Ogre Tyrant: Chapter 28 - Bonds in blood - Part Two

 

Hauling the Slavers corpses to the wagons proved quite the exercise in the intense heat of the midday sun. All the same, morale was high. The hunters of Stone Well were happy about striking another blow against the Slavers. Flowing Water’s hunters were ecstatic about earning two Razorbeaks for serving as bait for the ambush.

 

All told, it was a fair trade. Flowing Water still had no interest in the boars, which meant that Stone Well just gained another sixteen boars as well as the wagons they were pulling. The boars were large enough to serve as mounts, so once we brought them back to Stone Well it would mean another visit to the weary would be in order. While they were less water-efficient than the Stalkers and Razorbeaks, we had far more of them, and it would be incredibly stupid not to take advantage of it. Worst-case scenario, I planned on releasing them en masse to tear enemies to pieces. Boars were savage animals on Earth, so I had no doubts as to the carnage they could inflict if given half the chance.

 

Besides, the boars could gain the water efficiency by being grouped with the Stalkers, Razorbeaks, or even the hunters themselves. It was basically a non-issue. I mean, sure, they were slower, but they were far stronger in terms of endurance and carry weight. I was seriously considering power feeding one at the first opportunity so I could have a mount of my own.

 

Kestrel was keeping guard over the four Variant Slavers she had managed to capture with the assistance of the two Beast Trainer’s and their recently acquired Sand Stalkers.

 

The Slavers were heavily bound in webbing, leaving only their pale faces exposed. Stalker venom apparently had a strong paralytic effect on the nervous system, putting the Slavers in a waking coma-like state where they were aware of events around them but unable to react to them.

 

Judging by the bloodstains, and pile of meat that included a few fingers and toes, one of the Slavers must have put up a fight.

 

“He chose the hard way,” Kestrel shrugged and kicked a piece of meat to her Swiftstrider. Judging by the crimson spatter on the bird's beak, it wasn’t the first treat it had eaten recently.

 

“Otherwise, no problems?” I asked, looking over the Sand Stalkers for signs of fresh injuries.

 

“None,” Kestrel replied happily. “This is a good haul,” she pointed out cheerily, “I took a look at how the cages are put together, and it looks like we should be able to take them apart and reinforce the civilian boltholes, keep the bigger monsters from being able to get inside without a real fight.”

 

Taking a look at the construction of the cages, I was of the mind to agree. The flat iron crossbar walls and ceiling were each connected by bolted beams of wood on the inner ceiling and the wagon bed below. Even without a forge and tools, the crossbars could be strapped over the most suitable buildings with thick silk rope to serve as added protection. Even if a monster knew to cut or bite through the ropes, it would still take time and allow defenders the chance to intervene.

 

With all the bodies loaded, we began our slow march back to Stone Well. By the time we make it back, we will have stayed out far longer than I initially intended, but the rewards were totally worth it. With close to fifty chunky Mountain Orc bodies to reclaim water from, or feed the boars, and all their equipment, sixteen boars, two more Sand Stalkers, and four Slaver prisoners, things were looking up.

 

It was evening by the time we made it back to Stone Well. A scout on a Razorbeak had been sent ahead to let the villagers know we would be arriving late, so we received quite the reception when we eventually arrived at the gates.

 

Far from congratulatory, it seemed like the mob had come out to exact ‘justice’ on our prisoners. Unwilling to forfeit the information contained inside their heads, I was forced to call out Osa to impose something somewhat equating to martial law.

 

Stashing the prisoners away under watch by those who could be most trusted, which was basically the girls and myself, Mors was brought in to perform the interrogation itself. While telepathy in and of itself didn’t grant him mind-reading per se, through sleep deprivation and leading questions, the Daemons could extract a great deal of information just through ‘conversation’. While I was not in favour of torture as a general principle, there were people I felt deserved it, or at least who I could justify it happening to. Unfortunately for the Slavers, they were on that list.

 

Leaving the Daemon to his work, I visited the weavers, who were not at all surprised by my unannounced arrival.

 

“Boar saddle?” The head weaver asked with a puzzled expression.

 

“Boar saddle,” I confirmed with a grin.

 

Tutting to herself, the head weaver looked over the boar I had brought for the weavers to take measurements.

 

“I don’t know why you all dislike them so much,” I commented goadingly, “They have impressive stats and a Good racial ability for combat.”

 

“Really?” The head weaver asked somewhat sceptically.

 

“Really,” I agreed, “Savage Ferocity prevents you from falling unconscious from blood loss and trauma, and increases how hard you hit while in that state,” I paraphrased. The ability actually stated that it keeps you conscious while in negative HP and increases your damage while in negative HP too. The exact sort of Ability you would expect a pony-sized boar to have.

 

The weavery went quiet for all of a second and then exploded into a dozen different conversations competing with one another.

 

“Drink much water,” The head weaver complained warily, eyeing me expectantly.

 

“Depends,” I countered with a grin, “Group Synergy from Desert Orcs, like yourself, or from Stalkers, or Razorbeaks, means they don’t need nearly as much water,” I explained.

 

“Group...Synergy?” The head weaver asked, her wrinkled face contorted in confusion.

 

I spent the next two hours explaining how Group Synergy worked, and how the beasts brought into the village made Stone Well so much stronger than it had been before our arrival. Explaining the ins and outs of the Desert Orcs own Racial Abilities and those of my own group were what had taken up most of the two hours. However, once I was finished I was confident that the weavers would see to it that the entire village understood the intricate ins and outs before midday tomorrow.

 

Just like that, the perceived value of the boars had skyrocketed. I promised the weavers ten boars in exchange for pulling an allnighter and getting as many saddles for the Razorbeaks, Stalkers and Boars completed before midday tomorrow.

 

The idea was to have as many warriors practising mounted combat from dawn till late afternoon tomorrow in preparation for the Ward going down in the evening. Even if they weren’t the most proficient riders, being familiar with their mounts capabilities and being able to fight alongside it on foot would have a significant effect on the overall outcome of the night.

 

Since we weren’t personally responsible for the battle plans, all Clarice and I had to do was invite the warriors and hunters into our retinues that Osa requested. My retinue was now packed full of level 0 Spearman, Swordsman, and curiously, Slingers. I made a mental note to reward whoever managed to figure out what was needed for that one. 

 

Watching the slingers practice in the evening twilight, I was damned impressed with the arm on them. The slingers were practising by pelting stones at piles of rocks set at varying distances from the wall. That wasn’t the only form of practice they were participating in either. Alongside the Spearmen and Swordsmen, small groups were each dressed in different colours and patrolling through webbed off sections of the village. Being hit removed a team member from the wargame and had them sent to the chief Uday’s former residence, which was now turned into a hospital and emergency shelter.

 

Nadine and the other Surgeons were busy teaching new students and helping them unlock the Surgeon Class at a minimum so they could serve as combat medics. The wargames were providing no shortage of minor injuries for them to tend to, which was actually rather brilliant on Osa’s part if it was deliberate.

 

Thankfully, the spider silk clothing made the combatants fairly resistant to piercing and slashing attacks. Although it did little to cushion against the pelting attacks of the Slingers.

 

Having the weavers make padded gambesons for the warriors would take time. However, there were some creative botch jobs that had been made by cutting holes in smaller rugs for a neck hole, which were then cinched tight around the waist to provide odd-looking, but otherwise effective armour. There was no creative solution for helmets yet, but I was kind of assuming at this point that someone would do something with spider chitin or something.

 

Wanting to be as well-rested as possible before the Ward fails, I made a point of staying up as long as I could manage. I kept myself busy by watching the preparations being made by the villagers. Assuming things went well, their lives would change for the better very soon, and I would be one step closer to making Sanctuary that much safer.

 

Waking up in the late afternoon, there was a palpable tension of expectation in the air. Kestrel and Mors had spent the night retrieving what information they could from our prisoners, and it was time the mob had its pound of flesh.

 

The Slavers were hung from the olive tree under careful watch by Stone Well warriors. Rather than hanging them by the neck, which I had expected, ropes were instead fastened around their ankles, leaving them hanging upside down.

 

The most senior warrior stepped into the crowd and offered an elderly woman what looked like an incredibly thin foot-long spike.

 

The elderly woman accepted it and determinedly stalked towards the four Slavers. Without hesitation, she drove the spike hard into the lead Slaver’s abdomen and just as quickly withdrew the spike again.

 

Gasping in pain, the Slaver couldn’t see the blood welling from the wound and running down his torso.

 

The elderly woman handed the spike to another person in the crowd and the attack was repeated. Over and over again, the spike would be handed off to another person, who would then drive it into one of the Slavers bodies before handing it off to someone else.

 

As best I could rationalise it, this was the only way they could fairly divide their individual needs for personal vengeance. On a primal level, I understood their desire for revenge, but it was still difficult to accept it considering how badly it conflicted with my more modern sensibilities that had survived thus far. Of course, I knew I would be thinking very differently if someone had done something to someone I cared about.

 

The execution lasted just over an hour, and then Slavers bodies were taken down and dragged to the reclamation pits. As a final offence to their memory, the bodies were fed to the Beasts rather than have their water reclaimed and their bodies left intact in the pit.

 

The warriors were all given extra rations for their midday meal and provided parcelled rations to eat after the first wave and before the midnight respawn.

 

Scouts had spent most of the day luring what Stalkers they could from the immediate surroundings of the village, a couple of Stalkers had been captured, but the rest had to be put down. With evening quickly approaching, there would be no further opportunities for prematurely culling the wave.

 

Standing beside Osa atop the tallest vantage in the village, the decision for when I would issue the conquest quest would be his.

 

The combined forces of both tribes warriors and hunters totalled roughly a hundred and fifty or so combatants, with another twenty volunteers serving as emergency combat medics. The profound lack of quality weapons to go around had resulted in just about everyone carrying a sling in addition to their primary weapon. Given the prolific availability of ammunition, it didn’t matter so much if they were a good shot or not. Just contributing to a concentrated barrage or volley would be enough.

 

Stalker carapaces were thick, but a well placed or lucky shot could blind or otherwise impair a Stalker long before it had the chance to retaliate.

 

Feeling the Ward fall, I looked expectantly at Osa.

 

Osa nodded determinedly, “I am ready, Overlord!”

 

“Then claim this land in my name!” I proclaimed loudly, knowing that just about every eye in the village was upon us and wanting to ham it up a bit.

 

“I accept this honour!” Osa replied.

 

[Insufficient resistance detected.]

[Assigning {Nemesis} commander to {???} forces.]

[Nemesis: {Harut ‘The Nightwalker’} has been given direct command over {???} forces.]

 

In addition to the previous quest Status Alerts I had expected, three more I had not seen before appeared in rapid succession.

 

“Overlord?” Osa asked worriedly. He had evidently seen the additional text but didn’t understand what it meant.

 

“The Labyrinth just spawned an enemy commander,” I paraphrased, “Apparently that’s something that can happen if there aren’t enough enemies around.” Considering how new all of this was, I was actually disappointed that things hadn’t been allowed to go so smoothly.

 

Scanning beyond the walls, I looked for a sign of the enemy commander. Part of me was afraid it would be another Awakened, but for whatever reason, It didn’t quite feel right.

 

Minutes began to pass by while Osa made rounds and inspected Stone Well’s defences.

 

After a half-hour of waiting, the attack began as we had expected it to. Small dust clouds appeared in the distance and began slowly approaching Stone Well.

 

Just as we had originally expected, Sand Stalkers began racing towards the walls in an attempt to attack the well at the centre of the village.

 

As we had hoped, the concentrated fire from the slingers took a heavy toll on the giant spiders, drastically reducing their movement and even incapacitating a few with lucky strikes.

 

With all of the mounted warriors and hunters still in reserve, things were looking up. The spiders were arriving in too much of a piecemeal and haphazard fashion to tire out any individual group of defenders. 

 

All the same, I kept a wary eye on the open plains of cracked dirt. I had no idea how strong this enemy commander was, or what they were capable of.

 

Without meaning to, I found myself looking northward and into the rocky terrain beyond the village. A lone figure was standing atop a pile of stones, their black body nearly invisible in the evening gloom.

 

Perhaps realising they had been seen, the figure stood up and revealed itself fully in the moonlight.

 

Similar to the Gnolls, the stranger looked like a hybrid cross between a jackal and a man rather than that of a hyena. Dressed in an armoured kilt reinforced with what might be bronze or gold, he had thick vambraces and a heavy torque that covered most of his chest. Stalking along the rocky ridge, the stranger revealed a large hooked blade in each hand. There were two things I was now certain of, first, that this monster was definitely the enemy commander Harut, and second, that he would not have looked at all out of place in a movie featuring Egyptian mythology. The look was slightly off, but it was still strikingly similar to what I could recall from mainstream cinema and displays at the museum.

 

“****! **** ** ** *****! ****** ***** ***** *** *** ***** ** *** *******!” The snarling bark of Harut's voice reverberated through the village, no doubt magically amplified in some way. However, that was of far less concern than the dense dust cloud beginning to surround Stone Well.

 

Stalkers caught in the dust storm disappeared within seconds, leaving no sign of their passing or of their presence at all.

 

I could see small traces of mana in the storm begin to coagulate into familiar humanoid shapes. One by one, black-skinned jackal-men stepped out from the howling dust storm, hooked blades, crescent axes, spears and even bows clutched tight in their clawed hands.

 

The newly arrived jackal-men did not rush the wall, instead, they began forming themselves into small squads and then larger platoons, each of which was led by the largest of their kind.

 

Even after forming into platoons and encircling Stone Well, the Jackal-men still refused to draw closer. Whether it was because they knew the effective range of the Slingers, or because of some other tactical design, it was impossible to say.

 

The dark stranger, Harut, was standing still again, both arms crossed to display the hooks of the curved blades like mirrored crescent moons on his shoulders.

 

<You-command-here?> The voice was quiet and controlled, cold.

 

Despite the distance between us, I could swear I saw Harut’s eyes flicker with dark mana.

 

<I do.> I confirmed, using all my practice with the Daemons to exert a powerful and confident presence in the telepathic link.

 

<Good.> Harut raised and then lowered his right blade in the direction of Stone Well.

 

As one, the largest of the Jackal-men released savage war cries and led their less kin in a charge against the walls.

 

<Why are you doing this?!> I demanded, snatching hold of the telepathic link and refusing to let go. This was my best chance to get some answers and I wasn’t going to let it go so easily. Besides, there was every possibility that forcing the enemy commander to maintain the link would disrupt his troops and give us an advantage.

 

<Will-not.> The cold voice warmed somewhat, sounding almost amused. <Creator-wills. Harut-obeys.> There was an unmistakable bitterness in the tone that verged on anger but didn’t quite commit.

 

<Creator? Do you mean the Labyrinth?> I asked hurriedly, hoping to keep him talking as long as possible.

 

<Is-one-name-of-many.> The voice replied in the same tone, <Liberator-named-them-our-Keepers.> A profound sense of loss spilled over the connection, along with images of a different place.

 

It was a large town built on what looked like a sprawling savannah. The streets were filled with jackal-men of all shapes and sizes, men, women and children, bakers, farmers, soldiers...The image changed and showed the blackened streets littered with burned corpses.

 

<What...What was that place?> I asked numbly, so shocked by what I had seen that I almost lost the connection.

 

The presence on the other side seemed genuinely surprised. <Home.> The single word carried immense grief and bitterness. <Liberator-guided-us. Built-much. All-gone. All-ash.> The voice had become cold again and I could feel the connection beginning to unravel.

 

<Your Liberator, who were they?> I asked hurriedly.

 

There was a brief flicker of a crude carving of a man's face quickly replaced by that of a jackal-man. <He-found-us. Freed-us. Doomed-us.> There was no anger or judgment in those words, only intense regret.

 

The connection suddenly severed before I could try and ask another question.

 

From my vantage point, I could see the slingers exacting a heavy toll on the jackal-men. However, two things gave me cause for concern. First, The jackal-men did not provide Status Alerts for being killed, or Exp. Second, they seemed to disintegrate into dark coloured sand on their apparent ‘death’, suggesting they were mostly or perhaps even entirely made of mana, which meant they could just as easily be replaced.

 

True enough, while our warriors seemed to have no problems fending the jackal-men off the walls, the same was not true for the village gate, and a second wave of jackal-men were already in the process of stalking out of the dust cloud.

 

Attempting to project my thoughts was like screaming into the wind, and I had no telling whether they would even reach their target. <Why are you doing this?> I demanded, wanting some form of explanation beyond, “The Labyrinth made me do it.”

 

<...> The familiar presence made itself known, but made no form of reply.

 

<Why are you doing this?> I repeated, <Is this what your Liberator would want? More death and destruction?> I tried recreating the image of the burned bodies scattered in the open streets but had middling success at best.

 

<!!!> An overwhelming outpouring of rage surged through the connection. <You-dare?!>

 

I pushed back in an image of my own home, the people I had fought to protect, <I DARE!>

 

I felt the presence falter, its rage turning to confusion.

 

<Leave the minions out of it!> I challenged, <Fight me!>

 

The confusion ebbed and was replaced by resolve. A ripple passed through the ranks of the jackal-men, causing them to grow still.

 

The defenders had no idea what was going on, so they continued taking as many out as they could.

 

<Accept-challenge!> A fierce wave of determination passed through the link before being severed.

 

Knowing I was going to need a real edge in this fight, I briefly considered summoning my magical spear. But after weighing the pros and cons of the mana cost, I was forced to play it safe.

 

From what I had seen thus far, Harut had to be a Summoner or other type of spellcaster, and probably a high level one too. However, from what I understood of the Class progression mechanics I had seen thus far, spellcasters in particular suffered from low physical stat progression. So assuming I could goad Harut into melee combat, I would be the one with a definitive advantage. Even if I couldn’t, his mana pool had to be limited, and there was no telling how much he had already spent on summoning his soldiers like that.

 

Concentrating on an image of Shiverfang in my mind, I channelled my mana to my right and waited. One moment my hand was empty, the next it was holding the cool shaft of the magical spear. If it weren’t for the fact that it had depleted nearly my entire mana supply, it would have been a neat trick to pull in the middle of combat.

 

As I began making my way towards the gate, both Kestrel and Clarice attempted to intercept me, but a quick glare directed to each of their mounts saw me making headway again.

 

“Tim, you’re not seriously going to go out there?!” Clarice demanded incredulously.

 

“I am,” I replied coolly. 

 

“WHY?!” Clarice demanded exasperatedly, “This is a job for a Shaman, not for you! It won’t matter how many you cut down if they just keep coming back!”

 

“I am not going to fight the summons,” I corrected her, “I am going to fight the Commander that is summoning them.”

 

That gave Clarice pause for a moment. “You're serious?” She asked sceptically, “Why would they come out and fight you? They obviously have the upper hand here. The gate was just one more push away from being turned to kindling!”

 

“I issued a challenge, like on the first floor,” I answered evasively. While technically true, I didn’t think there was anything binding Harut to fight me honourably, just his pride.

 

“What will stop them from using summons during your challenge?” Kestrel asked worriedly, obviously out of her depth and flustered by my apparent calm.

 

“A finite supply of mana?” I shrugged and tried to play it off like it didn’t matter. It actually wouldn’t be much of an advantage for Harut if he did. Shiverfang could carve through flesh like a white-hot knife through butter. The main cause for concern I felt right now, was the distinct possibility that Harut’s curved swords had a similar property.

 

Clarice seemed to recognise the spear and grew more conflicted, “You sure you can do this? We could just get everyone mounted up and gank the hell out of them!”

 

I shook my head, “I don’t think that would work. Did you see what happened to the Sand Stalkers when the Commander first arrived? That dust storm shredded them to nothing, or did something to make them disappear outright.”

 

“And it won’t do that to you, because?” Clarice asked irritably.

 

I didn’t have an answer for that beyond a general gut feeling, which I decided was best to keep to myself. “I honestly don’t think he can,” I lied confidently, “I think the spell is designed to wipe out lots of weaker enemies, not...an Ogre…”

 

Both women seemed mostly unco convinced but also realised that if they wanted to stop me, they would need to do it by force.

 

“I’m getting Nadine,” Clarice scowled, “Y’know, ‘just in case’” As she turned Dhizi away, I could see Clarice looked profoundly upset, angry and afraid in nearly equal measure.

 

“Why are you doing this?” Kestrel asked seriously, “Why risk everything?”

 

It was a good question, and one I wasn't sure I could answer to any real degree that would truly satisfy either of us. I already had Sanctuary and Lash waiting for me. But in order to keep them safe, I needed to be stronger, and I couldn't do that by letting others constantly fight battles for me. If I was being truly honest with myself, there was a part of me that revelled in the violence, a beast finally let loose of its chains and set free to indulge its primal instincts. Reflecting on who I had been only two months ago, I could barely recognise myself anymore. I have changed, and continue to change, but whether it is for the better or worse? I don’t know.

 

In my communications with Harut, I had managed to make a primal estimation of our relative strength, and found I was still the greater of us both in spite of his more overt demonstrations of ability. The Labyrinth had intervened as a means of making the deck less one-sided, but by no means even or ‘fair’. If I was understanding its motivations, the Labyrinth desired ‘struggle and hardship’ in order to promote growth and development.

 

With that understanding, Harut was intended as an obstacle, but by no means an impassable one. Unlike The Destroyer, a psychotic Earthling hellbent on destruction for fulfilling some perverse personal desire, Harut was effectively being coerced, controlled in some way to guarantee our conflict. That I had been able to reason with him at all was beyond my expectations.

 

“I need to get stronger,” I replied bluntly, “It’s the only way to guarantee that what I am building will persevere.”

 

Kestrel looked like she wanted to argue, but we had already reached the gate.

 

Just as they had described, the barricades more closely resembled haphazardly cut firewood at this point rather than a defensive bulwark.

 

All the same, in order to maintain what structural integrity remained, I climbed up and over the wall instead, much to the shock of the nearby defenders.

 

<Your-delay-will-not-aid-you.> There was a profound sense of weariness and suspicion revealed through the connection.

 

<It wasn’t deliberate.> I countered, sending glimpses of my interactions with Kestrel and Clarice back at Harut in rebuke.

 

Confusion and suspicion intensified. <You-have-a-Vanguard-Beast, yet-you-still-come-alone?>

 

<Dhizi? I won’t risk her, not for something like this. Losing her would crush Clarice.> I replied while continuing my advance towards the rocks.

 

<You-reduced-a-Vanguard-Beast-to-the-status-of-a-pet?!> The sheer degree of condescension was borderline sickening.

 

<Where I am from, where your Liberator is from, pets are considered family.> I rebuked firmly while wondering if maybe Harut’s old master just hadn’t been all that keen on pets. Some people were like that.

 

Fleeting images of a jackal-man lovingly tending to what looked like a pair of roided out giant hyenas tethered to a war chariot were accompanied by a new sense of understanding. <He-mourned-their-passing.> Harut observed, <So-many-dead. Still-he-mourned-them.>

 

Harut gracefully began marching down from his rocky vantage point, arms crossed and sickle swords held out to either side as if he was part of an ancient ritual, which I suppose we probably were. Harut came to a halt roughly twenty feet away and then unfolded his arms, pointing one sickle-sword towards the sky and the second towards the ground.

 

Taking a firm grip on Shiverfang, I was somewhat glad that Harut wasn’t wearing any armour. With almost no mana left, I would not be able to activate Shiverfang’s armour sundering ability.

 

“You have an artefact?” Harut barked, his speech similar to the Gnolls yet different enough that I almost hadn’t understood what he said.

 

“I do,” I admitted, seeing nothing to gain by lying. 

 

Harut nodded and squinted appraisingly at the spear, “Wyrmbane?” He muttered incredulously and began to laugh bitterly. “My people destroyed on the rumour of possessing such a weapon, while you wield it openly. Our Jailors truly love irony!” Harut snarled angrily.

 

Sensing an attack was imminent, I raised my spear and prepared to make a quick swipe at his legs.

 

Instead of attacking immediately, Harut began circling me like a predator, his sickle-blades now both held at the ready and prepared to strike.

 

Knowing he had superior maneuverability, I attempted a feint towards Harut’s legs.

 

*Tang*

 

Using one of his sickle swords to ‘guide’ and accelerate his own defensive dodge, Harut easily avoided the attack.

 

Even though the feint ultimately failed, it did make clear that while I was strong enough to bat Harut around, he was also skilled enough to use my own strength to his advantage.

 

Trying a thrust, I wasn’t surprised when Harut used his swords to guide the attack away from himself and nimbly dodge away just like before.

 

Apparently dissatisfied by my efforts thus far, Harut shifted onto the offensive. With practised ease, his two swords blurred into motion as Harut leapt forward and to my right.

 

Even though I expected the blow to be parried like the others, I reversed my grip and swung the butt end of the spear towards his legs.

 

Rather than parry the blow, Harut leapt over it and scythed his right blade across my chest before quickly leaping away.

 

Looking down at my chest, I was surprised to see no signs of damage beyond the borrowed robe now having a horizontal slash in it. It had only been a glancing blow, feeling more like Harut had literally dragged the blade over my chest rather than make an attempt at actually dealing meaningful damage. Then again, considering what I knew of Gnoll Racial Abilities, Harut was actually at a severe disadvantage. Provided I didn’t give him free momentum to work with, I was beginning to doubt whether he could deliver a strong enough blow to penetrate my thick hide.

 

Harut looked reasonably muscular, but it was more of a low body fat physique. While it left him very light on his rear jointed legs and wide padded feet, just in terms of relative mass, Harut seemed very much like a featherweight boxer going up against the national sumo wrestling champion.

 

To make things worse, I had five different sets of Racial Abilities amplifying my attack or defence in one meaningful way or another. Harut only had his own.

 

Perhaps reading my mind, Harut released a low growl, “******** **** *****!” The words sounded similar to middle-eastern languages I had heard on the news, but it was also somehow entirely different at the same time. A dark crimson crescent of mana formed along the striking edge of each blade, adding a new and immediate danger to the fight.

 

Without warning, Harut swung both blades in a downward arc, sending the crimson crescents of mana howling through the air in my direction.

 

With so little space between us, I didn’t have time to dodge both attacks. Awkwardly turning side-on, I used the motion to try and slap the second mana crescent aside with Shiverfang.

 

To both Harut’s surprise, and my own, it worked. The crimson crescent was knocked off course and continued for another ten feet before fading and then disappearing altogether.

 

Snarling in anger, Harut returned to the offensive, releasing multiple crescents in rapid succession, his swords remaining in a constant blur of motion as he steadily closed the ground between us.

 

Still unsure whether the mana based attack could hurt me, I was in no hurry to find out and tried to stay calm while slowly backing away and circling Harut, batting away his attacks that would otherwise still hit me.

 

Too late, I realised that I had made a mistake.

 

Harut had deliberately maneuvered me into rough terrain. Given how I was struggling to defend effectively on relatively flat ground, it was obvious that things were going to get much more difficult.

 

Nearly tripping as I tried to evade another pair of attacks, I felt a sharp sting on my left arm and could see a dark patch slowly spreading through the robe. With the confirmation that he could in fact hurt me, I was surprised by how indifferent I felt about it. A quick glance at my HP told me why. I had taken only one point of damage. Whatever Harut’s Ability was, it obviously didn’t ignore Toughness like Shiverfang, meaning it had to go through all of my accumulated defences first.

 

Feeling a fresh surge in confidence, I decided to take the fight to Harut instead.

 

Weathering three of his attacks in order to quickly close the distance between us, I managed to deliver a glancing blow to his right thigh.

 

To my surprise, black and grey sand began slowly spilling from the wound.

 

Similarly, Harut stared down at the wound and seemed confused. Gathering crimson mana around the wound, he managed to slow the passage of sand, but not stop it entirely.

 

Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, I stuffed a handful of dried roasted meat rations into my mouth and gulped it all down without hardly chewing it at all. If Harut was going to try and heal himself mid-battle, then it was only fair I do the same.

 

With that exchange of blows, the tempo of our fight changed as Harut was driven onto the defensive and I took up the offensive with renewed confidence.

 

Focusing on keeping the head of my spear as far away from himself as possible, Harut became increasingly more predictable.

 

*Ting, Tang, Clang, Whump*

 

A flurry of frenzied exchanges brought me close enough that I was able to risk attempting a left-handed straight and caught Harut in the side of the head.

 

Stunned, Harut staggered backwards and tried to raise his blades in a defensive stance.

 

*Crunch, Shink*

 

Accepting a weak blow from his left blade, I took a firm hold of Harut’s right arm with my left hand and squeezed hard. I felt the humerus in his right arm snap as I drove Shiverfang into his undefended midsection, half the pole passed through his back before I threw him back and off my spear.

 

Tumbling over the rocky ground, Harut lost his right blade as his arm twisted in a direction it shouldn’t have been able to. With his concentration thoroughly broken, sand was pouring out of the wound on his thigh again, as well as around the bone protruding from his right arm and the hole driven in his midsection.

 

Struggling to try and regain his feet, Harut did not seem to be in pain. Instead, he seemed profoundly frustrated. “****!!!” Even though I didn't understand the language, I recognised a curse when I heard one. “How?!” Harut demanded angrily, “How did you defeat me so effortlessly?! You have less skill with that spear than a child! Yet still you beat me?! I am, Harut, Slayer of Tyrants, The Night Walker, Master of the Forbidden Army! Somehow you defeated me?!” He snarled, his anger giving way to despair. “It is The Doom all over again! The Jailors pitting the strong against the weak for their own petty amusement!” Seemingly on the verge of death, Harut glared at me hatefully, “How?!” He barked with the last of his strength.

 

“Because I was never alone,” I pointed back to the village, “I fought you with the strengths of five different species, while you only fought with one.” I didn’t mean to be cruel, but I also felt like it needed to be said all the same, “The Doom of your people. Did you ever wonder if perhaps it would have turned out differently if you had brought more people under your banner? Shared with them your prosperity and protection?” I sighed and shook my head. I was beginning to sound like an eighties Saturday morning cartoon. “I was stronger than you from the start. But you were right, I don’t have nearly the same degree of combat experience or training you do. But in the end, the only thing that mattered was the fact that you could only deal one damage per hit against me, and I took you down with three.”

 

Harut slumped in defeat, making no moves to stop the dark sand from flowing out of his body. With each passing moment, Harut’s body continued to wither until it was little more than a desiccated corpse. Then, after a few moments, the withered remains crumbled to dust.

 

During Harut’s passing, the jackal-men and sandstorm had disappeared. All that remained was Harut’s equipment, which I assumed was intended as part of a consolation prize for the additional challenge.

 

A blinding flash of golden light from the village caused me to blink and miss Harut’s death notification. Somehow that made the victory feel more hollow.

 

Ignoring the blood drying into my robe, I collected Harut's equipment and began walking back towards the village. There had been no notifications of the Settlement being founded, and midnight would still be a couple of hours away. So as much as I wanted to sit in a dark corner and brood over the things Harut had told me, there was work that needed doing and now every reason not to let time go to waste.

 

*****

 

Securely bound and manacled to a robust chair, which was in turn bolted to the thick stone floor, Jacque listlessly stared at her captors through swollen eyelids. They had stripped her of all clothing and been incredibly thorough in ensuring Jacque had no hidden weapons or other items on her person. Already outed as a shapeshifter, Jacque had made a point of making the process as uncomfortable for her captors as possible, emulating the appearance of the one observing the frisking and moaning suggestively. Of course, that had only made her subsequent treatment that much worse, but Jacque had standards and a reputation to uphold.

 

The only problem was that her captors were not so easily rattled. Which in and of itself was rather telling. Guards watching over prisoners who were being interrogated for information, were very different to those watching over prisoners condemned to death. Jacque had learned the difference a long time ago and could differentiate them with a glance. But there was more to it this time.

 

Humans were always afraid when they discovered her true identity, always. It didn’t matter if she was impersonating a busty buxom madame or a frail limbed street urchin, the fear was always there.

 

These guards were not afraid of Jacque in the slightest, which was quite a feat considering her handlers of close to a decade were still afraid of her.

 

Skimming their surface thoughts for answers hadn’t worked well either. Upon capturing Jacque, the first thing they did was buckle an expensive Slave Collar around her neck and begin rattling off commands. Commands such as, no shapeshifting and no mind-reading. Both of which she had frequently broken at the cost of intense pain. The fact that they had captured and killed her yet, gave Jacque a general idea of what she was in for. They wanted her to work for them, most likely to do an incredibly dangerous, stupid, ill moraled job they knew just about any human would refuse. With precious few exceptions, Jacque had lost her faith in humanity long ago.

 

More or less as Jacque had expected, a weasley looking man in painfully plain clothes and who seemed to be in his late seventies was escorted into the room and another pair of guards, one of whom was carrying a chair.

 

The guard carrying the chair set it down five feet away from Jacque and then took a step back while the second guard took up a position behind her.

 

With both guards in place, the elderly man tottered over to the bare chair and sat himself down with a relieved grunt. Taking a moment to slick back his wispy white hair, the elderly man, who was definitely not a spymaster, gave Jacque a piercing and appraising look. “Why?” The old man asked simply.

 

Jacque did her best to meet the old man’s gaze, although it was difficult because of the swelling around her eyes. <Why what?>

 

Her attempt at unsettling the old man by using her telepathy failed. The elderly man leaned forward slightly and crossed his knobbly hands in his lap. “We have been able to confirm that you had replaced Miss Donna for the better part of three and a half days,” the old man explained, “During which time four separate poisoning attempts were thwarted through divine grace and infernal luck.”

 

Jacque remained silent.

 

The old man continued to smile, “Similarly, an assassin was intercepted and later caught outside of the royal apartments thanks in no small part due to a junior squire's report of seeing someone scaling the interior castle walls.” The Elderly man released a short sigh and leaned forward expectantly, “So I will ask again, why?”

 

Jacque considered remaining silent, but saw little reason to continue doing so. Enduring the pain, she formed a mouth to make the reply aloud, “I don’t kill kids!” Jacque croaked accusingly.

 

For the briefest moment, the elderly man’s eyes betrayed a hint of guilt before the facade was hastily restored. “And yet all evidence suggests that is exactly why you infiltrated the Crowned Prince’s chambers,” he retorted. “By taking the place of the royal maid, you became an indispensable agent to facilitate the assassination attempts on the Crowned Prince’s life.”

 

Jacque said nothing, the mounting pain in her head making it difficult to think clearly.

 

“Only, Miss Donna reports that besides the kidnapping and incarceration against her will, you were nothing but gentle and considerate of her needs. Even after more than a dozen failed escape attempts,” The elderly man’s expression changed, “The squire later admitted to having no knowledge of witnessing the assassin. He was confirmed abed with one of the scullery maids that evening. And as desperately as I would wish to believe that heavenly or infernal intervention was responsible for the thwarted poisonings, I believe the accidents of those responsible can safely be laid at the feet of someone else,” he gave Jacque another penetrating and knowing look. “You were tasked with killing the Crowned Prince, do you deny this?”

 

“No,” Jacque croaked, wincing from the mounting pain.

 

“Yet instead you thwarted every attempt that would accomplish your task.” The elderly man leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers, “Why not flee when your nerve failed?” he asked, “Why linger and risk detection? Why continue to thwart the assassination attempts?”

 

Jacque remained silent, the skin of her mouth smoothing over and disappearing, bringing near-instant relief from the pain.

 

Cocking his head slightly to one side, the old man stared at Jacque for a short while, allowing the silence between them to linger. “The Crowned Prince mentioned the stories you told of Miss Donna’s son with great fondness,” he prompted.

 

Jacque said nothing.

 

“A brave little boy close to the prince’s own age, so full of wonder and mischief,” the elderly man continued with a wistful tone, “Only, Miss Donna has no children, illegitimate, adopted, or otherwise. It was what gave you away in the end,” he explained, “One of his highness guards overheard one such story and later deemed it suspicious enough to be brought to the attention of one of my subordinates. Within the hour we had discovered Miss Donna and secured a reasonable account of her side of events while the guards had you apprehended.” Untenting his fingers, the old man tutted regretfully and shook his head, “Betrayed for comforting a lonely child…”

 

A long silence passed and then the elderly man motioned to the guard behind Jacque, “Remove the collar. I need answers untainted by its influence.”

 

Without protest, the guard obeyed, promptly unbuckling the Slave Collar from around Jacque’s neck and then stepping away again.

 

Free of the stifling effects of the collar’s commands, Jacque relaxed somewhat in spite of herself.

 

“The boy in the story, Michael, he is real?” The elderly man guessed.

 

<Michelle.> Jacque corrected bitterly, looking down at her lap and growing waist-length hair to hide her tears.

 

“Michelle,” the elderly man amended, replicating the correct pronunciation near perfectly. “He is your son?”

 

Veins protruded from Jacque’s neck and forehead as she narrowly managed to avoid violating an oath.

 

The violent reaction wasn’t lost on the old man, who waved back the guards that likely thought she had ingested a suicide pill.

 

“I think it is safe to assume that wherever your son is now, and whoever is keeping him, is responsible these assassination attempts,” the old man mused aloud, “Which means I am in a position to offer an exchanging of favours.”

 

Jacque raised her head and retracted the screen of hair. <Why?>

 

The elderly man’s lips curled in a faint smile, “A recently formed alliance has had some unintended effects on certain state policies. Most pertinent of which is a focus upon ‘diversity’ hiring of talented and motivated individuals,” he sighed and gave Jacque something of a wry grin. “In exchange for your unique services, the Lord Regent is prepared to offer a pardon for all crimes committed and plotted whilst under duress, and offer unique protection for your son.”

 

<How?!> Jacque snapped bitterly, <You cannot even keep your own princeling safe!>

 

The old man maintained his composure, as if having expected her outburst to begin with. “There is a place far safer than the palace, but only so long as the Crowned Prince is not seen to be missing.”

 

Jacque narrowed her eyes suspiciously and began rifling through the man’s surface thoughts.

 

“Oh, by all means,” the old man’s resistance decreased substantially, “Although I would warn you against certain things best kept private,” he warned.

 

Jacque delved into memories of reviewed documents for troop movements, resource allocations, personnel transfers, budget reports, and every other documentation ever conceived by the bureaucracy. The same places kept being repeated over and over again. Sanctuary and Port Gidian. Following the trail of memories, Jacque stumbled upon one report in particular, a familiar name and unfamiliar description at odds with one another.

 

[-the monster settlement known as Sanctuary is governed by a suspected Labyrinthine Lord, an Ogre Chieftain of uncanny intelligence and learning, known as Tim. Diplomatic efforts have revealed an unexpectedly high willingness to trade and negotiate with humans.-]

 

<Tim?> Jacque projected an image of the depressed Awakened into the old man’s mind.

 

“Ah, my apologies, but I have not seen him in the flesh, although…” The elderly man turned on his seat to look at the guard behind him, “You were part of the diplomatic envoy, weren't you peter?”

 

The guard nodded stiffly.

 

“Relax for a moment, would you? This is very important,” the old man advised.

 

With visible reluctance, the guard took several deep breaths and slowly opened his mind.

 

Jacque projected an image of when she had first met Tim at the bar.

 

The guard gasped in shock, “It’s him, sir,” he confirmed, “The goblin is there too.”

 

The elderly man looked surprised, “This may change things,” he admitted awkwardly. “Might I ask what your relationship with Chieftain is?” The old man asked carefully.

 

Jacque smirked and altered her appearance as she recognised the tables turning further in her favour, “Tim knows what I am, just ask him.”

 

The old man pressed his lips together and nodded in understanding, “You were the Synergist, Jacque.”

 

Judging by the uneasy glances being shared by everyone else in the room, Jacque felt like things might begin finally going her way.

 

“Our offer still stands,” The old man reiterated. “If you are willing to perform a service similar to that which you have been doing for the past few days, then agents of the crown will be dispatched to rescue Michelle this very evening.”

 

Jacque sobered up almost immediately.

 

“Assuming there are clues that fall beyond the scope of your oaths?” The elderly man prompted.

 

Jacque grinned maliciously, there had been few other thoughts on her mind for the past three days besides her son and subverting her oaths. “Do you have a pen?” She asked eagerly.