HankTheMoose
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3.29 Whisperer
🕑 Added 2025-01-18 16:23:30 +0000 UTCThe guild was a beautiful structure that dated back to imperial times, with high ceilings, carved marble columns and a general sense of gravitas that Halfbridge lacked. Unfortunately, the place had seen better days. While it was clean and mages moved about their business as they did back home, entire wings of the massive complex were roped off and mothballed, including its defunct research department.
Leaving Uriah at the front desk to ask the receptionist about reliable enchanters, Bernt followed the signs to his destination. Lochholme’s library was, simply put, a crushing disappointment. The massive room was half-empty and stocked primarily with basic elemental texts. There was quite a bit available on pyromancy, but it was nothing Bernt didn’t have access to back home. When Bernt asked the librarian for information on summoning, planar theory, and sorcery, she’d just shrugged.
“All the interesting stuff got transferred to Teres years ago. The guildmaster at the time had some kind of feud with the Archwizard in charge of the research wing here and dissolved the whole department. They gutted the library as an afterthought. We’ve been trying to rebuild, but mostly we can just get copies of what everyone else already has.”
Bernt left almost immediately. Uriah was gone by the time he got back, so he’d probably found somewhere to get his staff repaired.
For the first time in well over a week, Bernt was alone and had time on his hands. He stopped a passing mage with a wave.
“Hey, is there someplace here to practice spells in private?”
***
The sensation was as disorienting as ever, but Bernt knew what to expect by now. One moment, he was sitting next to his carefully chalked portal circle, the next he was watching a pack of imps devour what looked like small, slightly charred pancakes. What?
“Bernt!” Jori said out loud, pushing back against his consciousness even as he did the same to her. It was something they’d worked out back in Halfbridge. Mentally closing themselves off a bit helped to muffle some of the more disorienting aspects of their link. Talking out loud was a good way to focus their thoughts and communicate clearly.
“Are you teaching a cooking class?” Bernt asked, only half-joking. One of the imps had set their pancake on fire.
“I’m teaching them about real food.” Jori corrected, lightly smacking the offending imp in the back of the head. “Don’t burn it, it’s going to taste like sulfur and ash!”
“Where’s Ed? I can’t believe he agreed to this.” Bernt laughed.
“Ed is gone – I took him home. We killed Tallash!” Jori said, pride radiating in her chest. It wasn’t just pride, though. Anxiety twisted in her belly.
“Are you alright? What happened?”
“The Duergar summoned him a few days ago. Him and the imps. We found the spot where he was summoned from, and set a trap for him. When he returned, Ed smushed him.”
“That’s great! So… what’s the problem? The other imps are free, right? Are you going to keep them?”
Jori moved away from the other imps. Some of them looked at her curiously, but she waved them down and ducked out of the cave.
“I couldn’t hurt him. Not with my fire, or my claws.” Jori admitted quietly. “I don’t think he was much more powerful than I am, maybe class 3. But fiends are built to kill us. How can I protect the pack from more of them?”
Bernt frowned. “Maybe you need weapons. Most humans can’t fight well without them. If your natural tools aren’t good enough, you should use something else.”
Jori looked down at herself and Bernt saw that she was wearing her robes. They were a bit frayed, now, but she was probably still one of the best-dressed demons in the hells. Most simply didn’t wear clothes or use tools. There was no good reason for that, that Bernt had ever understood. Jori agreed.
“What kind of weapon would hurt a fiend, though? A knife wouldn’t be sharper than my claws.”
Bernt thought for a moment. “You could try a poison of some kind, or some kind of blunt weapon. Their skin is tough, but you might still be able to break their bones. They might also be vulnerable in some areas, like the eyes. There are a lot of things you can try. You can even try them all at once, now that you have all these other imps to help.”
Jori nodded to herself, and he could feel the wheels turning in her head.
“Demons don’t seem to use weapons very much.” Bernt went on. “None of the demons that attacked us on the road used anything besides their own bodies to fight. As far as I can tell, there wasn’t even any kind of structure to their ambush. I don’t know if it’s just culture, or something more fundamental, but fighting and war is about creativity. That’s what Therion was trying to teach me with our sparring lessons. Do you remember? What is it?”
Icy shock shot through Jori and Bernt lost all sense of direction as she whirled around and scuttled back into the cave, shock quickly transforming into red hot rage.
“You attacked my mortals?! My friends?” The imps shrank back, eyes wide. All except one, one that Bernt recognized. It was the same one that Uriah had killed with the staff during the first attack.
“We don’t know which mortals we attacked, we just followed our orders,” he said calmly, eyes narrowing. “I told you we would – Tallash still lived. It worked out fine for you. We were the ones who were crushed and burned. Barely any of them even died – don’t be dramatic!”
Bernt felt Jori suppress the urge to attack him. His own feelings toward them were ambivalent. He still wasn’t sure exactly how demons normally enforced their hierarchies, but he didn’t imagine that they were gentle about it. He didn’t trust them – not around mortals – but he didn’t have to. They were in the hells. Besides, they were Jori’s imps now.
“Just tell them to break any pacts they might have with the Duergar. If they come sneaking into our camp again, I’m going to make them regret it.”
***
When Bernt returned to the inn, he expected the others to have already turned in for the night. The trip so far had been grueling, with sleepless nights and long hours of walking in uncomfortable conditions. So, he was surprised to find Torvald, Nirlig and Elyn sitting together at a table in front of the bar with a stout old man. He was dressed in an expensive-looking jacket and shiny black riding boots, both with enchantments so powerful that Bernt could sense from across the room. His long beard was tied together with a heavy gold ring.
Flagging down the barmaid, Bernt ordered a pint and joined them, pulling a chair over from another table. Torvald nodded in greeting and turned to the old man.
“This is Bernt, my legitimator. We thought we’d be able to avoid… this. My mother thought the king wouldn’t want to step on Count Narald’s toes.”
“Oh, he doesn’t!” the older man laughed. “Far be it from me to replace your lawfully appointed legitimator.” He winked at Bernt and took a drink from his cup. “No, my brother just wants to make sure we have a representative present to observe the proceedings at the Peaks. And who could fault me for wanting to get to know my young nephew a bit on the way? Asra never visits.”
His brother? Bernt groaned inwardly. Torvald had thought that getting him appointed as his legitimator would protect him from interference from his family in Teres. Apparently he’d been wrong.
Nirlig coughed. “But isn’t that exactly what the legitimators are for?”
“No, no! Legitimators are there to monitor the actions of individual representatives of the Invigilation on Beseri territory.” He pointed at Bernt. “That one technically isn’t even required to accompany my young nephew there all the way to the Peaks. He could just stay in Norhold and wait for it all to be over,” he leaned over toward Bernt and added in a loud, inebriated whisper, “which is what I would be doing in your place, by the way. They grow a really excellent white wine there and the cheese!” He closed his eyes in rapture at the memory.
This shook his head in bewilderment. The king had sent this guy to pull Torvald into their family’s political games?
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Bernt asked.
Torvald coughed in embarrassment. “Ah, sorry. This is my great uncle Olias. Prince Olias, technically, and brother to the king.”
“Very technically,” Olias added. “I was removed from the line of succession as soon as my brother came of age. Not that I mind. It’s the most miserable job in the world – I’d rather be a shepherd in goblin territory than try to run a country.” He winked at Nirlig, who did not smile back.
Elyn coughed awkwardly. “So, any news from home? And where’s Uriah?”
“I won’t get a response until tomorrow at the earliest,” Bernt replied. “They didn’t have any messages waiting for us. Uriah went to get his staff repaired – I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
He’d have to send a follow-up to let the archmage know about Olias. She likely wouldn’t be too bothered – the interests of the crown and the Mages’ Guild were aligned, as far as Bernt understood them. Torvald was another matter, though. Whatever he and his mother had been trying to accomplish by getting Bernt appointed as his legitimator was moot, now.
***
Uriah’s eyes were focused on the pool of blood seeping out from under the door behind the counter. He’d been staring at it since he came in, but he couldn’t work out what was so important about it. The thought was just out of reach, close enough to touch, but too slippery to grasp. Was it too red?
Something was murmuring words into his ear. Words he knew, but that he couldn’t put together into sentences with meaning. What was going on?
“The high priest of Noruk tore through them like fire through dry leaves.” Uriah said, the words springing to his lips unbidden. He didn’t even know what the question was, but that didn’t mean he had nothing to say. “The last one was tougher. The banefire didn’t kill it. The priest had no trouble, though. Scary old bastard. Why should the hells protect you from the power of a god?”
The words felt right to say. They were true, even if they didn’t mean anything to him right now.
There was a hissing noise in his ear, then more words, rambling. Who was talking to him? Uriah furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of the situation.
“Bernt has dealings with demons.” he whispered, answering unheard questions once more. “ He’s a pyromancer. He’s got an imp – ”
“Hey, what is that?” a voice called from outside. There was a shout, then more voices. Uriah’s mouth kept talking, but he couldn’t hear what he said. The people outside were too loud. That meant something, right?
“Get the guards!”
Something hit Uriah in the belly, then again in the back, twice more.
It hurt. Why did it hurt like that? The floor was cool on his face.
Uriah stared dazedly down at his belly. His robes were getting ruined. The blood was so red.
Comments
Stephen Pearson
Thanks for the creepy-ending chapter! :-)
Hailhound
Mental magic is SPOOKY
Armo
Ooooo, wonder what they hit Uriah with!
