank, who strode fearlessly back into the water, armed not with his hunter’s stonebow but a warrior’s spear.

The warriors already protecting the chariot held their ground, though some of them were chest-deep in water. They were clearly terrified, but Ris’kin’s presence kept them steady. The acolytes who’d reached the shore were whimpering, and the children on the far bank, though they’d been herded well away from the water, were screaming and wailing at the sight of blood.

The air crackled with energy. Everything felt suddenly heavy, slow, like the pregnant pause before a storm. Benin was standing just upstream from the chariot. His feet were planted firmly, and his hands were held out in front of him. Arcane energy wove itself around his dancing fingers, blue-white sparks one moment, tendrils of flame the next.

“You do know that summoning lightning will likely fry us all, right?” I called to him.

The mage grunted. Bekkit replied for him. “There will be no frying. Watch.”

“There’s no time—”

The air shimmered in front of Benin. He grunted again, sweat pouring down his face as he focused his energy on the swirling circle appearing before him.

With an enormous effort, he pulled one hand away from the spell and pointed it to the side, at the grassy bank we’d just left. Another circle appeared there, hovering a few inches above the ground.

“Now?” he gasped.

“Now!” said Bekkit.

The fingers on both Benin’s hands splayed wide, and suddenly the floating circle was spewing water onto our former campsite. The one in front of Benin—and in front of the chariot—was a shimmering silver void.

“A portal?!” Ket and I both exclaimed.

The river still ran on either side of the portal as usual, but the magical field it emitted meant the space directly behind it was no longer subject to the current. As the water began to drain away, its depth dropping dramatically, I started to see shapes flopping in the shallow puddle that remained.

One of the shapes tried to lunge at Hoppit, who was now helping Gneil lift the ark down from the stranded chariot. Quick as a striking tree-viper, Longshank thrust his spear into the creature and lifted it from the water for all to see.

The warriors recoiled from the toothy fish, gripping their weapons more tightly as they escorted Gneil and Hoppit to the shore, avoiding the deepest puddles and flopping shapes. Longshank made to follow them, but another beached fangfin threw itself at him, and razor teeth—perhaps the very teeth that had already torn apart two gnomes this day—closed around his leg.

The hunter glared down at the fish, much larger than the others. Its crimson eye stared balefully up at the hunter as it gnawed futilely on his wooden leg. He jabbed his spear through its eye and twisted. It fell still, its teeth still clamped around his prosthetic calf. Longshank tried to pry it off with the end of his spear, but it held fast. Grumbling, he began to limp to shore, dragging the heavy fish behind him.

“I can’t hold this thing open much longer!” Benin warned through gritted teeth. The circles were looking rougher around the edges than they had before, as though the magic sustaining them was beginning to fray.

The emberfox had bounded along the muddy ground and clambered up to Benin’s shoulder. Longshank was well on his way to shore, accompanied by his dead hitchhiker. Hoppit had already climbed up onto the far bank and was helping Gneil up as well. The pair of them reached down together to pull the ark up after them. Ris’kin lifting it up from underneath, while Sir Fura offered chattering encouragement from further up the bank.

A thunderous crack rent the air. When I looked back at the portals, they were edged with fire.

“Let go!” Bekkit urged. “You have to let go! You’re almost dry!” I knew he wasn’t referring to the absence of water.

“I can’t!”

The mage’s voice shook. Not even when he’d been lost in tunnels following the death of his teammate Lila had he sounded so scared.

“The fire does not control you. You control the fire,” Bekkit was saying. “You must re-balance the elements, otherwise it cannot end!”

The circles spun faster, the orange flames taking on a blue tinge. Tongues of flame licked the air as the portals began to roar and groan, as though struggling to contain a force much greater than they were meant to hold.

“Control it, Benin!” Ket cried. “You’re going to burn out. Don’t let that happen! You can’t!”

My heart broke a little bit at the helplessness in her voice. I’d heard it before, a long time ago, when I’d almost used all my mana on Observe. It was the way she herself had been destroyed as a Core, and I knew she’d never come back from watching it happen to someone else, even though there was nothing she could do here.

Though his hands were still raised toward the portals, Benin dropped to his knees, red-stained water soaking into his crimson pyromancer’s robes.

Then the emberfox barked. Swirling lines of fire passed between her and the mage on whose shoulder she clung. The orange tendrils passed through and into him in a way that was reassuringly familiar; I’d seen the same thing happen with my gem countless times, except in my case it had been neutral mana rather than fire essence.

“No!” Bekkit shouted.

The portals began to stabilize. The chaotic fire around their edges subsided, and the surface returned to its original shimmering silver. Yet Bekkit’s distress pulsed across our bond like a fresh burn.

“What have you done?” he whispered.

His face drawn, Benin stared at him blankly. “We bonded. We finally bonded. She stopped me from burning out. She saved me!”

“You added fire to fire,” Bekkit countered. “You enforced the other elements’ compliance rather than instigating balance. Opposing forces will always fight back when subdued rather than negotiated with!”

“What do you m—”

The portals flared orange. Then the roaring I’d heard earlier was back. The spinning circles grew wider, blue-gray swirls now bordering them like waves. Longshank glanced up at the portal in front of the abandoned chariot and immediately began limping more quickly toward the shore. Gneil gawked at it for a moment, then Hoppit elbowed him and the pair returned to trying to haul the ark up the bank. She called for aid and a couple of nearby warriors scurried over to help.

Benin gasped. Then the portal in front of him imploded. A torrent of water poured from the space the circle had occupied, crashing white waves looking for a moment like white horses determined to trample everything in front of them.

The mage surged to his feet and threw himself to the side, lifting the emberfox above his head with the last strength in his arms. The torrent smashed into the chariot, breaking it into pieces and carrying it away. It spread out and caught Longshank as well, the hunter managing to yell before he was swept under.

I registered a distressed cry from the bank. My high cleric was staring down at the rushing water, held back from diving in by the tribe’s general. Both were staring at the ark, which was now bobbing away from them with the current. A white-foamed wave battered the holy box, dislodging the lid. It tipped to one side; I caught a glimmer of purple, and then everything went black.

Fifty-Two

Uldrazir

Zerin / Corey

The sound of rushing water engulfed me, but it was soon swallowed by silence. I could see and hear nothing.

Then blue-green light tinged the darkness. I was no longer floating on nothingness, but standing in front of a door. It was hewn from some sort of black bone gilded with silver, and was carved with angular depictions of a woman and a spider. In my night-skinned fingers was a knife.

Unbidden, my hand twisted the dagger in the lock, and the door eased open with a quiet snick.

Just like that, everything clicked into place. The lingering confusion about who I was, where I was, was gone, replaced only with the certainty that this was me, and I’d been here before.

I stood back and nodded at the black-robed figure across the street. The roachlights on the cavern ceiling were too dim to illuminate his features—nighttime in the subterranean city of Uldrazir was scarcely brighter than the Netherdark itself—but I recognized him anyway. night elf darkvision is, after all, second to none.

After a brief nod to acknowledge my signal, the robed man—Draykon, I remembered, one of my oldest, and, let’s face it, only friends—gestured to the other figures who shared the shadows with him. Their knives gleamed dully in the darkness. One by one, they crept across to the manse and slipped through the now-open door.

Everything was going exactly to plan…

… for now.

Yes, I remembered this night. I couldn’t recall exactly how it had ended, but since I seemed to be re-living it through my former self’s very eyes, I suspected I’d find out very soon.

The High Priest’s manse was designed for show, not security. Breaking in had been almost embarrassingly easy. Furthermore, the silence from within suggested he employed no guards, or any other sort of staff who might actually fight back.

Is the man really so arrogant as to believe he’s untouchable?

I allowed myself a silent, humorless laugh at the irony of my former self’s own arrogance.

My patron had insisted the high priest was crucial to tonight’s ritual, and so here we were. If anyone caught us, it would be a short trip to a long drop—specifically, the Convicts’ Gorge—for me and everyone else involved.

But none of that would matter for much longer. Soon, I would be a god. A god!

My patron—Melakor, he called himself, I remembered now—hadn’t specified what tonight’s ritual would entail, other than that it required the blood of the high priest. I wasn’t too worried. I’d come to trust him; Melakor had given valuable advice over the past few months, and demonstrated extraordinary power of his own, all of which had led to tonight.

As the last of the knife-bearers crossed the threshold, the two figures bringing up the procession’s rear halted. Moving with the deadly grace of a cave panther, Draykon padded to my side and squeezed my shoulder reassuringly before following our underlings into the manse.

The second figure remained where she was, arms folded, a frown creasing her forehead. “‘Are you sure about this?”’ she asked for what I knew was the fifth or sixth time.

Khazla didn’t quite share my faith in my patron, asserting on several occasions that he was about as trustworthy as a tapeworm. To be fair, I could understand her suspicions.

When I’d first found Melakor six months ago—all five inches or so of him—even I had my doubts about him. But while his modus operandi wasn’t exactly conventional, that could only be a good thing given my lack of success using more established methods of my kind.

It’s not like I hadn’t tried other ways. Traditional ways. For years I’d toiled, fourth son of a minor noble family, scrabbling against my parents’ oppressive disappointment since the very hour of my birth, when I was narrowly spared the traditional ritual sacrifice of every fourth child. The knife had been about to drop when a messenger had delivered news of the timely (or untimely, depending on whom you asked) death of my eldest brother in the Blood Wars.

Despite that impromptu and life-saving promotion to the position of third child, the younger me had proved disappointingly inept beneath my family’s grudging tutelage. As I grew older, and increasingly unlikely to excel at the traditional night elf ways of gaining influence—political intrigue, verbal sparring, backstabbing of both the metaphorical and literal kind—my parents had done the only reasonable thing they could think of: given me to the Temple of Arachnia, Spider Goddess of the Nightfolk.

There, I labored for almost a decade as a lowly acolyte, fuming at the injustice—silently, of course. The high priest’s gilded scepter came down hard on those who complained aloud about their lot in life, especially when he judged serving the goddess to be the highest of callings despite our positions as glorified caretakers of her temple.

Khazla and Draykon had already found themselves in the same position just a few weeks prior to my own induction into the temple, though they’d come from slightly humbler beginnings—the son of a commoner mage and the daughter of a dust-rat—and therefore (one might argue) deserved their ignoble fate much more than I.

But we were each outcasts in our own way—had literally been cast out by those who were meant to protect if not cherish us—and the three of us soon discovered that when we stuck together, survival was less a possibility than it was a guarantee. Better yet, we didn’t just have to survive; we could also live, despite the best efforts of the other acolytes to grind us down.

Still, it was a hard, miserable existence. Until now.

A few months ago, myself and some of the other acolytes were entrusted with restoring and categorizing the contents of the ancient crypts that spread across multiple floors beneath the temple. Some of the deeper tombs had lain untouched for centuries, and simply unearthing their contents had been no small task in itself. Traps, pitfalls, vermin, and other hidden dangers had made the work as treacherous as it was difficult, though it’d at least kept things interesting.

We found the vault sometime during the third week. By that time we’d all seen (and swept, polished or repaired) enough mummified corpses, shrunken heads, organ jars, cursed weapons, and articulated skeletons of long-extinct beasts, that I no longer batted an eyelid at the idea of opening ominous-looking sarcophagi, yet something about this vault was different.

It was guarded by three consecutive doors, each forged from a different metal, none of which I recognized. Only the inner door was closed, so we could see that each door was as thick as the length of my forearm, and each was carved with runes and rough images that warned of something dreadful inside.

Even more disturbing was the fact that the final door swung open slowly at my approach, seemingly of its own accord, while we were all arguing in hushed whispers about how in the hells we were meant to use the custodian’s keys to open a vault door with no keyhole.

Perhaps most disturbing of all were the marks on the inside of that innermost door. Deep gouges, growing fainter towards the bottom, as though whatever had made them had begun to lose strength the longer it struggled to get out.

From where I stood in the doorway—the others had dared me to investigate and then hung back themselves, the cowards—I thought I could see the pale gleam of bones further in, though the shadows were too deep even for a night elf’s eyes to fully penetrate.

As though sleepwalking, I took several steps across the threshold of the vault without even realizing I’d moved. My oddly dreamlike state meant I only noticed too late as my fellow acolytes—somewhat predictably, I realized in hindsight—hefted the heavy outer door closed behind me, plunging me into utter, complete darkness.

No; not complete darkness. As I stared around, wild-eyed, I saw several humped shapes, and realized with growing horror that they were in fact enormous desiccated bodies, faintly illuminated by a strange purplish light coming from the depths of the vault. Their strange, twisted, alien hybrid forms put me in the mind of the creatures said to roam the Netherdark beyond the city limits.

Those monsters generally avoided the main city of Uldrazir, strung as it was with blue-green roachlights: alchemical globes crafted to mimic the phosphorescent glow of the rock-roaches that, for reasons scholars could only guess at, acted as a natural deterrent against some of the Netherdark’s nastiest predators. But there were no roachlights here; only that strange purple radiance. If any of these monsters remained alive, I could measure the remainder of my life in minutes.

I stood frozen there for some time. The heavy silence of the vault was oppressive, broken only by the thudding of my heartbeat in my ears and the scuffling sounds from outside as Khazla and Draykon fought against our brothers and sisters to let me out; yet every muffled shout, every scratch and scrape, seemed to echo and create the illusion that the sleeping corpses were waking up.

However, once my initial terror subsided and I’d convinced myself that the dead creatures really were just that—dead—I slowly ventured deeper into the vault.

That faint purple light was mesmerizing. I felt myself drawn to it like a grotto-moth to a roachlight, stepping unconcernedly over the outstretched limbs of the sprawled monsters as though their mere presence hadn’t made me almost soil my breeches just a few moments before. The finger bones of an ancient hand crunched beneath my heel and crumbled into dust. I barely noticed. My eyes were fixed on what lay beyond.

At the very back of the vault was an altar of pure crystal. Crouched atop it was an enormous onyx spider, lit from below by that eerie purple luminescence. The arachnid’s bulbous body had been carved in incredible detail: a thousand tiny spikes, thin as obsidian glass, jutted from its abdomen, creating the illusion of hairy bristles. These spikes also adorned the spider’s sharp-jointed limbs, making the legs look more like deadly weapons than mere appendages.

The spider was frozen in a threatening position, rearing up on its two back pairs of legs. Its two front pairs, as well as its pedipalps—those extra half-legs in front of its mouth—were curled almost protectively in front of its body; it looked as though they’d been grasping something, but the ends of each appendage were rough and blunted, as though they’d been melted away by something corrosive. I swallowed hard and finally let my gaze travel down to the floor.

At the foot of the crystal altar lay a gem. Scuffs in the dirt and dust told the tale of its short journey; after dropping free of the spider’s grip, the gem had hit the ground and rolled, coming to rest a couple of feet away from the altar.

It fit perfectly in my palm, and closing my fingers around its cold hardness felt as natural as breathing.

Fifty-Three

Disciple

Zerin

The next few minutes were a blur. One moment I was noticing the runes engraved in the floor—they looked to have encircled the altar, though the gem had corroded the runes beneath it. The next moment, without moving, I was yanked into the presence of something depthless, ageless—godlike—of which I remembered little afterwards except a sense of tremendous physical pressure, as if I’d been transported to the rocky bed of an ocean trench.

I think terror made me pass out for a few seconds, though I’d never actually admitted that part; Khazla would have rolled her eyes, and Draykon would simply have laughed in that genial way of his.

But when they dragged me out of that vault, they too sensed something otherworldly emanating from the gem clutched in my hand. By that time the other acolytes had gotten bored of their bullying and wandered off, but the three of us huddled there, me whispering to them of what I’d seen, what I’d felt, while the vault sealed itself behind me once more with an echoing thud.

The gem—a Core, I found out later—hadn’t spoken to me directly at first. Even still, I could sense the desires of the being trapped inside, and found myself increasingly eager to fulfill them. The Core—the beautiful Core—was weak, and my own personal devotion could only carry it so far. It needed to grow in power to achieve its full potential—and to help me achieve mine, I sensed—and for that, it needed followers.

The longer I served Melakor, the stronger his voice in my mind became, and the more my own capacity and desire to lead others flourished. Gone was the meek, angry night elf youth; in his place was an adult in control of his own destiny. Naturally, Khazla and Draykon had been the first acolytes I’d recruited. More followed; our secret cult flourished like magmashrooms in a volcano, and Melakor and I along with it.

We called ourselves the Zhintar, which meant ‘Hand of Righteousness’ in the ancient Vrakon tongue. At least, I was pretty sure it did. I was never particularly good at either languages or history, no matter how many fancy tutors my family hired in those early years. Still, the name sounded appropriate, and Melakor had raised no objections. His power had spread, fueled by the sacrifices his growing number of disciples provided.

And now, we were finally outside the manse of the Temple of Arachnia’s high priest, preparing to initiate the final stage of Melakor’s plan. By the end of this night, he and I would become one. He would inhabit living flesh once more, and I would share in his godliness. The Zhintar would no longer be a shady cult, but Uldrazir’s new religion, open to all.

I felt a surge of pride as I recalled my part in it all.

I brought us to this point. And soon we’ll all be rewarded.

“We’re doing the right thing. I’m sure,” I told Khazla, who had remained hovering uncertainly beside the door, while my mind wandered the tunnels of memory. When her frown didn’t abate, I added, “Do you trust me?”

“No,” she answered. “I don’t even like you.” But her lips twitched in what was almost a smile, just for a moment. Then her face grew hard again. “But I dislike Rylviari even more.”

“Exactly. Whatever happens to him, he deserves far worse.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s us. What if something goes wrong? And why does Melakor even need Rylviari, anyway?”

I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, much as Draykon had done to me. She shrugged it off with a scowl. I put it back again, gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, then withdrew my hand before she could break my fingers. “Everything is going to plan,” I told her. “If there are any witnesses, we’ll silence them. And I don’t know why Melakor needs the high priest’s blood, but I for one would much rather see it on the outside of his body than in his veins. Can we agree on that at least?”

She narrowed her eyes, and finally gave a short nod. I gestured to the empty doorway. “Shall we?”

Khazla gave a mocking bow. “After you, master.”

* * *

The high priest took to being abducted about as well as an octopus might take to being set on fire. After several minutes of him continuing to scream muffled profanities through the gag we’d stuffed into his surprisingly foul mouth, Draykon finally snapped, and thumped him on the head with the silver pommel of his dagger.

“What did you do that for?” I asked through gritted teeth, checking if Rylviari was still alive. Melakor had been very specific about that part.

Draykon just grinned. “He’s lucky I didn’t use the pointy end.” He twirled his bloody dagger and stared down at the unconscious priest.

I felt another twinge of unease. The sheer loathing that burned in my friend’s eyes was unnerving, and though I was trying to forget, I couldn’t help but think about the fate of the priestess.

By the time Khazla and I had reached the bedchamber, Draykon was pulling the priestess from Rylviari’s bed by a handful of her silky white hair. The priestess—Nessa, she was called; Sister Nessa—had raised purple-blue eyes to my face, fearful and pleading. Time seemed to slow as Draykon stepped behind her and tugged her head back, then dragged his curved blade across her throat. When she slumped to the floor, a dark crimson stain began to soak into her pure white hair.

I tried to push the image from my mind. A faint echo of Melakor’s voice assured me that such collateral damage was unavoidable; that Nessa was a martyr, a victim of the Temple of Arachnia just like Khazla and Draykon and myself, and that by bringing down Rylviari we’d stop the spider cult from harming anyone ever again.

But doubts were beginning to seep in like poison.

Am I really doing the right thing?

Beside me, the troubled look on Khazla’s face suggested she was wondering the same.

She was still frowning when we reached the flesh pits on the outskirts of the city—though I couldn’t really blame her for that, since just thinking of the place was enough to make a scalegrin scowl. For Khazla, revisiting the macabre holes that had dominated her childhood and added extra fervor to the other acolytes’ bullying must have felt like her own personal hell.

Speaking of hell, the pits were a maze of treacherous gorges and sinkholes, crevasses and stalagmites, made even more dangerous by the unstable footing: a mass of flesh, bone, feces and offal, ingested over time by the pit-wyrms and processed into a dusty powder that they excreted in crumbling patties, which were in turn eventually consumed by tiny bacteria-like scavengers and not-so-tiny trash-shades.

As a society, the night elves prided ourselves on this advanced method of sanitation—after all, what better way to rid oneself of organic waste, bodily or otherwise?—but I’d always found it pretty disgusting. The wrinkled noses of a few of the disciples around me told me I wasn’t the only one. I’d long suspected that the real reason the noble classes in particular were so fond of the flesh pits was because of their suitability for conveniently disposing of unwanted corpses.

Down below, one or two dust-rats were picking their way through a nearby ravine, but they paid us no need, focusing instead on the pit-wyrms they were overseeing. The Psy—the ability to communicate with and control the scaly reptiles—was considered a sign of low birth, given that the creatures’ only use was in the disposal of waste. Consequently, those revealed to possess the Psy, no matter their birth caste, were immediately relegated to the outskirts and appointed as dust-rats.

Poor Khazla, already born to Uldrazir’s lowest social station, had shown no aptitude for the Psy whatsoever, hence her abandonment to the temple. Likewise, Draykon had failed even the most rudimentary magical training, which, as the son of a minor, but ambitious archmagus, was an unforgivable crime. All three of us had found each other, and had stuck together through years of being spat on by those who were born to the temple rather than abandoned to it.

As I stared down into the pit, I fancied I could see the remains of those very acolytes; the ones who’d locked me in the vault that fateful day; the ones we’d since sacrificed, one by one, to help Melakor grow stronger. There could be no power without bloodshed, after all.

Of course the corpses of my tormentors were long gone by now, naught but dust in the pits and perhaps fragments of bone in the guts of the pit-wyrms. A fitting end for those who’d made my life so miserable for so long. And after tonight’s ritual, I’d never have to endure such torment again, and nor would anyone else.

Steeling myself with that thought, I gave the signal for my disciples to dump the bodies they’d carried from the manse. A handful of limp figures dressed only in pale sleeping shifts went plummeting down into the crevice, each landing with a soft thump and a puff of bone-dust. I glimpsed crimson-stained white hair fluttering during one corpse’s descent, and turned my back on the pit, swallowing down a lump in my throat.

The moment we entered the twisting tunnels of the Netherdark, I felt better. My qualms faded, and the nagging guilt grew fainter by the moment until it winked out, altogether, like a phosphorescent shrimp swallowed by an anglerfish’s toothy maw. In its place came conviction, optimism, and the absolute certainty that I—that we—deserved more. Melakor’s influence had spread far indeed; his ability to inspire his followers had once been limited to just a few feet around his Core. Now, it almost encompassed the pits.

And soon, Uldrazir itself, I promised silently.

Despite my renewed confidence, we crept cautiously through the Netherdark. Just because Melakor controlled the monsters that prowled its tunnels did not mean we were safe from harm. Though most of the deep creatures would be deterred by our roachlight lanterns, there were still Ferals to contend with: elves who’d been cast out from Uldrazir for the gravest of crimes—murder, heresy, looking at the Archduke the wrong way—and consigned to the Netherdark without even a single torch to protect them from subterranean horrors. Miraculously, many of these outcasts managed to survive their exile, at least for a while, eking out a living among the labyrinthine cave systems and slowly losing themselves to madness until they were themselves considered native predators, victims of the cannibalistic Netherdark.

Thankfully, our journey was Feral-free and uneventful. We passed only the usual creatures—white-eyed abyssal orcs; chitinous, blade-armed scythe-horrors; even a towering void hulk—as well as a handful of the new ones that had started appearing a month or so ago. These were strange and bizarre hybrids of existing creatures, including ones I’d never seen before and had no desire to ever encounter. Thanks to Melakor’s influence, every single one of the monsters stood back placidly as my disciples and I passed.

Our disciples, Melakor admonished, making me flinch a little. Though I’d become accustomed to hearing his voice in my head, familiarity made it no less intrusive.

Of course, I replied immediately. I tried to convey a sense of contrition. It wouldn’t do for Melakor to change his mind about my suitability as his host and choose another disciple.

Hurry, he commanded. I grow impatient.

I was impatient too. I’d been waiting months for this night, and now it was finally upon me. Us, I hastily amended. We are on our way. Master, I added.

Melakor’s satisfaction oozed through the invisible connection we shared. Soon, my chosen one, he promised.

I smiled.

Soon.

Fifty-Four

A Knife in the Netherdark

Zerin

Since only surface-seekers and madmen (which were essentially the same thing) voluntarily ventured beyond Uldrazir’s boundary patrols, the Zhintar base remained known only to us. Furthermore, the denizens of the Netherdark served as Melakor’s guardians while his disciples were away in the city, and the Core had assured me that I, too, would gain dominion over these monsters once the Merging was complete.

That Melakor was willing to Merge at all was an extraordinary thing, or so he’d told me. He’d explained that it was rarely done; that most Cores were reluctant to assimilate, to relinquish their grasp on whatever power they’d spent decades or sometimes even centuries attaining; but Melakor himself had learned more than he’d lost, and was ready to share his knowledge with someone worthy of it: me. Alone, the Core didn’t have the means to gain the followers he needed to grow; and without him, I lacked the resources (or ‘mechanics,’ as Melakor put it) to fully control and expand the environment we’d created. Our Merging was to be a process of symbiosis, of mutual benefit, and together we would be unstoppable.

Our base was humble. A simple cavern, carved out over millennia by the shifting currents of a colossal underground river—the same one that crawled along the bed of Convicts’ Gorge, in fact. The sound of that very river echoed softly but constantly up from the bottom of a fathoms-deep crevasse that split the cave in two and prevented access from the deep tunnels on the far side. This natural defense helped make the dank smell and miserably dripping ceiling a little more tolerable.

The altar sat in the shadows at the back of the cavern. It was a simple outcrop of rock, naturally flat on top, and conveniently sized to fit an adult male night elf should he desire to lie atop it. I gulped down a jolt of excitement as I realized the moment was almost upon me.

The time has come, my chosen one, Melakor spoke, the facets of his purple Core winking in the shifting roachlight. Join me.

With uncharacteristic reverence, Draykon lifted Melakor’s gem from the altar and gestured at me to lie down upon the slab of rock. When I had done so, he placed the Core gently atop my chest. Though the gem was physically inert, I could almost feel it pulsing with something like a psychic heartbeat.

Relax. I forced myself to breathe deeply, pushing out my doubts and excitement and tension and focusing instead on slowing my own heartbeat to match that coming from the Core.

My disciples—our disciples, I corrected hastily—gathered around the altar, and I gazed up at each one with satisfaction. Their cowls still hid their faces, but I knew every single one of them, by story if not by name. Some were from families like mine; lowly fifth or sixth sons and daughters of noble houses, overlooked and underestimated and keen to secure their own place in the new order to come. Most of the others were from low-born families; Draykon had helped recruit a lot of them. He was a truly great second-in-command, and seemed committed to Melakor with a fervor I’d never seen in him before. It was as though being part of the Zhintar filled a hole inside him, replacing something he’d never even known was missing. I understood; I felt the same way.

Only Khazla had retained the doubts she’d had from the outset. Even now, her troubled eyes gleamed green, reflecting the lantern she gripped in a white-knuckled hand. She stared fiercely into my eyes, as though challenging me to call this whole thing off, though it was safe to say we’d passed the point of no return when we’d stormed Rylviari’s manse and killed the acolytes who’d served as his personal servants. And Nessa.

As though Khazla’s doubt were contagious, dread rose from the pit of my stomach. While Melakor ordered the priest’s death, panic trickled through my veins, cold as the water fathoms below.

With a sudden clarity that broke through the weight of Melakor’s presence, I wondered what in the stone hells we were doing. To actually murder the high priest of the spider goddess—of the religion that dominated our entire race and had founded its greatest city—suddenly seemed unthinkable. I couldn’t help but imagine Arachnia herself crawling up from the crevasse to punish us for our hubris.

Draykon had no such qualms. Mouth set in a grim line, he forced Rylviari to his knees. The curved blade of a dagger flashed once more in the dim blue-green light. But as blood spattered the high priest’s white-gray hair and beard, all I could see was Nessa, her eyes—those kind indigo eyes—widening as Draykon’s knife opened the soft dusky skin of her throat.

As Rylviari collapsed, blood gushing, I could hear—feel—the soothing tones of Melakor’s voice, like oil atop frothing water, assuring me that this was right, that the high priest was beneath concern, that all others like him should kneel before us and beg for the attention of our knife blade. Rylviari was the servant of Melakor’s enemy—our enemy, he insisted—and so deserved his fate.

Though a part of me still shouted that this whole thing had been a terrible, terrible idea, it was easier to listen to Melakor’s reasoning. It always was. He was a god, after all. Of course he knew best. And so I allowed myself to be comforted by the weight of his conviction; allowed it to envelop me like a thick blanket, protecting me from uncomfortable feelings and unwanted thoughts.

But even as I lay there on the altar, the stone cold against my back, something niggled at me.

I sat bolt upright. A flash of annoyance emanated from Melakor’s gem as it tumbled from my chest and into my lap. I had the sudden urge to fling it as far away from me as possible.

“Wait!” I looked over at the high priest’s body, blood still dripping slowly from the wound in his neck and pooling thickly on the ground underneath.

But speaking aloud seemed difficult all of a sudden, as though my throat were filled with treacle, so I asked Melakor silently: You said we needed blood for the ritual, but the priest is dead, and the ritual hasn’t begun. We don’t have a sacrifice.

Oh, but we do.

Icy fingers seized my heart. What?

Melakor’s voice was smug as he replied, The priest’s sacrifice gave me the push I needed to Ascend; to regain the final ability I require for our little ritual.

His smugness was making me want to punch him in the face. Then I remembered he didn’t have a face. Yet.

What ability? I asked, no longer even pretending to be devout. And why Rylviari?

The high priest was a worthy sacrifice; a font of knowledge and experience. The man was a precious trinket belonging to my ancient enemy, and one which I delighted in taking the opportunity to smash.

I made to ask him again about his new ‘ability’, but he interrupted me. Enough words. Let us proceed.

His heavy, oily presence in my mind intensified, but far from soothing me, I found it suffocating. Melakor’s next words were as final as the grave.

Kill him.

Shock jolted through me, though I realized that somewhere, deep down, I’d known all along that this was coming.

To my horror, I found I could no longer move; no longer speak, nor even breathe freely.

His voice slipped inside me like a necrotic eel. I knew you would be too cowardly to proceed with the ritual once you knew the truth of what it entailed. My new ability is called ‘Dominate.’ Do you like it?

I tried again to move, but I was trapped in my own body, locked in as surely as I’d been locked into Melakor’s vault all those months ago. I cursed the day I’d found him—Khazla was right all along, I thought bitterly—and prayed my disciples would realize what was going on in time to save me from the God Core’s arcane tyranny.

Kill him, he said again, and I knew they all heard him. This is the final stage of the ritual, the treacherous Core added smoothly, and around me, the cowled figures relaxed.

All but two of them.

When Draykon looked at me, uncertain, I widened my eyes—the only part of me I seemed able to control—in an attempt to communicate that something was very, very wrong. Instead, my horror turned to despair as that heavy blanket of Melakor’s presence slid up my spine and forced my neck to bend in a nod of affirmation.

Draykon nodded in response, his expression clearing. As his own spine straightened with conviction and he raised his hands, the dagger they clutched a coldly gleaming curve above me, any hope I’d held of being saved finally fled. All I could do was watch the knife descend.

Distantly, I saw Khazla lunge toward Draykon, and felt a strange pang of joy at her unexpected gesture, futile though it was. She was tackled and restrained by the other disciples before Draykon was even aware she’d moved, and so, that curved black-metal blade slid between my ribs with no resistance.

Cold. It was so cold. It was like being impaled with a stalagmite from the bottom of the deepest ice-lakes in the Netherdark. Straight through my heart the dagger plunged, and with it came Melakor.

If the blade had been like ice, the god was liquid flame, flowing gleefully into my chest and out through my arteries like molten steel. His presence burned me from the inside out, but not for long; for as Melakor insinuated his way into my body, I myself was pushed out. And though I struggled, I was pulled apart, fragment by fragment, and drawn inexorably into the cool facets of the purple Core.

Fifty-Five

The Only Way is Up

Corey

I fell for what felt like forever, burning, burning. My mind whirled as I tried to roll away from the agonizing displacement, but my body was unresponsive. Some sort of paralysis, perhaps? Where was I?

By the time I regained my wits enough to look around, vague memories started to return to me. A gem. An altar. A knife in the dark. Already they were receding, pushed back by what I knew to be more recent recollections. A wriggling eel. A tiny girl riding a badger. A fluffy owl sitting atop a large furry spider.

Then I heard the voice.

Like a light against the crushing darkness, it pushed through the fog, a tendril of hope reaching for me, reaching.

“Corey…”

I followed it, clinging to all it offered—light, memory, life—until the faintest hint of a spark appeared. Hope surged inside me. I focused on the spark, willing myself to be pulled toward it, anchoring myself to it with all my remaining strength lest the void around me suck everything away again.

“Corey…”

The voice was closer. The light was brighter. With one final pull, I left the draining void behind and emerged into the light.

A tiny winged figure flitted anxiously from side to side.

“Ket?”

“Corey!” Pink and white sparks rained down from the figure as it turned a somersault in the air, clapping with delight. “You’re back!”

Everything came flooding back: the Grotto, the forest, the Marsh Zolom, the mountain, the disastrous river crossing.

Something large moved behind Ket, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I recognized Ris’kin. My avatar was alive and well, though she was focused on some task and barely spared me a glance.

With Ket sending warmth and encouragement through our bond, I managed to muster my energy, focusing it through the remains of the ark beneath me and assuming my god’s-eye form. I rose into the air.

We were crowded upon a shelf of rock in some kind of flooded cave. Though ‘cave’ was a generous word; the wet, mossy ceiling was barely high enough for my avatar to stand upright. She was crouched over my gem, which I now saw had been placed amongst the sad remains of the ark. Ris’kin was attempting to reassemble it as best she could, but she was no carpenter, and the wooden box was damaged seemingly beyond repair. It was a miracle it still functioned.

Sitting nearby was Longshank. He’d finally managed to pry the fangfin’s jaws from his peg leg, but they’d bitten deep, and there was a wide crack running up the length of the wood. The hunter had unwound the bindings that attached the leg to his stump to better assess the damage. He was squinting, as though struggling to see, and I realized the area wasn’t as bright as I’d first believed it to be, lit only by the faint light of a single illumishroom—one of the small hand-held ones carried by the scouts.

There were no other gnomes in sight.

“We got separated,” I realized. “Does that mean… we failed?”

No; the sight of numbers winking in the corner of my vision left me weak with relief. The timer was still counting. That meant Exodus hadn’t failed.

Yet.

Time remaining for Exodus: 5 hours, 9 minutes

“That can’t be right.” Fear iced through me as I stared at the timer.

“You were out for a while,” said Ket. “But there’s still time!”

“Do you think the others are all right?”

“Most were safely on the far bank when the water hit,” she replied. “Coll knows the way to the summit. And if anyone can lead the gnomes the rest of the way, it’s Gneil.”

She was right. In particular, the incident with the dire badgers—where Gneil had somehow received the warning I’d intended for Ket, and prepared the tribe to defend against an attack—gave me hope that my high cleric would rise to the task again, this time to lead them home. Coll would have made sure their path was clear, and I trusted that he and Benin would remain with the tribe and help with the ascent.

Assuming the mage was still alive.

The last I’d seen of him, the pyromancer had lost control of his magic. I hoped he’d survived; I owed him more than a few strong words about his reckless actions during the river crossing. His initial refusal to enter the water had cost the life of one of my carpenters, and though his use of the portals had allowed Gneil and the rest to finally cross safely, Benin’s loss of control was what had put us in our present situation, and may ultimately have cost us the exodus.

He was a volatile ally for sure, though I had to admit he’d grown more useful—not to mention more personable—since he’d been hanging out with Bekkit. Speaking of whom…

“He got pulled underneath the water when your Sphere was carried away,” said Ket quietly when I asked about the sprite. “I think he used Terrestrial Body to escape.”

I hope he used it to escape, the uncertainty in her tone implied. Despite her lingering animosity toward her friend-turned-betrayer, she still couldn’t bring herself to wish him dead.

A quick check of my Augmentary map confirmed Bekkit was nowhere within my Sphere, which meant either he had managed to activate Terrestrial Body before drowning, or…

“You’re probably right. I’m sure he’s fine,” I said. “And at least the tribe has the badgers. And…”

And Binky, I’d been about to say. Until I caught sight of the row of boxes at the top of my Augmentary. Every one of them was grayed out; empty.

Binky had taken up just one Creation slot, and been able to somewhat resist the pull of my Sphere thanks to his near-complete transition to a fully terrestrial being. It was possible that he’d completed that transition without me realizing, which would explain the empty Creation slots. But my pantheon—the record of species I currently had in existence, up to a maximum of five different kinds—was empty as well.

I closed the Augmentary and then opened it again, but the slots remained empty. I felt bereft. For the first time ever since the day I’d gained the Creation ability, there was no familiar spider symbol gazing reassuringly back at me.

“He was on the verge of reaching terrestrial,” Ket said, though she sounded uncertain. “He’s probably fine. I’m sure.”

Or maybe he got dragged through the water by my Sphere and drowned.

The only person I could have asked about whether terrestrial creatures still showed in the pantheon was Bekkit, and he was gone too, perhaps the same way as Binky.

I tried to focus on the positives, though they were few and far between. “At least we’ve still got Ris’kin. And Longshank,” I added as an afterthought.

The hunter had tossed the wooden leg to one side. Drawing a knife from his boot, he turned his attention upon the dead fangfin instead. From the viciousness with which he began to butcher the sharp-toothed fish, I deduced that the prognosis for the limb it had damaged was probably not good.

He stabbed his blade into the fish’s flank, but grunted when it met resistance. When he pulled his knife back out, impaled on the pointed tip was a seed. It was winged like a sycamore, making it look vaguely like a fish’s tail. Its wrinkled surface was matte-black, though hints of red glistened in the grooves like blood caught in the fuller of a sword.

The hunter plucked it from the blade, turning it over and over between his fingers. Frowning, he sheathed his knife and then reached into one of his many pockets with his free hand. After some rummaging, he found what he was looking for.

It was another seed. This one was roughly rounded in shape; it looked like a walnut, and was just as wrinkled, though its surface was pinkish-white rather than brown. I saw my avatar glance over curiously. Touching minds with her, I gleaned that she recognized the object as having been cut from the mole-rat queen we’d fought, months ago now.

Longshank held it out in his palm, comparing it with the fangfin “seed” in his other hand.

I activated Insight. Nothing happened. No matter how hard I stared at the seeds, the Augmentary remained a blank.

I recalled the scouts had harvested a similar item from the dire badger queen in the forest. I’d caught a glimpse of it before it was handed to the botanists. It had been of a similar wrinkled texture; silver-white in color with black grooves, it had been a perfect match of the fur of the creature from which it had been taken. A creature which had also been a “dire queen”.

Since Insight only worked on living things, there was no way to be sure, but I was willing to bet the butchered fangfin—which was larger than the others that had attacked us—was also indeed a queen.

“But what does it all mean?” asked Ket when I told her.

I didn’t know. I felt there was a connection here, but I was missing some vital component that would help me put everything together. It didn’t help that my mind was still reeling from the flashbacks to my past. After so long with barely a hint of recollection of my former life, to have experienced so much of it, so vividly, was like drowning in memory, and I still hadn’t properly caught my breath.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just a bit disoriented,” I lied.

The words tasted sour. Withholding the truth from Ket—my only companion for so long—felt wrong, but I’d never quite been able to shake the memory of her reaction upon first learning I’d been a dark elf. Given that these new memories confirmed what I’d long suspected—that I most certainly had not been a shining beacon of benevolence among my otherwise maligned race—I decided to hold on to them for the time being. I’d process them later.

Besides, I had a task to complete before I could afford the luxury of wallowing in my past.

“I’m going to try something,” I told Ket.

Activating Double Sight took me a moment longer than usual. My concentration was still somewhat scattered, and it was hard to focus, but soon I was looking out through Ris’kin’s eye. Her blind right side felt even emptier without the presence of Sir Fura; I recalled seeing the squirrel safe on the bank and hoped it had remained that way. My avatar was saddened by his absence.

Ris’kin felt significantly weaker than usual—no doubt a consequence of fighting for her life under a crushing weight of water—but that didn’t make me revel any less in the sensation of having access to working limbs and all five senses.

I reached down and closed black-furred fingers around my gem. I braced myself, then lifted the gem from the ark.

Nothing happened.

Blackness did not descend as I expected. It seemed that so long as I was using Double Sight when my gem was removed from its anchor—in this case, the holy box—my consciousness would remain tethered to my avatar rather than being sucked away into the void.

It had its limitations—I could no longer slip back into my god’s-eye form—but as a temporary solution, it was good enough. A quick test reassured me that I remained within Ris’kin even when she was no longer in physical contact with the gem. I relaxed a little and finally took proper stock of our surroundings.

With Ris’kin’s darkvision, the illumishroom’s faint light made the area beyond its greenish aurora even darker. There was no sound beyond the running current and the gnome’s breathing, both echoing in the narrow confines in counter-rhythm to the beat of Ris’kin’s own heart. The weight of the mountain pressed on the ceiling above us, and I felt the brief touch of an alien sensation: claustrophobia. I found myself longing for fresh air and clear sky, for sunshine and rain and the scents of grass and earth. I couldn’t tell how much of it was Ris’kin’s and how much was mine. Clearly the past few weeks spent out in the open had affected me more than I’d thought.

Well, it’s a good thing we’re heading back up to the summit anyway. One way or another.

Before us lay two options. The first was to ascend the mountain from within via a rough passage Ket had discovered in the corner of the stone ceiling. We had no idea where it led, if anywhere—I attempted to scout it via god’s-eye, but the vertical shaft continued to climb beyond the upper limits of my Sphere. The handholds carved into its sides looked precarious at best.

Our second option was to risk the river again and then climb the mountain from the outside. But the river flowed west and curved around the mountain. That meant we’d been carried around to the same side Ris’kin and I had scouted previously—the side where we’d encountered the mountain bear.

The Augmentary had said the bears were known for using their keen sense of smell to track prey for miles. If it caught even the slightest whiff of squirrel-fox…

I tried to picture us managing the same daring escape as before, except this time with Longshank and my gem. No, the swim and the subsequent climb were both too risky. Besides, the journey had taken Ris’kin almost five hours. We no longer had that kind of time. Our only hope was to follow this passage up through the inside of the mountain and pray it brought us to the summit before the timer ran out.

We’d also have to pray Gneil and the others had made it up there as well. From what Bekkit had said, the ritual for officially concluding the exodus had to be conducted by my high cleric. Since the Augmentary offered no options for me to end it at the moment, I had to assume that was true.

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’,” whispered Ket when I ran through our options. She seemed distracted again, and was gazing up through the hole as if she could see all the way up to the top if she looked hard enough. “I think you’re right though. This is our only chance.”

She started to drift up toward the hole.

I peered up into the darkness, considering the climb. Ris’kin could definitely manage it, though carrying my gem would make things a little trickier than usual. However, Longshank would definitely struggle somewhat. Perhaps if the hunter hung on to my avatar’s back, she could probably get us both up there, though carrying the gem might mean making two journeys.

The Exodus timer flashed obnoxiously in my vision.

Time remaining for Exodus: 4 hours, 39 minutes, 21 seconds

“Let’s go.”

But Ket drew reluctantly to a halt. “We should wait for the others.” It sounded as though the words pained her.

“The others?”

Ris’kin had also stopped to wait, despite my urging her to begin the climb. Her ears twitched. A moment later, a series of heavy splashes from behind was followed by the clatter of something being tossed onto the stone shelf.

When we turned around, Longshank was examining a piece of driftwood. Though gnarled and twisted, it also looked fairly solid, and was a decent match for his old leg. He nodded up at the two figures standing over him and began to bind the new limb in place.

Swift and Cheer looked even more bedraggled than usual. Whereas Ris’kin’s fur and Longshank’s clothes were damp but not wet, the scavengers were dripping water. Given that there were no other entrances other than the one in the ceiling, it was apparent they’d swum beneath the water to get here, and had braved the current—and the fangfins—to look for materials that would help patch up our hunter.

Both of them glanced at Ris’kin, who also nodded at them. Swift’s eyes fell upon the gem tucked under my avatar’s arm. The scavenger rolled her eyes, then shrugged and dropped the other bits of wood she’d been carrying—presumably they’d been intended to repair the ark, but the savvy scavenger recognized immediately that they were no longer needed. Despite her obvious annoyance at her wasted efforts, I also detected some relief. I doubted she’d been looking forward to getting roped into sharing the load of the cumbersome ark.

Cheer had already donned her boots—which I now noticed had been left on the edge of the stone shelf—and was squeezing water from her hair. Longshank finished affixing his new driftwood limb, and Ris’kin and I reached out a hand to help him stand. He tested his weight on the leg and seemed satisfied.

I looked around at our small party. The three gnomes were wet, dirty, and tired. Separated from the rest of their tribe, they were nonetheless ready for whatever was about to be thrown at them next, and I was glad to have them here.

Ket alighted on Ris’kin’s left shoulder, and pride flashed from her through our bond. Then she took off again, leading the way up the shaft and into the mountain.

Fifty-Six

Unscorched

Corey

The ascent was steep and uncomfortable.

The muscles in our neck ached. Without the squirrel to watch her right side, Ris’kin tended to keep her head turned in that direction, the better to allow her remaining eye a wider field of vision in front of her. She was also chilly; it felt like her fur still hadn’t dried all the way through, the cold damp tunnels seeming to trap the water rather than air it out.

Though Longshank limped along with his usual stoic determination, I could see he was shivering beneath his still-damp upper-body armor. Bringing up the rear, Swift and Cheer’s chattering teeth provided a constant accompaniment that made it feel like we were being pursued by a pair of angry castanets.

The shaft opened out into another cave, just a little larger than the one below. At first glance it seemed we’d already hit a dead end, and I was preparing to retrace our steps and attempt the futile long way around when Swift disappeared through the wall.

A closer look revealed a crevice in the rock, almost invisible unless you were standing right in front of it. The rest of us followed the scavenger through it with ease, emerging into a wider passage.

I was already lamenting the loss of my god’s-eye vision. Though my Sphere was of course limited, in that ethereal form I’d still have been able to pass through the wall easily and discover the way out myself. Thankfully, I had reliable allies. Hopefully Swift, Cheer, and Longshank’s skills—and Ris’kin’s, of course—would get us to where I no longer could.

The entrance through which we’d just passed was similarly invisible from the other side, naturally concealed by folds in the rock. Natural chance, or a cleverly constructed secret exit? There didn’t seem to be any marks indicating that the stone had been worked, but perhaps that was the point.

We followed the passage upward past many twists and turns and branching tunnels. I would doubtless have spent far too long agonizing over which path to take, but each time we were faced with a choice, Ket led the way unerringly. She seemed in a sort of daze again, staring dreamily around her and flitting between different points to touch the rocky walls and ceiling. Almost like she was greeting old friends.

Every time I asked her if she was all right, she brushed the question off, saying only that we needed to hurry. I had to admit (though not directly to her, of course) I was mildly creeped out by her recent behavior.

But she was right. We had precious little time remaining—3 hours, 41 minutes and 48 seconds, to be exact—and couldn’t afford to second-guess or even hesitate.

Our small party continued without complaint. Surprisingly, I heard no grumble from either Swift or Cheer, though that may well have been because they were still too cold to talk. Their clothes and hair had stubbornly refused to dry out, clinging to their skin and reminding them of the fact with every little movement. Even Ris’kin’s limbs felt stiff with the lingering chill brought on by her still-damp fur.

As we ascended, though, the chill began to dissipate. Clothes, hair and fur alike finally resumed that blessed state known as ‘dry’, and the scavengers’ teeth no longer chattered. I was pretty sure I even saw steam rising from Cheer’s feathered pauldrons. Though we were getting higher, a sense of enormous pressure and heat bore down on us.

“Is it getting… warmer?” I asked.

Ket didn’t reply. I was about to repeat the question, but when we turned the next corner the sight that greeted us stole my breath.

Glowing crystals adorned the passage. Not polished and decorative, but raw and rough and deadly sharp. Clusters of the prismatic shards jutted from the floor, the walls, the ceiling, grouped together like defensive spear formations or sharp-staked barricades. The smallest could easily be worn as jewelry, like the pendant from which Bekkit had been freed, while the largest ones dwarfed even Ris’kin. The latter almost blocked our way in places, and my denizens and avatar were forced to turn sideways or duck beneath them in order to pass.

Most of the crystals we passed were an opaque, cloudy white, but here and there were hints of pink and blue, a beautiful spectrum of contrasting fuchsia and turquoise that combined to create a purplish aura that, I had to admit, put my gem to shame. It felt as though we’d stepped inside a geode lit with tealights.

I soon realized the glow did not come from the crystals themselves but from the mushrooms that grew alongside them like tiny perfect replicas. Crystalcaps, Insight told me. They were unique to these caves, and grew to mimic the crystals’ appearance, but otherwise behaved like regular fungi. Still, Ris’kin and I both felt the need to reach out and poke one just to make sure. Its rubbery texture was delightfully at odds with its sharp faceted appearance.

Swift’s initial reaction to the crystals’ beauteous sight – after trying and failing to pocket one, of course – was to check her reflection in the nearest one. When the opaque surface refused to oblige, she breathed on it and then rubbed it hard with her sleeve, as though intending to bully it into showing her what she wanted. Cheer’s first instinct was much more on brand; the scavenger immediately took out a chisel and began chipping enthusiastically at the crystal, seemingly unbothered by the heat that had poor Longshank positively dripping sweat.

Though the gnomes appeared largely unconcerned at the rising temperature, the recent events and the climb were beginning to take their toll. The scavengers’ stamina bars were running perilously low, and Longshank’s wasn’t faring much better. Though I was still cursing myself for not pushing on sooner, I couldn’t help but think back on my decision to relax and fully recuperate that day at the river. If I hadn’t insisted on those few hours’ rest—a decision Bekkit had chided me for as being ‘frivolous’—the gnomes’ already exhausted endurance would have already given out by now. I could only hope the rest would also ensure the rest of the tribe—and especially Gneil—were also able to reach the summit in time.

I surprised myself by wishing Bekkit were still with us. The pompous sprite might be annoying, but he was the only one of us with prior experience of Exodus, and without him here to empathize I felt oddly alone with my burden.

“Was Bekkit always so arrogant?” I asked Ket, mostly to take my mind off things.

It took her a moment to snap out of her odd, dreamy state. “Yes,” she eventually replied. She smiled. “But it was sort of endearing.”

“It’s hard to imagine him as the god of kobolds.”

“The kobolds weren’t always that way. Bekkit was nothing like Grimrock.”

“How did you find each other?” I asked.

“We learned of each other by accident. He was much further advanced than I was, and his Sphere gradually began to overlap mine, just like Grimrock's did yours."

"I'm guessing that unlike Grimrock, Bekkit didn't send an underwater monstrosity to butcher your god-born when you least expected it?"

Her wings flickered, and I sensed the sprite’s wry amusement. "He did not. He made peaceful contact, and later provided support and advice at a time when I was sorely in need of it."

I sensed great pain mingling with the simmering rage she experienced whenever we spoke about Bekkit.

“Why did you need his advice so much? What about your sprite?”

She was quiet for a while as we negotiated our way past more crystals. Then she said, “I didn’t have a sprite. I was alone.”

“What?!”

Sadness and regret now carried across the bond, but with them was also self-loathing. “You once asked why I didn’t have all the answers. The truth is, I fumbled my way through godhood with no idea what I was doing—and with a very similar attitude to yours when you were first awakened.”

That explained why she often grew so angry with me. Just like the time I’d almost burned out, she hadn’t wanted to see me repeat her own mistakes. For all my complaining about her interference and lectures, I couldn’t imagine having reached where I was now without her. To have been alone the entire time…

“Who were you?” I asked her. “Before you became the gnomes’ God Core.”

I’d raised the question before, many times. The sprite had always skirted the subject, and something in her voice always warned me not to push it. Eventually I’d accepted that it was moot; just like me, Ket was where she was, and looking back would not help us to move forward.

But hearing Benin ask her recently had stirred my curiosity awake again, as had the sprite’s uncharacteristically odd behavior the closer we’d gotten to our destination. I couldn’t shake the image of her staring up at the mountain, fixated upon what we now knew to be the exact location of what we’d been seeking this whole time.

“I don’t recall.” This was the answer she gave every time. Now, though, her voice contained not the tone of finality that said the topic was closed. Now, though, it sounded almost like a question rather than a statement. Through our bond I sensed a storm of emotions: confusion, sadness, nostalgia, regret. There was also something that felt very familiar to me: denial.

“It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?” I whispered. I thought again about the barrage of memories I’d received. Though many of the details had faded, already pushed away by whatever magic had made me lose them in the first place, I still recalled far more about my former life as a dark elf than I had in all the months since my reincarnation as a Core.

I definitely wasn’t ready to share them with anyone just yet. Reluctantly accepting that Ket felt the same way, I ceased my questions and focused on our journey.

The crystal tunnels slowed us considerably. Their razor-sharp edges forced caution when edging past the larger ones. It was nothing short of maddening; it felt like we ought to be sprinting for the summit, not carefully creeping through a shiny obstacle course. I found myself glancing again and again at the Exodus timer.

Time remaining for Exodus: 3 hours, 2 minutes, 33 seconds

Our progress sped up enormously once we left the crystals behind. The tunnels began to change as well; I spotted pipes embedded in the dark rock, running along the ceiling and burrowing into the rock itself, though what function they served was anyone’s guess.

It was definitely getting hotter the deeper we journeyed into the mountain. There was also a faint whiff of something that made Ris’kin wrinkle her nose. It took me a while to recognize it, and then only because Swift and Cheer had begun to drool.

“Do I smell eggs?”

“Sulfur,” Ket informed me. She breathed in deeply, as though inhaling the scents of spring and not something that smelled like a troll’s underpants. I was going to ask why this place smelled of sulfur; then I spotted an orange glow at the far end of the passage and thought I could hazard a guess, though I hoped I was wrong.

We emerged into an enormous cavern. Just like the Heart in my former domain, the center of this cave was a deep, deep hole. My suspicions were proved correct when I looked carefully over the edge and was greeted by the sight of simmering magma far below.

“I suspected as much when you described the city,” said Ket. “You said it was inside a crater at the top of the mountain. It fits the description of a caldera, which are formed after an eruption has made the volcano mouth collapse.”

I couldn’t take my eyes off the bubbling magma. It wasn’t as bright as I’d expected, nor as runny. It was more of a thick mush, dark red layered with patches of black. “You couldn’t have mentioned this sooner?”

“It’s fine. It’s dormant.” She laid a tiny hand against the rock, as though listening to the volcano. “Probably.”

Her attention wasn’t focused on the lake of magma.I hadn’t noticed at first, but there were more pipes like the ones in the tunnels. They ran vertically along the walls, some of them seemingly emerging from the magma itself, with many disappearing into the rock as though the mountain had absorbed them. What they carried or where they led was still a mystery.

One pipe in particular was larger than the rest. Thick enough for Swift and Cheer to climb up inside it side by side, the pipe rose higher and straighter than those around it, and I followed it with my gaze until it was lost in the darkness above. I noticed something else too—stairs, carved into the rock in a spiraling ascent, presumably all the way to the summit.

Ris’kin’s ears twitched at a scraping sound behind us. Danger sense tingling, hackles rising, we turned to see a creature climbing from the magma pit and onto the ledge.

It looked to be some kind of salamander. Unlike those I’d encountered in my previous Sphere, however, this one’s hide was the magnificent color of a fire opal. They shimmered in shifting tones of red and orange; deep crimson on its back and brow, where the scales were heavy and thick as armor. Each scale glistened like a precious gem, as though the flesh were encrusted with rubies and carnelian.

Pyromander

Reptile

These volcano-dwelling creatures thrive in the world’s deepest, hottest places. Able to subsist entirely on the very magma that births and sustains it, the pyromander has no need to hunt for food, but will aggressively defend its territory from rare incursions by those foolish enough to go wandering around inside volcanoes.

A thrice-forked tongue flicked in and out of the creature’s mouth, glowing like a fiery whip as it scented the air.

Its head jerked in our direction. Orange flames spewed from its mouth as it bared its needle-like teeth. Then it leapt at Longshank.

The hunter, quick off the mark as ever, twisted to avoid it. The creature sailed past him, and Longshank lashed out reflexively with his fist, which glanced off the armored hide harmlessly. As they made contact with the pyromander’s scales, the brambles around his knuckles immediately lit aflame.

I winced, expecting him to yell in pain. But the burning brambles never touched his skin. The wraps he wore to protect his own fingers from the sharp thorns were made of mole-rat leather; the flames licked at the wrinkly material but did not burn or otherwise damage it.

As the red lizard spun, preparing to launch itself at Longshank a second time, a net of webbing slammed into the side of its face. Shaking its head to rid itself of the clinging web, which was already sizzling and smoking, the pyromander turned its face toward Swift, who was giving her netgun a congratulatory pat on the stock.

Before the lizard could attack her, there was a flash of movement on its other side as an object hit the corner of its mouth and lodged there.

It roared as its head was pulled to the side. The owl talons that hooked its mouth were still attached to a spindly and by now somewhat mummified foot, which was affixed to a length of woven webbing. Cheer was tugging on the end of it, her cheeks flushed with exertion, and her stamina draining alarmingly as she strove to pull her opponent away from her fellow scavenger.

Once it realized what was happening, the pyromander chomped down on the talons. They broke with a series of cracks; the improvised grapple fell from the lizard’s mouth, and Cheer was left holding the least dangerous half of an owl’s foot on a string.

The distraction was enough. Longshank had unsheathed his spear, and now lunged at the creature, driving his weapon toward its more vulnerable underbelly. The speartip pierced the flesh beneath the lizard’s foreleg and drove in deep.

The pyromander recoiled from the blow. It coughed and jerked, and bits of liquid flame dribbled from its mouth. Wrenching itself off the spear, it looked around at the three gnomes, then at Ris’kin, who’d also unsheathed her spears and was poised to strike. It seemed to be reassessing the wisdom of continuing the fight.

Ris’kin and I bared our teeth. That seemed to finally make up its mind. With a screech, the creature limped along the ledge and slithered over the side, making its sulky way back down to the magma lake from which it had presumably emerged.

Swift went to high-five Cheer, but the other scavenger was leaning heavily against the wall. Her stamina was almost gone; a red symbol had appeared above her head which, once I examined it, helpfully pointed out that she was ‘Exhausted.’

They’d lost most of their belongings somewhere along the way, presumably when the water had dragged us all to the cave below, but the crafty little hoarders still had plenty of useful supplies stashed upon their person. Swift fished around in her pockets until she unearthed what looked like a handful of dried mushrooms, which she shared with Cheer. She offered one to Longshank, but he politely declined. The hunter was already chewing on a slice of raw fish, carved from the fangfin that had dared ruin his leg. Ris’kin and I accepted a chunk of that ourselves. It was surprisingly delicious, once you got past the fact that it was, well, raw fish.

The brief rest replenished a modicum of the gnomes’ stamina, though Cheer’s exhaustion status did not disappear. According to the Augmentary, until she was fully rested she would suffer reduced movement speed and strength. Given the urgency of our situation, that was less than ideal.

Another minor setback was Longshank’s weapon. The spearhead was gone, lost inside the pyromander’s lava-like body. The wooden haft was burnt off at the end, but was still usable otherwise, and Swift was able to shorten the haft and replace the spearhead with one of the white crystal shards they’d hacked from the caves below.

I glanced impatiently at the timer while they fixed it. On one hand we didn’t have time for this. On the other, an attack by another pyromander while we were unarmed would be an even bigger delay if not a disaster.

Longshank nodded approvingly when she handed the spear back to him. There followed a brief conversation between the two gnomes, after which Longshank nodded again and then turned his back on the scavengers. Swift sat beside Cheer once more. The exhausted scavenger was already nodding off to sleep, and Swift allowed her to rest against her shoulder, keeping her own eyes warily upon the pit.

“They’re staying behind,” I realized. Swift had clearly recognized that her fellow scavenger would be unable to keep up and had elected to remain behind with her rather than delay our progress any further.

Or perhaps they’d spotted a secret treasure trove en route, and were waiting for us to leave so they could plunder it for themselves. I felt a rush of affection for the scavengers. They’d been thorns in my side since the very beginning; they’d been the last of my original denizens to join my Faithful—I’d never seen anyone worship so grudgingly—and their fierce independence made them notoriously unreliable.

They were pains in the arse. But they were mine.

I’ll come back for you, I promised.

There were various passages all around the ledge—this place really was like the Heart—but Ket was already leading us up the spiraling stairs. The sprite’s attention was entirely focused on reaching the top; her earlier confusion was gone, and I knew we were heading the right way. Longshank, Ris’kin and I did the only thing left to do, and followed.

Fifty-Seven

Not Part of the Plan

Benin

Benin followed Coll down the trail. He felt somewhat weak, though it was no physical affliction; more that he was still mentally reeling from the previous day’s events.

“You sure the tiny shiny bloke’s all right?” asked Coll.

“Bekkit? He’s fine.” He waved a hand dismissively, glancing down at the half-asleep sprite hitching a ride between Pyra’s shoulder blades.

“Haven’t heard his high-and-mighty voice for a while, is all.”

“He’s just a bit weak. Terrestrial Body isn’t meant to be active for long periods of time.”

Coll was quiet for a while. Then he asked, “What happens if he’s away from Corey for too long?”

Benin had his suspicions, but was reluctant to voice them before the weakened sprite. To his surprise, though, Bekkit himself spoke up.

“A sprite’s essence is sustained by the ambient mana within its Core’s Sphere of Influence. With that connection broken, I must forge a new one or subsist entirely on my own reserves. Once they are depleted…”

Coll nodded grimly. He was as familiar as any Guild member with the dangers of burnout, though it felt odd to Benin that the same concerns afflicting mortal adventurers should also apply to beings like sprites and even God Cores.

Burnout had once been Benin’s biggest fear. He’d had it drilled into him for so long that his affinity’s volatility made it a likelihood—no, a certainty—that he’d suffer an early death as a result of its misuse, like almost every pyromancer in the Guild’s recent history. Yet not only had Bekkit taught him greater mastery of fire, he’d also opened him up to connecting with the other elements as well—a feat he hadn’t even known was possible. He’d been lied to for years, stifled, made to feel inferior and dangerous.

Another thing I’ll be sure to make Varnell pay for someday.

Dark thoughts swirled around him as he and Coll continued down the mountain. Then another consciousness flared within his own. The emberfox caught his eye, and his mouth twitched into a smile. She turned away, nose in the air as usual, but her tails swished with satisfaction rather than annoyance. He could feel it through their bond, reminding him of the feats he’d achieved the day before.

Though he felt guilt at his actions’ unexpected consequences—washing Corey away downstream had definitely not been part of the plan—he couldn’t help but secretly rejoice. Not only had he established his first successful paired portals, he’d also finally accomplished what he’d longed for since the Menagerie: he’d bonded with the emberfox.

He’d been lost, panicking, caught in the grip of chaos. His own portal had been about to drain him dry whensuddenly there was a second presence in his mind; the sucking magic was drawing from a lake of fiery mana, sparing the paltry trickle that remained in his own globes just in time.

No longer on the verge of self-destruction, and encouraged by Bekkit’s voice shouting in his ear, Benin had rallied. Using the techniques the sprite had been drilling into him this whole time, he focused all his energy on splitting the inflow of the emberfox’s power. After successfully quartering it, he’d drawn from the ambient mana of his surroundings to convert three of the four streams to earth, air and water until the portals were balanced once more and could be dismissed.

It was only then that he realized what had happened. Still coughing water from his forced, but thankfully brief trip underwater, Bekkit explained that the Core was gone. The sprite had sounded shaken. Not surprising, all things considered. He’d almost drowned, and now he was stuck in his terrestrial form until he could be reunited with the Core.

The Core’s priest—Gnole or Gnile or something like that—had already rallied the gnomes and begun leading them up the mountain. The only one who remained behind with Benin and Pyra was Ajax, the warrior-gnome they’d rescued from the Marsh Zolom’s disgustingly distensible gullet. Thankfully, they’d crossed paths with Coll, who was just returning from the top. Hyper-aware of their near-disastrous decisions to leave the gnomes alone in the past, he and Coll had accompanied them to the summit—shouldering as many supplies as they could so as to minimize the wagons’ load on the steep paths—and then waited with them for hours.

When Corey didn’t show up, though, he and Coll decided they should descend the mountain to search for him. Perhaps he’d washed up somewhere along the stream.

Though Bekkit seemed certain Corey would find his way back to the tribe, he agreed that it would be prudent to at least make sure the worst hadn’t happened. It had been an entire day since the incident at the river, after all.

The trail was more treacherous in the dark, the sun setting on the far side of the mountain, but just enough light lingered for them to avoid any missteps that would lead to them breaking their necks. A smattering of stars had already pushed their way into view on the velvety blackness of the eastern sky. Benin found himself gazing up at them. It was strange, this feeling of accomplishment; like things were finally coming together and going his way. He rather liked it.

Coll stopped abruptly, and Benin almost walked into the back of him.

“Why are we—”

Then he saw what held the other man’s gaze.

On the trail before them was a figure. A deeper darkness among the shadows, it stood unassumingly in the center of the trail, blocking their way down.

Pyra growled. Glancing down, Benin saw that her ears were flat against her head, and her tails were twitching threateningly like fiery snakes. His eyes widened as a series of impressions floated through the bond, coalescing in his mind as semi-solid concepts. She-man. Anger. Hurt. Danger.

The figure reached up with one hand and drew back her hood. He still couldn’t quite see her face, but as she came closer, the faint starlight let Benin pick out details of her appearance. Her hair didn’t reach her shoulders; it stuck out in various directions, stiff and spiky as though full of leaves and mud. Her cloak was heavy and ragged, and smelled even worse than his and Coll’s clothes, as though she’d been sleeping rough for months.

She took another step closer, and Pyra’s tails flared in warning. The orange glow illuminated the woman’s hair, revealing hints of red beneath the mud and dirt, and Benin finally saw her face clearly.

Coll gasped. Benin took a step back, as appalled as he was confused.

It… it can’t be.

“Lila?”

The woman smiled coldly, though there was no humor in it, and the expression’s forced cruelty could not hide the pain in her eyes.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

Fifty-Eight

Misconceptions

Tiri

The sound of a key turning in a lock echoed down the stairs into the study. As the heavy door was hefted open, Tiri quickly and carefully replaced the hollow stone bust before retreating among the shelves.

One by one, the chemspheres on the wall glowed to life as the Guildmaster descended the steps. Tiri watched him through a gap between the books.

“Evening, Gardos,” he sighed as he settled into his usual chair. He pulled a silver bowl across the table toward him and murmured an incantation. Purple-black smoke swirled up from the base of the bowl, lighting up Varnell’s face with a faint sickly glow.

The Guildmaster bowed his head over it, peering into the bowl, then suddenly frowned. He pulled his head back and glanced at the statue on the plinth, presumably just realizing his greeting had gone unremarked. “Gardos?” he called.

He waited, then shrugged and returned to his scrying bowl. “Come on, Mornier, get on with it.” He shifted impatiently in his chair.

Tiri’s ears rang like she’d just set off an alarm glyph. Gardos had told her the truth.

Lila is alive.

She swallowed bile. The numb shock that had overwhelmed her quickly gave way to a rush of relief and joy. But that was already being pierced by darts of confusion and horrific realization.

Her injuries must have been terrible. And she knows we left her there to die. She must hate us all so much.

Unable to deal with the possibilities of Lila’s current mental state, Tiri’s mind retreated, focusing instead on small details of her immediate surroundings. Like the smoke in Varnell’s scrying mirror. Something had been niggling at her since she first saw it. Something about the color...

Then she recalled one of the books she’d come across during her early research. A useless tome, it had mostly been focused on horoscope scrying. A ridiculous school of thought, obviously, but one interesting nugget she’d gleaned from it was that starsigns—or Aspects—had changed after the Shattering. Worlds across the cosmos had been destroyed, stars extinguished, and though their light still traveled the unfathomable distances across the night sky, astral mages had confirmed their sources to be gone from existence.

The book had listed the colors associated with each current starsign, asserting that even were a mage to be disguised with glamor, the smoke of their scrying would reveal the celestial alignment under which their magic first appeared in the world. The purple-black light that currently painted Varnell’s tired-looking face had not appeared on the list. That meant it belonged to a mage from before the Shattering, which meant the color shouldn’t exist anymore. Clearly Varnell was not that old. Which meant—

Something chittered near Tiri’s feet. She looked down to see the strange creature that had accompanied Varnell on his previous visit. It was staring back up at her with bulbous black eyes, half-hidden behind a fringe of blue-gray fur. It clicked its mandibles urgently.

Her first thought was that she wished she had Benin’s Arcane Sight ability so she could identify the creature properly. Scales and fur? Mandibles and teeth? What sort of bizarre hybrid was this, and who had made it?

Her second thought, which should probably have been her first, was, Oh damn. He knows I’m here.

“Greetings, Tiriani Moon,” said Varnell. His head was still bowed over the scrying bowl, but his familiar stared up at her intently.

She had a thousand questions for the despicable Guildmaster, but one was at the forefront when she stepped out into the open study area.

“Lila is alive?”

She’d meant it as a challenge, but it came out more as a plea.

“Mornier? Yes. Still alive, and still as ever my loyal agent.”

What? Why? How?! she wanted to scream.

“If she’s so loyal, why did you send her on a death mission?” she asked instead.

Varnell raised an eyebrow as though he had no idea what she was talking about. “Excuse me?”

“You wanted us gone. All of us.” She pulled out a piece of paper—the original requisition for their expedition underground, taken from among the pile of papers she’d found in Lila’s room.

Recognition flitted across his face. “Ah. That was a difficult decision. I lamented making it.” His face was grave, his voice sincere. She might have believed him, if not for the tendrils of intent she’d already gotten from the ink of his signature on the paper itself.

“That’s a lie.” She was even hardly surprised to hear the confidence in her voice as she declared the Guildmaster a liar to his face. So much had changed lately; just a few months ago most people would have agreed that Tiri was the kind of person who wouldn’t say boo to a goose (a phrase she’d always found rather odd; in her experience, getting close enough to a goose and then deliberately startle it was not something a timid person would do).

“You lamented only the inconvenience. You were confident this would solve more than one of your problems, and you congratulated yourself on orchestrating such a neat solution.”

Thank you, Detect Intent.

He narrowed his eyes. He was properly looking at her now, and his mask of concern had dropped, as though he was finally considering the possibility that there was more to her than he’d first thought.

How flattering.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you I regret it?”

“No, because the only reason for that is the hassle we’ve caused you by not dying obediently like you wanted.” She needed no ability to tell her that. “What about the pyromancers?” she asked, before he could try and talk himself out of things again—or decide to simply turn her into dust with a click of his fingers. “Why kill them?”

Unconcealed hatred flashed across his face, and she had to force herself to stand her ground and not take a step back. His eyes darkened.

“The world will not miss them,” he said coldly.

Varnell’s familiar scuttled underneath the table and curled up by its master’s feet. He reached down unconsciously and brushed its head with his fingers.

“To answer your first question,” he said, “I had reason to believe Mornier had developed… misconceptions. About our work. About me. Misconceptions that would have me hounded from the Guild like a beast.”

Misconceptions. Right.

She nodded toward the bowl and its purple-black smoke. “Is that your patron’s Aspect?”

He froze. “How dare you,” he said in a strangled voice. “Are you suggesting I am a—”

“Warlock? Yes, I am.” She took a step closer, her own eyes fixed on the bowl’s swirling contents. “Strange sort of color for someone who calls himself the ‘Lord of Light,’” she observed lightly.

“You know nothing about me or my patron,” he snarled.

“I know a lot more than you think.”

Gardos had said the book by Ar’bek Kitt—the one that had referenced the elven gods—contained the clue to Varnell’s power. What little she’d read of the account had mentioned two beings: the light elf god, aka “The Lord of Light”; and the night elf god, aka Garim R’ok or “The Tyrant of Darkness.” According to Kitt’s account, both gods had mysteriously disappeared centuries before after one had betrayed the other.

She hadn’t had enough time to think about it—she suspected that even if she had years that wouldn’t be enough time—but the cogs of her academic mind were whirring, piecing together the clues to complete the puzzle.

The book’s title had referred to “the art of soul-shifting.” It had referenced elvish gods of light and dark. The Guildmaster sitting before her was a half-blood light elf, a warlock whose patron called himself the Lord of Light yet whose Aspect was dark as sin and ancient beyond comprehension.

“Your patron,” she said, watching his face carefully to gage his reaction, “is Garim R’ok. The former god of the night elves. The one they called the Tyrant of Darkness.”

Fifty-Nine

Cannot End

Corey

A deep orange glow beckoned from up ahead. At first I thought it to be another magma cavern, and glanced around warily for more pyromanders.

Behind us, Longshank clutched his spear tightly and did his best to keep up, though the replacement leg was clearly causing him some discomfort. He was limping more than usual, and I’d seen him wincing and rubbing his lower back on more than one occasion, as though the driftwood limb jarred his bones with every step. The hunter’s endurance was humbling, and I silently vowed to reward him once all this was over.

As we got closer, Ris’kin’s nose started to pick up other scents mingling with the heavy sulfurous air, and I realized the light up ahead was from nothing less than the setting sun.

We’d done it. We were out!

My avatar carried us forward with a surge of renewed energy until we emerged onto the mountain’s summit.

The caldera spread before us. We’d emerged on the opposite side to which I’d last seen the place; I found myself drawn by the light to where the last dregs of late evening sun reflected off the lake at the far side, so that the surface of the black water looked as though it were on fire.

As my gaze traveled further, I spotted structures that looked like trebuchets dotted around the outside—presumably to defend against predators from the air, though they didn’t exactly look as though they were in working order. Also around the edges were dwellings built into the very sides of the crater. What had looked from my former viewing point above the lake to be mere caves in the rock revealed themselves as windows and doorways, some of which still held the broken remains of shutters and doors. Most of them had been hidden from my previous vantage by overhanging shelves, like the entrance to the bear’s cave—a clever trick of perspective.

The space in between was filled with the rubble of half-ruined buildings. Enough remained standing here and there to provide a testament to their former glory.

What happened here?

Scanning the caldera, I realized that the pattern of destruction was odd; it was as if something had impacted the city from above, sending out a shockwave of devastation that had utterly leveled the area around where we now stood, but had done gradually less damage to things further away.

What could possibly have caused so much destruction?

I looked to my right, turning fully around because of Ris’kin’s blind eye, and almost fell over in shock.

What I’d thought earlier to be a range of rocky growths were actually bones. An enormous skeleton sprawled across this side of the caldera. It was difficult to measure scale from Ris’kin’s height, but it looked as though the skeleton reached almost entirely from one wall to the other. Ridges of tail vertebra stood out on the far side, even in the darkness, while behind and above us loomed a colossal draconic skull.

Taking a few steps away from it, I realized there were actually two skeletons. Two dragons, entwined as though they’d been embracing as they crashed down from the sky.

Is this why the gnomes fled their ancestral home?

It seemed more than a little odd. Mysteries on top of mysteries. But solving this one could wait a while.

I tore my gaze away from the fallen behemoths and hurried toward our destination.

Time remaining for Exodus: 41 minutes, 40 seconds

We’d cut things very fine indeed. If we didn’t claim our new settlement in time, I would permanently lose all my progress and have to start again at tier one. Thankfully, there wasn’t much farther to go.

We wound our way through the ruins of the ancient city toward a wide plaza at its center. Standing tall amongst the rubble was a circular building. Its domed roof had been held up by what looked like a black metal frame, similar to the inner structure of our traveling shelters, though the rest was hollow and open to the sky. The ground underneath was littered with fragments of glass or crystal.

Illumishrooms glowed around the edges of the plaza. Wagons waited, badgers milled around patiently, and there beyond them knelt the rest of the tribe. Rows and rows of gnomes knelt. Adults and children alike had their heads bowed, hands clasped together. Most were silent, but some were whispering, their lips moving in fervent prayer.

The sight was stirring, and reminded me of the time they’d all come together in the Grotto to complete Ris’kin’s resurrection ritual. Now, though, it was clear they were praying for the return of something different.

Knowing that all these individual souls were waiting for me was surprisingly terrifying. Despite the burden of responsibility I’d endured for weeks—for months—it felt like I was only now beginning to appreciate the true scope of what it meant to be the god of an entire society.

Warmth and reassurance flowed into me from both Ket and Ris’kin. I rallied myself, reminded that I was not alone, and we began our final journey toward the new altar.

Coll and Benin’s tent rose alongside the gnomes’, and I felt a flash of concern when I realized both humans were absent, as were Pyra and Binky. Nor was Bekkit anywhere in sight. I tried not to think too hard about what that might mean. Instead, I focused on my denizens’ faces, rejoicing with each one I mentally tallied. General Hoppit, Graywall, Pan, and Buttress; Sergeants Magnus and Serene. Scout Hindmarch and warrior-nurse Emrys. Hammer and Nails, Twain the sawyer and Catgut the bowyer. I even spotted Dovetail with the other two remaining carpenters; her legs were swathed in bloody bandages from her near-miss with the fangfins, but her expression was focused and hopeful.

One by one they looked up from their vigil as we wound our way amongst them. Wonder and relief filled their faces, mirroring the gratitude I felt towards them for their faith in my return.

Beyond them all, on a raised dais inside the domed building, stood Gneil. Behind him was a carved stone plinth that could only be an altar. Eyes closed, my high priest’s face was lit with an expression of serenity, though I also picked out lines of worry and tension. The acolytes knelt before him, praying, the hoot-hoots huffing impatiently among them. I smiled to see Gnils the acolyte trying not to giggle as one of the fluffy birds stuck its head in her pocket in search of treats. She cracked an eye open to see what it was doing, then gasped when she spotted Ris’kin.

Her gasp alerted the rest to our arrival. Gneil and the other acolytes lifted their heads and stared wide-eyed as my avatar approached the altar, my gem held before her in both hands. Though I was blind and deaf to the effects of their prayer while Exodus was engaged, my worshipers were clearly convinced they had delivered me. I glanced back at the weary-looking Longshank. In a way, they had.

Gneil was also looking at Longshank. After a moment, my high cleric grudgingly nodded to his rival, on whom the surviving scouts were converging with relief. Their reunion was enthusiastic but brief, and soon all eyes were once more upon Ris’kin as she handed my gem to Gneil, who bowed his head reverently. My high cleric ascended the steps of the dais, his boots crunching on the shards of shattered crystal; then, finally, he lowered the gem until it rested upon the altar.

I waited expectantly for the Augmentary’s golden text to appear in my vision. To announce that the exodus was complete, a success, and to begin restoring my abilities and expanding my Sphere. I couldn’t wait to see the blue mana globes full and glowing, to once again taste my denizens’ affectionate Faith.

When it came, though, the text was red.

Sanctification failed!

Exodus cannot end with hostile enemies in the immediate vicinity.

Panic whirled through me as I focused on the word “failed.” After all this time, after everything we’d endured, we’d failed?

Then I saw the timer was still blinking, informing me we had twenty-four minutes remaining in which to end the exodus. I stared again at the red notification, and this time I registered the even more alarming part.

“Hostile enemies.”

But where? Ris’kin’s vision wasn’t a patch on my god’s-eye, but it was still sharper than most, and we hadn’t seen anything untoward on our way down here. Had a pyromander followed us up from below?

“Corey…”

I was straining my avatar’s senses for any sign of the supposed danger, but stilled when Ket’s sudden fear and disbelief crept into me. “Hmm?”

“Look up.”

Sixty

Gardos

Tiri

Varnell’s eyes widened, and for a moment Tiri was confident she’d hit the mark. Then he barked a laugh.

“If only.” He snorted. “If only that were true.”

Of course he wouldn’t wish to accept that he was being deceived. From what she understood of the elves, the loss of their god had hit them hard, and they’d dispersed into reclusive clans. She’d assumed Varnell had bought into this “Lord of Light” stuff out of a desire to make his people great again by restoring their old glory.

That didn’t explain why he seemed so fearful of his patron, but then again, “god-fearing” was often used to mean something positive.

“Can you be certain it isn’t true?” she asked as gently as she could bring herself to. “Sometimes we believe so strongly in what we want to believe that it blinds us to what’s really—”

“I’m sure.” He held up a hand to stop her speaking, and a bit of the old derision was showing again on his face. “I’m sure my patron is not the Tyrant of Darkness. Old Garim R’ok—or Grimrock, as he goes by nowadays—has actually been working alongside me for decades now. We share a common enemy, you see.”

A common enemy? Who? What?

“Though we haven’t spoken recently. We… lost touch, you might say. Actually, that’s your fault.” He grinned at her confusion. “Oh yes, you’ve met him yourself, though you didn’t realize it. I’m sure you remember him. Red, shiny, about this size.” He cupped both hands together to form a rough oval.

The red God Core…

She barely had time to reel from the revelation—she, Benin and Coll had played a part in destroying the last remnant of the ancient night elf god?!—before Varnell was throwing more at her. The words were spilling out of him now, almost as though he were relieved to finally have his secrets out in the open.

“Melakor is my patron. Mela K’or. The Lord of Light. The Uniter of Worlds, he was called by some.” He waved a hand at the purple-black smoke in the scrying bowl. “As you say, this seems strange indeed for the Aspect of the light elves’ god. I myself learned too late that the light is and always was a veneer; like sunspots hiding the true darkness behind your eyelids.”

Again, she had so many questions she wanted to ask. But she forced her mind to the most present worries.

“What does any of this have to do with God Cores?” she asked. Everyone knew Varnell had taken the Guild in the direction of seeking and destroying Cores ever since he became master. Yet now it turned out he’d actually been allied with one—and an evil one at that. “I know the churches claim they’re blasphemous, dangerous, and a bunch of other things. But I’ve seen the purple Core. It saved my life. It’s benevolent. It’s a god of gnomes. How many others like it have you murdered? That you’ve been destroying them all without distinction is nothing less than an atrocity.”

“Oh, get off your high horse. You think I don’t know that? For the longest time I was simply obeying my patron’s will. Mela K’or wished for all God Cores to be found and reported to him. After every report, he ordered the Cores to be destroyed, and so I destroyed them.”

“Why?”

“His punishment for disobedience was swift and terrible.” His hand went to his chest unconsciously, and his face fleetingly took on a haunted look. “I wished to avoid retribution, and so I quashed any moral qualms I had and focused entirely on the task.”

“You still haven’t explained why you’re so fixated on the purple Core.”

He sighed and rubbed his eyes. She noticed for the first time the shadows that hung beneath them, the streaks of gray in his hair.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but when my patron and I first established our covenant, we shared memories. They were fractured, messy, hardly more than vague impressions, but decades later and hundreds of hours of meditation allowed me to recall some of them clearly. One of the most powerful—and most recent—included a purple soul gem. For some reason, he is desperate to locate it.”

“And thus so were you.”

“Only so I could find it first,” he said vehemently. “I realized that his insistence on receiving a report of each Core before confirming the order to destroy it meant that he was searching for one in particular—one he did not wish destroyed.”

“The purple Core. But why?”

He scowled.

“You don’t even know,” she realized.

“I know enough,” he shot back. “I know that if he wants it so badly, it can mean nothing good. I know that destroying it will hurt him.”

“And the gnomes? What of them?”

“They’d never have known any different if Grimrock hadn’t failed. Typical god—he let his pride rule him. He toyed with the new Core, tried to use it to further his own power—he believes he is the only one who can rid us of Melakor, naturally. Not that I blame him. He has many a bone to pick with the bastard after all these years.”

She thought again of Ar’bek Kitt’s account; of the remains of those who’d fought at Bone Gorge. A small group of night elf skeletons surrounded by hundreds of light elves. Could it be… could it be that the dark elves were the victims and not the betrayers after all?

“I’d have recovered the Core myself weeks ago if I had the freedom to act,” Varnell snarled. “Instead I am forced to maintain my position, and rely on others—on lessers—to work on my behalf. All have failed until now.”

“Your magic comes directly from him,” she said. “That explains why you don’t use it. But what’s to stop you going out there yourself? You could have visited the purple Core—”

“And leave the Guild’s protection?” he scoffed. Noticing Tiri’s baffled look, he rolled his eyes. “The spells built into the foundations of the Guild itself prevent any influence or communication from outside sources—ancient gods included. As long as I remain within these walls, Melakor may only speak directly to me through a unique mirror in my tower.”

“But if you left the Guild…”

“My patron would be able to see through my eyes, sift through my thoughts. My intentions—to weaken him, that I might eventually free myself of his shackles—would be laid bare.”

“You want to be rid of your patron? But what about your power?”

His lip curled into a sneer, and she prepared for another patronizing reply. But then the fight seemed to go out of him. The scornful expression dropped, and he looked like nothing more than an exhausted half-elf, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of whatever burden he carried. He said simply, “I no longer believe that power is worth its price.”

She believed him. What was more, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“But Gardos said—”

His head jerked up. “You’ve met Gardos?”

“Indeed she has.”

The voice came from somewhere above and in between Tiri and Varnell, but both of them glanced at the demonic statue.

“Gardos?” said Varnell. He rose warily from his chair, still addressing the stone bust. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I was listening. Forgive my eavesdropping, sire.”

Gone was the Core’s wry subservience. His voice now was bitter, scathing, and Tiri felt a ripple of unease.

“Tiriani and I had a little chat just before you arrived,” said Gardos. “It was brief, yet enlightening.”

The apple in Varnell’s slender throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Oh?”

“She informed me that you haven’t been entirely truthful. I see she was correct.”

Varnell shot her a venomous look. Tiri folded her arms. “He asked what I was investigating. I told him that I had reason to believe you sought to murder one of my friends—Benin Fitz—and that you’d been murdering pyromancers under your protection. You—”

“No, no,” Gardos interrupted. “Well, yes, that’s part of it. You might have told me, you know, Varnell?”

Varnell swallowed yet again. “I thought, given your former identity, you would have found issue with me bumping off your ‘brothers in fire,’ as you call them.”

“Did you not also think I would ‘find issue’ with your intent to shatter the gnomes’ Core?” Gardos said. “After you worked so hard to convince me to help you find it and nothing more?”

Tense silence thickened the stale air. Beneath the table, Varnell’s familiar pressed itself closer to the warlock’s leg, as though attempting to hide from whatever was about to happen.

“I can’t believe you tried to use Gardos to help destroy a fellow God Core,” Tiri found herself saying. “Just like you did with the red Core—”

“’Fellow God Core’? Is that what he told you?” Varnell laughed bitterly. “Gardos is no God Core.”

“What? Of course he is—”

“Enough.” The Core’s voice boomed out, silencing them both. To Varnell, he said, “I permitted you to continue ruling here because I believed you and I shared the same goals. It seems I was mistaken. How disappointing.”

“We share the same goals,” protested Varnell. “We both want to see Melakor fall—”

“I specifically stated the gnomes were not to be harmed,” said Gardos coldly. “Yet you defied my wishes at every step. This is unacceptable. Thankfully, I had prepared for such an eventuality.”

“What… what do you mean?”

“After she returned here and her wounds were healed, you instructed Lila Mornier to annihilate the gnomes so that their Core would shatter. However, I gave her instructions to counter yours. Her mental state is such that mine did not take hold as they should have, yet it was enough to confuse her intent and temper her instructions to her… special agents.”

He laughed when Varnell’s eyes widened. “Yes, I know all about those too. Where do you think she got the inspiration from in the first place? She would never have come up with Beast Cores on her own. She has a noble spirit, but lacks imagination.”

Beast Cores?

Tiri felt her head would burst with all this new information. She had questions upon questions, theories upon theories. But it seemed she’d run out of time to ask them.

“It may dismay you to know that I have sent my avatar in pursuit of her. Your final agent, Lila Mornier, shall interfere no more. You’re done, sire. We’re done.”

Lila? No—

The tramping of boots echoed down the stairs. The chemspheres at the top threw shadows of marching figures approaching.

Varnell spun to face the armored warriors descending the stairs. “What is the meaning of this?” he roared.

Tiri expected the soldiers to cower; to grovel for forgiveness, to express their deepest apologies for daring to disturb the great Guildmaster.

It was as if they couldn’t even hear him. They marched across the study, four warriors in total. The first one grasped Varnell’s arms and yanked them behind his back. The second advanced on him with a set of manacles. Once they’d shackled him, they forced him toward the stairs.

He cursed, spitting and protesting. The vehemence in his voice made Tiri wince, and she kept waiting for the entire room to explode with devastating magic. But Varnell did not conjure so much as a spark to defend himself. He truly was afraid of drawing his patron’s attention.

“Power truly is pointless when you find yourself unable to wield it in times of need,” said Gardos conversationally, as though reading Tiri’s mind.

She dragged her eyes from the struggling Guildmaster, then started at the sight of the second pair of warriors standing right beside her. She flinched back as they reached for her.

“What are you doing?” Surprise made her voice high and girlish, but she was too outraged to care. “What have I done?”

“You, Tiriani, have committed the greatest of sins in this world where one’s stability and wellbeing are entirely reliant on ignorance.”

She gritted her teeth as her hands were wrenched behind her back. “What?”

Gardos tutted. “Put simply: you know too much. Your potential interference with my plans is a risk I cannot—will not—take.”

“So you’re a tyrant, then?” she spat, twisting in her captors’ grip to glare at the statue concealing the dark gray Core.

“Far from it. You will both be imprisoned, yes, but you’ll be well taken care of. I shall release you once my work is complete.”

“What work?”

He paused, then said, “You already know too much; what’s the harm in telling you a little more?” She had to fight not to roll her eyes at the classic villain monologue. “My work, you ask? Mela K’or, of course. Varnell seeks only to free himself, is too cowardly to pursue anything more.” His voice darkened. “But the tyrant needs to die. I know him well enough to guess he’s been building up his own army; if, as Grimrock says, the purple Core was a night elf, then Melakor has infiltrated the underground city of Uldrazir and now leads the night elves. Eventually they will rise to the surface and spread a plague of indoctrination just like he once did as god of the light elves. They must be stopped. They must all be stopped, and his influence utterly purged.”

The absolute conviction in his tone left her chilled. “You’re speaking of genocide,” she whispered. “You want to wipe out an entire race just to eliminate one man?”

“I have done it before. What do you think happened to the light elves’ ancient empire in the first place?”

She gaped silently, unable to muster a response.

“It is as your Guildmaster said. I am no God Core.” Pause “I am a War Core. And soon we will go to war.”

Now she saw it. The warriors who’d arrested Varnell had been under Gardos’s direct control—as had the guards that allowed her to slip past into the prison and rescue Coll, she realized. He’d been watching and manipulating this entire time, waiting to learn the truth—and confirming that Varnell could not act against him—before making his move.

What she’d just witnessed was a coup. Gardos ruled the Guild now. And he was going to force them into battle with the dark elves, who were themselves under the influence of a malign entity.

“This is an adventurers’ guild,” she told the Core. “Not a military camp!”

The Guild’s warriors and rangers were trained in warfare, sure. But they were dispatched to take care of things like goblin uprisings, bugbear rebellions, and the occasional rogue wyvern or demon infestation.

Not all-out war.

“Sweet, summer child.” The smirk in his voice made her clench her bound fists. “The physical classes within these walls are my denizens. This guild is whatever I want it to be.”

At some silent signal, the blank-faced warriors began to pull her toward the stairs. As they passed the statue, in a moment of desperation she lunged for it, hoping to shoulder the plinth and knock both the bust and the gem to the floor—as Gardos had seemed to fear when she’d threatened to do so earlier.

But Tiri was no warrior; her captors’ heavy gloves gripped like iron, and she was marched past the statue, her opportunity gone. She spat at it instead.

“How rude.” Gardos’s voice had now turned cold. “Since I am no longer feeling inclined to spare your feelings, I will inform you I have another contingency to prevent Mornier’s meddling. As a warrior of the sword pact, Collson Rutherford is one of my sworn denizens. Before he left my Sphere, I designated Lila Mornier as ‘hostile’. He will be compelled to destroy her on sight.”

The horror of it all—of Lila somehow surviving the terrible fate they’d abandoned her to, knowing she’d been left to die, and now Coll being forced against his will to kill her—was too much.

“Why Coll?” she whispered, hardly even aware of what she was saying. “You said your avatar—”

“Will exterminate Mornier if it encounters her first,” the Core confirmed. “But one cannot have too many contingencies.”

“You don’t need to kill them. Please. You don’t need to do any of this!”

She struggled against her captors as they dragged her up the stairs after Varnell, to be thrown in their cells for stacks knew how long. She had to warn Benin and Coll. But she was as powerless as the former Guildmaster.

She shouted more entreaties down into the study. But Gardos was silent, and the last she saw of the Librarinth was the demonic bust, teeth bared in its mocking smile.

Sixty-One

Lila

Benin

Unlike Benin, Lila Mornier did not flinch as the emberfox’s orange glow finally revealed her face. Along with the scars from kobold weapons were those from older battles, long healed before their expedition ever began. But what stood out most were the ones around her neck: a string of circular marks, puckered and burned-looking, like acid scars but in a pattern similar to the spiky suckers on a giant squid’s tentacles.

And her left sleeve hung loose. Empty, he realized.

The image of the creature wrapping itself around her flashed before him again, and he heard her screams following him as he fled.

“How are you still alive?” he whispered. “We saw you… we saw it…”

“You saw me paralyzed and about to be eaten alive by a tentacled abomination?” Her voice was coldly conversational, but her eyes were wide and bloodshot, her grin forced. “Funny story. When Varnell’s little friend Grimrock realized I was Guild, he called off his scaly dogs and let me go. But not before that monster made a meal out of me.” She gestured at her empty sleeve.

Benin swallowed, tasting bile. He couldn’t imagine the agony she must have suffered, paralyzed and half-eaten alive.

“You know Varnell sent us down there to die?” he said.

“Please. I’m not an idiot.”

“Then presumably his ‘little friend’ was meant to be the one who finished us off. Why would he release you?”

She gave a lopsided shrug. He noticed she kept glancing up at the summit behind them, as though waiting for something. Benin’s shock at her unexpected appearance gave way to suspicion.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

She frowned, looking suddenly confused. “I…” Then her face cleared, and her eyes focused on his once more. “I’m here for the Core. My master wants it.”

“What? You’re still working for Varnell, even after everything he’s done?”

“Varnell? No.” Her face lit up beatifically. “I serve the Lord of Light.”

Who?

If there was one thing he’d never had the ranger pegged as, it was a religious fanatic. Eyebrows raised, he glanced sideways at Coll, expecting to see him wearing a similarly incredulous expression.

But the warrior wasn’t looking at him. His attention was fixed entirely on the woman in front of them. In fact, he hadn’t moved since the moment he’d caught sight of her.

At first Benin thought he must still be in shock from the revelation that she had risen from the dead. Then he saw that Coll’s entire body was shaking.

“Coll?” He reached a tentative hand toward the man’s shoulder, but stopped just short of touching him when Pyra began to growl. The emberfox was backing away from Coll, her hackles raised like red-hot spines.

Lila frowned at the warrior. His fists were clenched so hard it was a wonder his knuckles hadn’t burst through the skin, and he was grinding his teeth in a way that made Benin wince.

“Coll?” he said again, warily this time. “You all r—”

The warrior exploded into violence. Like an overly taut bowstring finally snapping under the strain, he lunged at Lila, unslinging his hammer and bringing it down with the strength of both hands.

Her eyes widened. She ducked and flung herself to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly blow, but Coll was already raising the weapon for another.

“What are you doing?! Coll! Stop!”

He continued to attack like a man possessed. His hammer was a blur, whistling as it swung through the air in a vicious chain of sweeping strikes. With each swing Benin flinched, expecting Lila’s head to explode. He should have known better.

Among the Guild’s physical fighter classes, rangers were renowned for their skills in archery and other ranged combat. It was in the name, after all. But above everything else, their true strength was in their incredible finesse. A well-trained ranger was as hard to hit as a greased dragonfly.

Every swing whistled harmlessly through empty air, a split-second too slow. Not a single hit landed, though her heavy breaths indicated Lila was having to work hard to stay out of the weapon’s path. Benin had no idea what he should do—obviously Coll should be restrained, but it also didn’t seem like Lila was here for totally innocent reasons either. He considered casting Lightning Lash to restrain them both, but Coll’s metal armor might cause him to accidentally harm his friend rather than just holding him.

It was moot, since they were both moving too quickly for him to risk intervening.

As she threw herself to the side yet again, she thrust her arm out. Magic stirred the air as she incanted, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

Vines burst from the stony ground. Thick green-brown tendrils snaked up Coll’s legs. Writhing and twisting, they held him fast within moments. Coll hardly seemed to notice, still fixed on his target; when he did realize, he brought his arm back as if to throw the hammer in Lila’s direction, but the vines reached for his arms too, freezing him in that pose, wrapping his fists so tightly Benin doubted he could release the hammer even to drop it.

He hadn’t known Lila had levels in druid as well. Just when he’d thought nothing else could surprise him this day.

Surprise quickly turned to alarm when more vines erupted from the path, this time crawling up his own body. He tried to wriggle away, but they held him firmly. Smaller ones even sprouted from the larger to ensnare his fingers and prevent him from casting. A snarl and a yelp behind him confirmed that Pyra was similarly restrained.

He stared around at the barren rocky ground of the trail, a fragment of professional curiosity making him ask, “How did you manage to summon vines here?”

“Nature always finds a way.” Lila straightened her cloak, still breathing heavily.

“There’s nothing natural about any of this.” His eyes narrowed. Saying the words out loud made something click into place. The strange behavior of the badgers, and of those monstrous fish that attacked during the river crossing... “Come to think of it, there’s been plenty of unnatural stuff happening these past few weeks.”

“I assume you’re referring to my dire creatures,” she said conversationally.

“Your dire creatures?”

Her smile this time was genuine, full of pride. “Nature always finds a way,” she said again, “but sometimes it needs a helping hand. That’s what the Beast Cores were meant to be. A helping hand, to encourage struggling species to flourish once more.”

“Yet you threw them at us like they were no more than cannon fodder,” he retorted. “That doesn’t sound like you’re ‘helping’ them.”

Regret darkened her expression, and her smile this time was sad. “No, but it was necessary. And once this task is done, I’ll finally be able to develop and use them for their original purpose. He promised.”

The fanatical expression was back. It sickened and terrified Benin in equal measure to see such an expression on the face of someone he’d only ever known to be logical and intelligent. Whoever this Lord of Light was, he had a lot to answer for. And just what in the hells was a Beast Core?

Full darkness fell, the last vestiges of sunset dropping beneath the horizon on the mountain’s far side. After checking he and Coll were held firmly by the vines, Lila closed her eyes in concentration.

“I saved the most special Beast Core till last,” she said, tilting her face toward the summit. “Wait quietly while we do our work. Don’t interfere, and maybe we’ll spare the gnomes. Though I’m afraid I can’t guarantee the same for you.”

Sixty-Two

Trogloraptor

Corey

At first all I could see above us were the supporting ribs of the shattered dome.

But as the last traces of orange sunset disappeared, Ris’kin’s eye picked out movement. Something was rising from the dome’s remains, as though it had been sprawled on top. Some of what I’d taken for arching metal supports now shifted, revealing themselves to be multi-jointed legs, yellow-brown and hairy.

Dire Trogloraptor Queen

Arthropod

Sensitive to light and heat, the trogloraptor usually avoids the surface, preferring to remain underground. It enters a dormant state during the daytime, relying entirely on its infrared heat-sensing vision at night.

The trogloraptor does not build webs; instead, it waits patiently for prey to pass nearby, its translucent hairs allowing it to blend into its surroundings so long as it remains completely still. Its tendency to appear near tombs, as well as its behavior of digging up and carrying away buried corpses, has earned it the common nickname “grave-robber spider.”

It had been lying up there this entire time, dormant, unnoticed. Now, hooked toes gripped the edges of the circular walls as it raised itself up to tower above my denizens, an eight-legged void blocking out the stars. I couldn’t help but stare in awe.

Unlike most spiders, I saw, this one had a mere six eyes rather than eight. They were blackish-green, tinged with a film of red. And they were focused entirely on Gneil and the acolytes below it.

Slowly, carefully, Ris’kin reached back to unsheathe the twin half-spears from the harness on her back. Adrenaline was surging through her limbs, pushing her to leap immediately upon this new threat in a whirl of snarling and stabbing. Only my will kept her from doing so; the trogloraptor hadn’t yet acted with aggression, and I was unwilling to provoke it just yet.

It just woke up to find us in its territory, I told my avatar. It’s going to want to defend itself. But it’s more afraid of us than we are of it.

I eyed its green-red orbs, its spreading palps, and above all its enormous height.

Probably, I amended.

If we could keep it calm, maybe Gneil could work his weird animal magic on the creature. Or, failing that, we just needed to drive it far enough away from the altar for me to end the exodus in safety.

Then the implications of the creature’s name hit me. This was no ordinary trogloraptor; it was a dire trogloraptor. Which meant that, like the dire badgers and fangfins, and maybe even the mole-rats, it was being controlled by some outside source. Another unnatural specimen, displaced and forced to violence.

Not only that, this was the queen. I could only hope she hadn’t had chance to hatch a brood of reinforcements, though I suspected we’d have seen them already if that were the case.

Still, time to put contingencies in place…

Satisfied that its attention was firmly fixed upon Gneil, I had Ris’kin look slowly around the assembled gnomes until I spotted the three carpenters. Recalling the structures I’d spotted earlier, I scanned the caldera until I found the most likely one. Then I sent my carpenters scurrying in that direction, followed soon after by the botanists, both protectively clutching sacks as carefully as though they contained precious crystalware.

The trogloraptor was still fixated on Gneil, standing beside the altar. It lowered itself toward him, palps waving gently, as though it was intending to greet him with a handshake, or perhaps even pick him up. My high cleric lifted a wary hand to meet it.

Then it stopped. The arachnid seemed to shudder, as though ridding itself of whatever outside influence was directing its actions. The reddish film cleared from its eyes, and it seemed for the first time to actually notice its surroundings. The hairs on its back rose in agitation.

Uh-oh.

Gneil ducked the palps that attempted to grab him. He shouted a warning to the acolytes, presumably telling them to back off and give the creature space, but it was too late. It charged toward my gathered denizens, bowling over acolytes as it barreled down the steps of the temple.

My first instinct was to rally our warriors. I was sure that with enough time and strategy we’d be able to bring it down. But time was something we really, really didn’t have. We didn’t need to kill it; we only needed to get rid of it.

My second instinct was to have Gneil and the acolytes gather the non-combatants into a safe area.

Where exactly is “safe,” though?

Being stuck here on the ground was limiting, but even in god’s-eye, I doubted I’d have found an appropriate refuge in the moment. The leggy arachnid would be able to simply step over any barricade we made, and there was no way in all the hells any gnome could outrun it.

Furthermore, the Augmentary had said trogloraptors were sensitive to light, but it looked like our little illumishrooms caused it about as much discomfort as a candle might bother a hill giant. It rampaged through the plaza, one of its massive legs piercing the thatched roof of one of the pop-up shelters and crushing the supports inside it. Part of the shelter remained attached to its leg; the hide coverings of the walls caught on the trogloraptor’s spine-like hairs, and the ruined tent flapped along behind it like toilet roll stuck to a shoe.

Chaos had come to the camp. Again. But this time, it might be chaos that saved us.

Ris’kin and I signaled to Hoppit. To her credit, the general barely hesitated before relaying the order to her sergeants, who spread it to the rest of the tribe.

An instant later, gnomes and badgers were running about in all directions. I’d essentially conveyed instructions for them to retreat at will, including the soldiers. Whereas in past engagements I’d usually order them to fight in formation and defend the con-combatants, now I was basically giving them permission to flee in whatever direction took their fancy.

More than a few of my loyal warriors struggled with this concept. Most of them had already been gathering into schiltrons—small shield formations—and now they stopped, looking around in confusion, while others ran off in pursuit of children and other vulnerable denizens.

Thankfully, the non-warriors were causing enough chaos for their brethren’s habitual organization not to matter too much. I’d been correct in assuming that despite its fearsome appearance, the trogloraptor appeared more confused than aggressive. Like most predators, it hunted for food, not fun, and right now it was like a puppy in a chicken coop, turning in circles as though it didn’t know which of the tiny heat signatures to pursue first.

Heat…

Locating each of my cooks was much more difficult without being able to enter god’s-eye, I still had access to my map, and Ris’kin and I wove around the retreating gnomes until we found them one by one. Their instincts to flee were overcome by the strength of Adjure as I instructed them to follow my orders.

If we can’t drive it off, we’ll lure it away instead.

I was pretty certain my theory about these so-called ‘dire’ creatures receiving their own instructions from elsewhere was correct. That meant we needed to take advantage of its master’s current distraction and keep the confused creature busy long enough to buy the carpenters and cooks enough time to complete their tasks.

A mighty crash had me whirling around, dreading what had happened in the chaos. The battered tent the trogloraptor had been dragging behind it had caught on one of the wagons, upending it and making the arachnid stumble. To my horror I saw that a group of children had been hiding on the wagon; they tumbled to the ground as it tipped over, and the trogloraptor’s chelicerae clicked at the sight of so many heat signatures packed together in front of it. Ris’kin was already sprinting in their direction, though I feared we wouldn’t get there in time.

A flurry of feathers whirled in the space between the spider and the gnome children as a tiny storm of hoot-hoots flung themselves at the creature’s eyes. It waved its palps irritably to fend them off, then rose again to its full height beyond the reach of the as-yet flightless birds. The children, back on their feet, scooped up the fluffy owlets and retreated, some of the older children nearby bravely covering their retreat by throwing rocks and bits of rubble at the bewildered trogloraptor until Ris’kin and I planted ourselves between them, urging the kids to flee.

Spears at the ready, we faced down the colossal arachnid. Or rather, faced up; now it was at its full height once more, Ris’kin had to crane her neck to meet its eyes. I almost felt bad for instigating so much havoc; though fear and confusion had made it behave with panicked aggression, I still sensed curiosity above all else from it.

My avatar’s fingers tightened on her weapons, reminding me that this was no friend of ours.

I don’t want to hurt you, I told it silently. But if you don’t leave, I’ll have no choice.

Thankfully the cooks chose that moment to come through. Though my avatar’s darkvision detected nothing, the trogloraptor suddenly lurched to the side, scuttling away from us toward the chefs’ first offering.

As I’d hoped, the flares of the broilcups were irresistible to the trogloraptor, just like the sound of the shrieker shrooms had been to the Zolom. The sudden boiling heat was like a beacon to the creature’s infrared senses—as was the next one they filled, and the next. Each time the creature lunged for each one, it recoiled from the burning shroom with a brittle shriek, but its instincts still sent it moving toward the next the instant it lit up.

The tribe was in possession of eight broilcups in total. With the way the cooks had spaced them out, they’d lead the trogloraptor all the way to the lake at the edge of the caldera. Hopefully that would be far enough away for us to be able to complete the exodus. Once we’d done that and the countdown was no longer hanging over us, we’d have all the time we needed to either bring it down or chase it away for good.

Time remaining for Exodus: 12 minutes, 5 seconds

Plenty of time, I told myself, though the thought was tinged with hysteria. We turned back to the plaza and headed for the temple.

“Corey, something’s changed. It’s coming back!”

“Ket?” The sprite had been quiet up till now, lost in that weird dream-like state she’d been drifting in and out of since we arrived at the mountain. Now, though, she sounded worried.

I glanced over my shoulder, then cursed and started to run faster. The trogloraptor was barreling back in our direction and was almost upon us, its straight path toward the temple a clear sign that whoever was commanding it was now back in control.

Ris’kin was easily my fleetest creation, but the trogloraptor’s stilt-like legs and jerking gait easily took it past us. It knocked over an illumishroom cluster as it bowled across the plaza, hooked toes skittering on the flagstones and crystal shards of the temple steps.

We weren’t going to get there in time.

When it reached the altar, its legs bent, folding almost in half as it lowered its rounded body almost to the ground, like a wasp contorting to sting its prey. Underneath it, Gneil, who’d been knocked down yet again by its single-minded charge, rolled onto his back, his spear braced against the flagstones. The arachnid would impale itself on the weapon’s point before it crushed my high cleric. Pride rushed through me at his quick thinking.

But then I realized. The trogloraptor wasn’t interested in Gneil. It never had been.

I cursed myself for being so stupid.

It’s after my gem! We have to stop it!

The trogloraptor continued to lower itself until it was eye-level with the altar. Ris’kin and I skidded across the plaza in a final burst of speed, but it wasn’t enough. With a quick striking movement, it snatched my gem in its palps and sprang away into the darkness.

Sixty-Three

Control

Benin

Coll’s teeth were grinding again, his body shaking. He seemed to once more be fighting for control of his own mind, and wasn’t responding to Benin’s questions. Neither was Lila.

“What are you doing?” he asked again, shouting this time.

She didn’t answer, but he could guess. Her attention was fixed in the direction of the gnomish city, and her eyelids were flickering erratically. Benin recognized scrying when he saw it. Something was up there causing trouble, and she was directing it like a conductor at an orchestra.

More like a puppet master, he thought bitterly. That’s not direction. That’s control.

Corey had once told him he had an ability called Possession, but had confessed that he didn’t feel comfortable using it except in the direst of circumstances. It seemed Lila had no such qualms. Benin didn’t know what kind of dire creature she’d had lying in wait up there, but she seemed confident it would be enough. And once again the gnomes were facing it alone.

He’d let Corey down again, despite promising to protect his denizens. A sense of failure tried to consume him. Past-Benin would have let it. Now, though, he forced it away. If Lila were controlling the creature, he needed to distract her. Perhaps that would give them a chance.

He began to wriggle his fingers. He could barely move them—the vines held so tightly they were almost cutting off the blood flow—but if he wasn’t imagining things, they were beginning to loosen the more he worked at them.

It wasn’t enough. It was taking too long!

Lila suddenly cried out. Her eyes flew open and she dropped to one knee, reaching behind her with a grimace. His heart leapt as the vines loosened a little.

She plucked something from the back of her leg and examined it.

A gnomish spear? But how—

She shouted again, lashing out at something behind her, but even her ranger’s reflexes weren’t quick enough. A small figure dodged her fist, emerging fully into Pyra’s glowing aura as it jabbed at Lila with a second spear.

Ajax?!

The warrior he’d rescued from the monstrous marsh snake planted his legs wide, standing firmly between Benin and Lila.

“Stay out of this!” she told the gnome, sounding genuinely distressed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

That made no sense. She’d been trying to hurt them all the way through their journey. When Benin pointed this out, her face twisted in confusion.

“No! I wasn’t trying to hurt them. I was trying to…” Her expression changed, growing hard. Her eyes darkened, and black veins seemed to push at the skin of her face and neck. “Yes,” she said in a voice that was now cold. “Exterminate the runts. Retrieve the Core. Kill the betrayers.”

The sudden shift was more than a little unnerving. Even Ajax backed slowly away, edging nearer to Benin, and he did not move to attack when she closed her eyes and resumed communing with whatever was wreaking havoc at the summit.

The gnomish warrior instead turned and began using his spear to clumsily saw at the vines twisting around Benin’s legs. He’d have preferred the gnome to begin by freeing his hands, but they were currently beyond his reach.

The wait was agonizing. Ajax’s spear made little headway against the magic-reinforced vines, and Benin was frozen in a torture of imagining what carnage was happening above.

His nose twitched.

What’s that smell?

For a bizarre moment he thought he’d caught a whiff of the fetid marshes. But that was impossible. No way was the breeze strong enough to have carried it so far, no matter how pungently the place stank.

There was a different smell, though, much closer.

Burning.

From the corner of his eye he saw smoke curling up from the vines enwrapping Pyra. The little emberfox was focusing her essence, concentrating the heat of her body up to its surface in an attempt to counter the magical vines. And it was working. The fox was glowing almost white, hotter than he’d ever seen her, and the vines were starting to blacken and crisp. Flames licked along the surface of the thickest ones, and they seemed to flinch, finally retracting enough for Pyra to wriggle herself free.

The emberfox wasted no time. As soon as she was out, she leapt toward Lila, jaws opening wide as a torrent of flame spewed forth to engulf the ranger.

A wall of vines sprang up between them. The flames splashed against it, blackening and igniting the greenery but leaving Lila unharmed. She stepped out from behind the shield, glaring, clearly furious at having been pulled away from her task yet again.

More vines sprouted, this time forming a cage around the emberfox. Pyra howled her outrage, though Benin knew her Flamethrower ability could not be used again for another two minutes.

“Interfere again and you die,” Lila growled. Pyra growled right back at her. The emberfox’s frustration seared across their bond, but Benin’s gaze was fixed on the darkness behind Lila. I swear I just saw something move. Something big…

The ranger saw him staring. “What, damn it?”

Her ranger reflexes saved her life. Lila threw herself to the side of the trail, and the Marsh Zolom’s jaws snapped shut on empty air. Hissing in annoyance, it drew its head back, close enough now to be illuminated in Pyra’s glow. Its tongue flicked in and out; for a moment, it faced Benin and Coll. Ajax froze in the act of cutting him free, and all three of them waited helplessly for the fanged blow to fall.

The Zolom hissed again. Its black eye sockets seemed to promise that they’d be next. Then it lunged for Lila again.

The ranger threw up another wall of vines to shield herself. The snake smashed blindly into them, and Lila took the opportunity to scramble off the trail and up the rocks of the mountainside. The vine shield kept the Zolom busy for a few more moments as it bashed its head stupidly against the barrier.

A grunt from nearby drew Benin’s attention back to Coll. The warrior strained against his own vines. He caught Benin’s eye, looking a little bewildered, but there was no longer any sign of the berserk rage that had driven him minutes earlier. The greater threat of the Zolom seemed to have snapped him out of his strange state, for now at least.

“Call yourself a guardbreaker, Rutherford?” he grunted in an uncanny impression of Shieldmaster Severs. His muscles strained, tendons pushing against the skin of his neck.

The vines snapped. Coll shrugged them off, gasping from the effort of having broken free, then he hurried over to Benin. Though his stamina was obviously running low, he was able to tug the slimmer vines away from Benin’s hands, allowing the mage to cast something to free himself from the rest.

The old Benin would have set them on fire, not caring about the damage to his robes so long as he could be free. Now though, he’d been considering how best to escape, and began casting Sheathe. Usually employed by warrior-mages as invisible armor, it followed similar principles to Levitate in that it involved forming air into a sort of “cushion”, except this time it was spread across the entire surface of his body.

His mana drained alarmingly as Sheathe spread along his limbs. When he was down to his last globe, he reached for Pyra; she willingly gave over her essence to him, and he seamlessly transitioned to drawing from her pool instead.

Once the Sheathe was in place, he fed more mana into it. The hard air shell expanded bit by bit, forcing the vines further and further away from him, until eventually he had enough room to wriggle free. Despite the circumstances, he allowed himself a moment to congratulate himself on such an elegant solution.

While Benin was occupied, Coll brought his hammer down on Pyra’s vine cage. The tendrils had already started to burn and blacken from the emberfox’s aura, and the first smash of the hammer made them crackle. The second hit made them crack, and finally the third broke through. Despite Coll’s somewhat barbaric technique, Benin knew by now that he had full control of his weapon, and that Pyra herself was never in danger of being crushed by the hammer.

“We should get back to the gnomes,” he said once they were all free. “They might need our help.”

“Shouldn’t we take care of snakey-boy first?” Coll looked worried. “We don’t want to end up leading it right to them.”

“There might not be any gnomes left to lead it to if we don’t help them now! If we run while it’s distracted—”

The Zolom finally smashed through the wall of vines, hissing when it found its prey gone. There was a new hollow tone to its hiss, perhaps a result of the gaping hole in its neck. How it had managed to un-impale itself from the tree was anyone’s guess. Here and there on its body still clung strands of spiderweb, and the serpent’s brown-and-black scales bore the marks of Benin’s fire, though they’d healed plenty since they’d been inflicted, with no signs of infection from the fetid marshwater.

It hadn’t pursued Lila up the slope. Instead, it was watching her, its sinuous neck swaying from side to side.

Odd. What’s it doing?

He heard the rasping slide of scales on rough stone, though the Zolom’s swaying head remained in the same place.

Up the slope in the darkness, Lila cried out again. A moment later Benin saw why. The Zolom had used its colossal length to spread itself around the area, and it lowered the struggling ranger back to the ground, its tail wrapped around her waist.

When her feet touched the floor, the snake didn’t let go. Instead, the tail’s tip curled tighter, forcing her to turn as more and more scaly coils encircled her, just like the vines she’d conjured.

But the Zolom was far more deadly than mere vines. Once it had Lila in a good grip, it began to squeeze. Muscles rippled along its coils as they constricted, and Lila began to choke. She soon ran out of breath, and Benin watched, frozen, as her face turned purple, her mouth wide in a silent scream.

He glanced up at the summit, torn. He’d made a promise to Corey. The gnomes needed his help. Lila had as much as confessed that she was working to hurt them all; her death here seemed an appropriate sacrifice, giving them the time they needed to race back to the crater city and stand with the gnomes against whatever threat she’d sent against them this time.

And yet.

They’d already abandoned her once. He, Coll and Tiri had left her to a fate too horrifying to contemplate. In a way, that meant they were directly responsible for all that had happened to her since.

Lila clearly wasn’t herself. Not only had she been manipulated by Varnell—Tiri had mentioned as much, though the hastily scrawled note she’d written Benin hadn’t exactly gone into detail—she’d also been taken by this Lord of Light, who was obviously some kind of demon.

Whatever had possessed her earlier had left her now; her face was no longer pale and black-veined, but purple-blue and terrified. Something had made her this way. And it was up to Benin to help her. He owed her that much at least.

But the gnomes…

A tiny hand patted his calf firmly. He looked down to see Ajax readying his spear. The gnomish warrior’s eyes were fixed upon the Zolom.

Benin banished the last of his doubts and began to cast.

Sixty-Four

Let There Be Light

Corey

It took my gem.

As the eight-legged enemy bounded off with my Core clutched triumphantly in its palps, the terror I’d felt at not being able to finish the exodus in time grew to paralyzing new levels. That fear was quickly replaced with outrage at the trogloraptor’s sheer gods-damned audacity.

It took my gem!

After the past month and more, after everything we’d been through, this spider’s impertinent master thought they could stop us from completing what we’d set out to do?

Not on my watch.

Our strategy had changed. After a moment’s Divine Inspiration, Gneil and the acolytes were sprinting toward the wagon that held one of our most useful assets. Rather than chase the creature away, we needed to stop it from escaping, recover my gem, then find a way to get rid of it—all before the timer ran down.

Time remaining for Exodus: 8 minutes, 55 seconds

Sheer panic and determination gave strength to my avatar’s muscles, as did the fury juice she’d taken from the cooks earlier. She flew across the ground in pursuit of the enemy, faster and stronger and more fearless than ever, and drove her spear into the back of the trogloraptor’s chitinous knee. Her second spear plunged into another leg an instant later. Then she was yanking them out, twisting and dodging to avoid being trampled as she leapt for yet another limb and began to climb, using her half-spears like a mountain climber’s pitons.

Any earlier compunction I’d felt at harming the creature was gone, replaced with the desperate desire to see the exodus through to its end come what may. The trogloraptor might be a mere puppet in the grand scheme of things, but right now it was standing between me and the future safety of my tribe.

Though Riskin’s weight was minimal, the trogloraptor’s legs were proportionally slender enough that her climb was hampering its movement even if it wasn’t hurting it. Its tough hairs and exoskeleton had prevented her weapons from doing much damage despite the fury-inspired force with which she’d driven them, so now she was climbing to seek a more vulnerable spot where the leg joined the body.

Repair complete!

Machine acquired: Mobile Trebuchet.

New vocations unlocked!

Issuing instructions via the Augmentary while free-climbing a spider wasn’t easy. The unfamiliar new “Machines” interface refused to accommodate my attempts to order the builders to load the trebuchet’s arm. However, I quickly realized why.

I selected the nearest warrior—a slinger whom I’d dubbed “Cannonball” for his tendency to use overlarge rocks as ammunition rather than standard-sized bullets—and allocated him the Trebuchet Operative vocation. Then I switched to Dovetail the carpenter, reassigning her as an Engineer. Both vocations had been unlocked with the completion of a functioning siege engine, probably because the trebuchet required at least one of each to operate it.

This time, the Augmentary allowed me to select the acolytes’ burden as the trebuchet’s ammunition. As soon as I did, Dovetail and Cannonball hurried forward to take it from them. As they loaded the cradle and fiddled with the calibrating mechanism, the botanists backed away from the machine, relief clear on their faces. They still clutched the sacks of finger flingers I’d originally intended to launch; now that our goal was to stop the trogloraptor rather than scare it off, the botanists’ precious hybrid shrooms would remain unsmashed.

But the trogloraptor’s renewed purpose had brought it around to the wrong side of the caldera. The trebuchet would not be ready in time to launch before the arachnid was out of range.

Then something glinted down below, and I silently rejoiced. The trogloraptor was so focused on escaping it didn’t notice Longshank step out from the shelter of a ruined building until the hunter buried his spear in the creature’s leg.

Unlike the obsidian speartips of Ris’kin’s weapons, Longshank’s crystal spear pierced spiny hairs and exoskeleton alike, plunging into the trogloraptor’s leg like a crossbow bolt through a watermelon. It shrieked and stumbled, but the will that drove it forced it onward, more slowly but still just as steady. Longshank was dragged along behind it. He refused to relinquish his shiny new spear, and was attempting to work it free even as his mismatched armor of mole-rat hide and snakeskin scraped across the rubbled ground.

Why won’t you stop? I cursed the trogloraptor. Stop, damn it!

Ris’kin drove her spear into the creature again and again, hoping the assault would at least make it lose its hold on my Core, but to no avail. Another few seconds and it would be out of the trebuchet’s range.

This is the part where Binky usually jumps in to save the day, I thought, desperately hoping the spider would miraculously make an appearance. But no. Even if Binky was still alive, it seemed he was no longer with us.

Another tent crumpled beneath the trogloraptor’s clawed feet. Beyond it, close to the trailhead where the gnomes would have made their entrance and caught their first sight of their ancestral city, the humans had pitched their tent. Past that was the trail. If the arachnid reached it, the trebuchet would be useless, and all would be lost.

The ‘raptor plowed on toward it like it was the light at the end of the tunnel. Then suddenly there was light.

Blinding illumination shone from Benin and Coll’s tent. Squinting against the sudden unexpected radiance, Ris’kin’s sharp vision picked out the silhouettes of two small figures, holding the chemsphere between them. It seemed Swift and Cheer had decided to follow us up here after all, and had immediately set about their favorite pastime of pillaging Benin’s belongings.

Unlike the illumishrooms, which the trogloraptor had barely seemed to even notice, the light from the humans’ chemsphere made it hiss and screech and veer away as though it had been hit with physical force. It recovered after a few moments, but to my relief the trebuchet crew had finally accomplished their loading and aiming and had reached the final command I’d left in the queue.

Even at this distance I heard the powerful kick of the mechanism. Still blinking away spots of light, Ris’kin and I searched the sky until we saw the projectile arcing across toward the ‘raptor.

Toward us, I realized.

We slid down to the ground, catching a few slices from razor-sharp leg hairs on the way down, then tugged Longshank away. The skynet opened up like a silky, sticky flower as it sailed downward toward the trogloraptor.

And missed.

Sixty-Five

No Time

Benin

The Marsh Zolom’s tongue flicked out from between its fangs, as though impatient to be done throttling this human so it could sooner wreak its revenge on the other two. But when Ajax sprinted forward, its head jerked in the gnome’s direction. It opened its jaws and lunged.

As dexterous as a Guild ranger, Ajax dodged and spun. The spear whirled in his hands. The Zolom’s jaws closed on empty air—

—and then stopped, held open by the spear that was now impaling the serrated roof of its mouth. The spear’s butt was wedged firmly behind the Zolom’s bottom fang, and Ajax scurried away to safety.

The Zolom hissed furiously. The spear was already starting to crack, but it didn’t need to last much longer. Benin only needed a moment, and the gnomish warrior had given him plenty. He took aim and released.

The ball of lightning shot into the snake’s open mouth a moment before the spear shaft finally splintered. Fanged jaws snapped shut around the crackling sphere and the snake swallowed on instinct. He’d tried this before, but not with Pyra’s power behind it. Hopefully the empowered spell would be enough.

Benin crossed his fingers, trying not to look at Lila’s face. Her eyes were beginning to bulge, and he was pretty sure she didn’t have much longer.

He almost cheered when the snake’s body started to convulse. It twitched and jerked as the lightning sphere forced its way through its innards. The coils around Lila loosened, the snake losing control of its own muscles, and she collapsed on top of them, gasping and convulsing almost as violently as the serpent.

He maintained a wary distance, as did Coll. As she regained her breath, the snake still twitching and jerking behind her, she stared at Benin. “Why?” she croaked.

He shrugged lamely. Then he shouted, “Look out!”

This time she didn’t scoff, but threw herself flat on the ground. The Zolom lunged past her, jaws snapping uncontrollably, coils twitching. It seemed to no longer have control of its tongue, so was striking blindly and unpredictably at everything around it.

No matter what we throw at it, it shrugs it off, he thought despairingly. Can anything we do kill it? Can it even be killed at all?

There was a yelp as its head smashed blindly into Pyra, knocking her down and momentarily stunning her. The Zolom hissed triumphantly as it located one of its prey, and reared back for another strike. Past-Benin would have screamed and thrown fire, raging pointlessly at it for daring to harm his familiar. But the new Benin knew that would do no good. Any magic he threw at it would just bounce off its hide; he wouldn’t get a lucky strike again like with the lightning ball, no matter how focused his magic was these days.

As the Zolom lunged again, Benin did the only thing that had a chance of saving her. He threw himself in front of the dazed emberfox.

Sheltering his familiar with his own body, he tensed, waiting for the fangs to puncture his skin at any moment, soon to be followed no doubt with deadly constriction. When no attack landed, he dared a glance over his shoulder.

The Zolom’s fanged face was bare inches away from his, muzzled by vines. Coll was looking between Lila and Benin, hefting his hammer. “We have to finish it.” His tone implied, “But how?”

Vines creaked as the serpent strained against them. Lila grunted, conjuring more; they burst from the ground to wrap around the Zolom’s coils, also stopping its tail, which had been creeping once more in her direction.

“You know what you need to do.”

It was Bekkit who spoke up. Benin had forgotten he was even here.

“Are you mad?” Fear shot through him as he registered what the sprite had meant.

“It’s the only option if we’re to stand a chance of surviving against that beast.” The sprite’s voice was weakening by the minute, his glow so dim as to almost be invisible as he alighted on Benin’s shoulder.

“You saw what happened last time. I don’t have the control to maintain them!”

“No. Not yet.” Bekkit took a deep breath, as though about to ask him a huge favor. “But I do.”

* * *

“Ready?”

Lila nodded tersely. She was beginning to tremble with the effort of maintaining so many vines, but he trusted her to hold a little longer.

Ajax stood guard further up the trail, watching over Pyra, who still seemed dazed. Coll stood nearby, hammer at the ready as ever, though if he ended up having to use it for anything other than this one task, that meant they’d have failed.

We won’t fail.

Benin tried to believe that as he reached out a hand and began persuading the elements to mingle. He drew carefully on Pyra’s source to power and maintain it.

The second presence in his mind made sure of it.

With Pyra as the fuel and Bekkit as the manipulator, Benin was little more than a conduit for this task. Though he was the caster, it was Bekkit who guided his magic, drawing on and refining the emberfox’s raw power to form a much more stable pair of portals than Benin would ever have managed on his own.

That didn’t mean he hadn’t contributed to the plan, however. He’d double-checked Arcane Sight’s description and confirmed that even though the Zolom couldn’t see, it could taste scents and feel vibrations. The lightning had left its tongue dangling uselessly from its bloody mouth, but there was one thing he knew of that even this snake wouldn’t be able to ignore.

The air beside Coll shimmered. The warrior raised his hammer.

“Now!”

Lila released the vines. They slithered from the giant snake and back into the earth. At the same time, Coll lifted his hammer with both hands and slammed it into the ground just behind the portal. “Hammer Smash!” he cried.

As it lunged toward the sound, the Zolom’s tail whipped. It was a reactive movement, a casual slap, but it knocked Lila to the ground, hard. Her head hit the rock with a sickening crack that made Benin wince to hear.

The serpent’s head disappeared through the portal. In the same instant, it reappeared, emerging from the paired portal. Benin had to crane his neck to see it; he’d placed the second portal—angled to face downward—as high up in the air and as far away from the mountainside as he could. Anything that emerged from it would go plunging straight to the ground hundreds of feet below. He was sure not even the legendary Zolom could survive something like that.

That was the theory, anyway.

But it really was a long snake. Its momentum did carry several feet of its body through the shimmering silver circle, but although its head hung confused from the distant portal, enough of its bulk remained on solid ground to stop it falling completely through. To Benin’s horror, it started to wriggle backward.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

He met Coll’s stare, expecting the warrior to look as horrified as he felt. But the big man just waggled his eyebrows at him.

What the hell is he—

Then he recalled a conversation they’d had after the river crossing. Coll had been full of inane questions about how the portals worked, because of course he had. One of those questions had been regarding what would happen if Coll stuck his arm through the portal—and what would happen if the portal then suddenly closed.

“Close it!” he yelled. “Close the portal!”

“It does not need to scream,” grumbled Bekkit. “Has it forgotten that I am right here?”

“Just do it!”

There was no dramatic flash this time, no spinning fire and furious water. The portals just… disappeared.

The Zolom’s upper body seemed to hang suspended in the air for a moment. Then it gave one final hiss and dropped beyond sight to smash apart on the ground below.

On the trail, the rest of its body writhed in the throes of death, as though refusing to come to terms with its end after all its decades of existence. Where the portal had closed, a perfect cross-section of the serpent’s body glistened in the starlight. It was like the Zolom had been sliced cleanly in half by a paper-thin guillotine blade.

We did it. We actually did it!

He tried not to imagine Tiri’s reaction when she learned they were probably responsible for the extinction of a lost species. He had bigger things to worry about right now.

“Lila, you need to—damn it!”

He sprinted over to where she lay, still unconscious. He cursed himself for not asking her to do it sooner. Her switch in alliance to helping them had been so sudden, and her concentration on maintaining the vines so crucial to their plan, that he’d focused on removing the Zolom first.

“Wake up!” He slapped her cheek roughly. When she didn’t stir, he placed a hand gingerly on her chest and sent a spark of electricity into her.

She jerked, but did not awaken.

“That only works for drowning.”

“What?”

Coll stepped forward. “No point trying to restart her heart when it never stopped in the first place. For knocked-out, you need water.”

He upended his water flask over her head. She spluttered under the assault, turning her head to avoid it and wincing as she did so.

Benin crouched beside her. “Call it off.”

She blinked at him groggily. He clicked his fingers in front of her face until her eyes focused. “Lila! Whatever’s up there, call it off! Now!”

Sixty-Six

Enough

Corey

The skynet, launched from the repaired trebuchet, barely grazed one of the trogloraptor’s spiky knees before it flew over the edge of the trailhead and out of sight like a kamikaze ghost.

Its passing gave the trogloraptor pause. Then it was shrieking again as the still-glowing chemsphere came rolling toward it, flashing with every rotation. It was pursued by Swift and Cheer, both of whom were yelling “Whoa!” at the globe as though it were a runaway badger, despite that particular strategy having failed them every time in the past.

Ris’kin and I looked up at the trogloraptor, shrinking away from the light, and together we resolved to keep trying for as long as we both drew breath. Well, for as long as Ris’kin drew breath. I, of course, had no respiratory system to speak of.

And I never will if we end up failing here.

Timing our leap carefully, we waited for just the right moment. This was undoubtedly the last chance we’d get.

When the trogloraptor stumbled on its injured leg, we saw our chance, and leapt.

Ris’kin’s reaching hands closed firmly around the creature’s furry palps. Unbalanced by the sudden weight hanging from the half-limbs that guarded its mouth, the trogloraptor lurched downward. Its head and thorax dipped low enough for Longshank to scramble up and drive his crystal spear into the back of its head.

But the spear would not go all the way in. The spider’s chitinous exoskeleton was much harder around its body than its legs, it seemed, and no matter how Longshank pushed, the spear would not go any deeper.

However, it did seem to be hurting the creature somewhat. Though it didn’t push through its physical armor, it did at least seem to penetrate the fog of whatever magic held it in thrall, and it shrieked in pain, lowering itself even further to the ground to escape the crystal point.

Time remaining for Exodus: 2 minutes, 39 seconds

Her feet firmly on the floor, Ris’kin released the trogloraptor’s palps. Now safely inside their reach, she grasped the spider’s chelicerae instead. The sharp mandible-like appendages still held my gem fast in their grip.

The ‘fury’ status was flashing in the top of my vision, warning me that the effects of the furynut brew would wear off in a few seconds, but a few seconds was all we needed.

The last fury effects pulsed through Ris’kin, empowering her limbs, and I threw all of my will into further bolstering her strength and resolve. Bracing herself against the floor, she gripped the chelicerae firmly and pulled.

They barely budged.

No! Come on!

Ris’kin heaved again, her efforts joining mine in a mental scream as we strained with all our strength to release my gem from the enemy.

The fury icon flickered and died. My gem remained in the trogloraptor’s grip.

My avatar let go. Barely noticing the burning of cramping fingers and overworked muscles, she took an uncertain step away from the trogloraptor, unsteady with the aftereffects of the fury juice as well as my mentally reeling with my own realization of our failure.

The spider shifted, doubtless about to throw Longshank off and make another run for it. I considered just letting it. But only for an instant.

No matter how much we despaired, there was no way I’d let it go and give up our tribe’s entire future. Even if it meant we wouldn’t complete the exodus on time, even though I’d end up starting over at tier one and likely wouldn’t advance enough in time to stop our enemies—of which we apparently had more than we’d realized—from wiping the last of the gnomes from this earth, it was my duty to make sure we claimed this place as our own. To at least give them a chance of surviving what was to come.

Ris’kin bent wearily to collect her fallen spears.

When we faced the trogloraptor again, though, something was different. Though the red film still marred its eyes, suggesting it was still being controlled, it no longer seemed interested in either escape or attack. Instead, we watched, barely comprehending as it lowered itself to the ground and deposited my gem at Ris’kin’s feet.

Something flashed in my vision. I frowned, thinking it was the ‘fury’ warning again, but that had been replaced with an ‘exhaustion’ icon—something Ris’kin’s trembling limbs and palpitating heart had already told me.

Time remaining for Exodus: 120 seconds

We stared down at my gem, confused by the sudden turnaround in circumstances. Then everything hit me at once, above all the fact that there was still time.

Time remaining for Exodus: 112 seconds

“Corey, come on!”

It seemed Ket was finally back with us. Ris’kin had already snatched the gem and started running, exhausted limbs screaming their objections at being pushed so far beyond the limits of their endurance. But if our journey had taught me one thing it was that my denizens’ limits were far beyond anything I’d ever given them credit for, and Ris’kin was no different.

We hared through the wreckage of the encampment toward the ruined temple, disheveled gnomes parting to make way for my avatar.

10 seconds…

Shards of crystal crunched beneath our feet, pricking painfully at the pads of Ris’kin’s soles as we sprinted up the curved steps.

5 seconds…

On the far side of the altar, Gneil reached over for the gem, fingers stretched to their fullest while his lips moved in fervent prayer.

3 seconds…

Together, Gneil and Ris’kin touched my Core to the stone altar, none too gentle in their haste. We all stared down at it, wondering if it had been enough.

The timer had stopped counting and disappeared. The absolute lack of prompts from the Augmentary, of confirmation of either success or failure, was not encouraging.

Did we make it? Or were we too late?

Everything was still. Gnomes, badgers and rampaging trogloraptor alike waited in silence. The tension in the plaza was so thick I could hardly breathe.

Then:

Altar successfully sanctified. Exodus complete!

Sixty-Seven

Epilogue

Corey

I hardly heard the cheering of my denizens. My entire being rang with shock, disbelief, and pure unbridled relief.

The humans’ appearance at the top of the trail was cause for even more happiness—almost as much so as the ten full globes of mana pulsing tantalizingly in a vertical stack in the right side of my vision.

I’ve missed you so much, I told them. I—wait. Ten?!

Apparently I exclaimed that last part out loud, because Bekkit said, “Indeed. By completing the Exodus, you fulfilled a holy covenant between yourself and your denizens. If you look more closely, you’ll also see that all of your adult denizens have unlocked the next tier of worship. This is just one of the reasons nomadic elven civilizations of the past were so powerful…”

I tuned him out, entirely caught up in the buzz of Ascendancy and success. The sight of my mana globes, as well as of my vastly expanded map, of the grayed-out tabs in the Augmentary lighting up in their various colors once more… I doubted I’d ever see anything so sweet again.

I was proved wrong mere hours later when Binky appeared, along with Flea and Sir Fura. The unlikely trio were bloody and beaten, with wounds that looked suspiciously like they’d come from bear claws. Now that my precious eight-legged friend was fully terrestrial, it seemed his mind was as independent as his body, and he’d taken it upon himself to scout the surrounding area and dispose of any threats he encountered. If I’d had corporeal eyes I’d definitely have had to wipe away more than a few tears. They grow up so fast.

Longshank had refrained from spearing the now-docile trogloraptor to death, but rather dismounted cautiously and allowed it to scuttle off to lick its wounds. The relationship between him and Gneil was still not exactly what one might call friendly, but the high cleric definitely seemed to regard the hunter with more respect than before. I wondered how much of that was down to Longshank escorting my gem safely to its new home, and how much was down to the hunter saving Hoppit during the fangfin attack at the river. I decided I was happier not knowing.

The sight of Lila had been a shock, but clearly not as much of a shock as it had been to Coll and Benin. Apparently she was the one responsible for the dire creatures, but she’d also been directly influenced by malevolent forces—as, apparently, had Coll.

It seemed that whatever outside influences had affected them were banished with the restoration of my Sphere. According to Benin, they’d likely remain protected so long as they stayed within its boundaries. By the Sphere’s magic, yes, but also by me.

I swear it.

* * *

As much as I reveled in borrowing Ris’kin’s body and experiencing the wonders of tactility, it felt truly amazing to float in the air, once again in my god’s-eye form. I took more delight than I ever had before in supervising my busy denizens, flitting from builders clearing rubble to botanists planting mushrooms in an instant using nothing but my own thoughts.

It’s good to be a god again.

Though I was now able to venture all the way up to the full height of my newly expanded Sphere—which I suspected would take me above the clouds if I so chose—I had yet to summon the bravery to do so. I was much more comfortable with the sky than I had been at the start of the journey, but still.

One step at a time.

I was plenty high enough right now to get a much better look at the dragon skeletons that cluttered up the north-eastern edge of the caldera. Both dragons’ jaws were frozen wide, and they clutched at each other so tightly that in places the claws had actually punctured flesh and pierced bone. At first sight I’d thought them to be embracing, but from my new vantage it was clear they’d actually been fighting. I tried to imagine such fierce animosity. As much as it pained me to admit it, I suspected my own self-preservation instincts—in this life and my former one—would never allow me to plummet to my own death simply to ensure the destruction of my enemy.

The thought of enemies weighed me down. With Grimrock vanquished, we’d originally thought Varnell to be our only enemy. But what Benin had told me about Lila suggested we had another foe in the form of this “Lord of Light”—not to mention the theory the mage and I shared about the Zolom having been the avatar of yet another Core.

On top of all that, the memories that had flooded me after the failed crossing—the memories that I was trying to push down while we became better acquainted with our new surroundings—had essentially added yet another name to the list.

Melakor.

Whoever he really was, the memories I’d regained made it very clear that he was not only responsible for betraying me and my former allies, he was also directly to blame for trapping my soul in its gemstone prison and stealing my dark elf body for himself. I was torn between wanting to hunt him down and make him pay—perhaps even fulfill my old dream of taking back my body—or accepting that my former life was behind me for good. It was a huge decision, a millstone around my entire being, which was why I’d been trying hard not to think about it.

Luckily, I had plenty of distractions.

Rolling my eyes at the sound of grumbling, I zoomed down to see what Benin was whining about this time. As ever, the source of his complaining—which was far more good-natured than it used to be—was the pair of scavengers, whom he’d caught yet again going through his things.

However, this time it appeared he had not caught Swift and Cheer in the act of stealing his chemsphere, but in bringing it back to him. He seemed taken aback when he realized this, and after an uncertain pause, he said, “You know what? You can keep it.”

They remained standing there, knees trembling under the weight of the sphere, forced grins fixed on their faces. Cursing, Benin knelt, took it from them, then immediately handed it back, pointing from himself to the chemsphere to indicate it was a gift. Their faces lit up in understanding, and they scurried back down to their lair quickly as though afraid he’d change his mind.

Swift and Cheer had been the first to venture back down to the magma-pit cavern—which I’d dubbed the Gnexus—and during their explorations they’d found a workshop. Among the Gnexus’s extensive series of caverns—the entire place really was a maze—the ones adopted by Swift and Cheer were filled with metal contraptions and shelves of tablets containing diagrams and instructions. The scavengers had already begun tinkering, disassembling, their eyes alight with wonder and curiosity.

Ket, too, had squealed in delight at the workshop. The way she flitted from room to room, touching surfaces and critically examining half-assembled objects, made me certain she was familiar with this place, though I had no idea how that could be possible. I still sensed confusion and conflicting emotions from her, though, and decided to give her some time to come to terms with them. My questions could come later. That would also give me more time to digest my own recent revelations.

A tug at the edge of my consciousness alerted me to an intelligent presence entering my Sphere. I frowned. The presence was unfamiliar. It was followed by two others.

They’d entered my Sphere halfway up the main trail, which meant the warriors on patrol there would soon challenge them if they hadn’t already. If they were no threat, the warriors would send them on up here with an escort. I didn’t have to bother myself personally with it until that point. All I had to do was wait.

But the arrival of strangers so soon after our settlement made me uneasy, and I sped down to where the new arrivals stood on the trail.

When I saw them, the bottom dropped out of me and I felt like I was falling.

It can’t be…

Three figures dressed in ragged attire stood on the trail, their hands raised in the air. All three were a head taller than the gnomish warriors that barred their way, shields raised, spears pointed firmly at the intruders. Their knuckles were white where they clutched their weapons. Every one of them was clearly on edge. And with good reason.

The figure at the head of the trio tilted its crocodilian snout toward where I floated above and behind my warriors. Crimson scales flashed in the sunlight.

The edges of my vision fuzzed with darkness.

“Hello again, little god,” said Grimrock. “We need to talk.”

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