A wizards flame a progre.., p.8
A Wizard’s Flame: A Progression Fantasy Adventure (Underkeeper Book 2), page 8
As she turned to pick up another folder, something small ran into the room at breakneck speed. On reflex, Tessa took a step back, gritting her teeth and manifesting her claws, but the intruder didn’t attack.
Jori stood in the doorway, head swiveling left and right as she checked the room. Her demonic soul radiated a phantom reddish light into the air around her that flickered slightly as if it were on fire, like all of the denizens of the third hell.
“Warlock!” she said, eyeing Tessa warily. “Have you seen the Great Mage?”
“The archmage is on the surface, at the old headquarters, I think.” Tessa mirrored the imp’s careful attitude. “I don’t really know for sure. What’s going on?”
“I sensed a predator in the tunnels,” Jori explained, gesturing animatedly behind her. “Another demon. A shade, I think. I saw a shadow move, but I can’t be sure exactly.”
“Huh. Um… Solicitor Radast has a pacted shade. Maybe he sent it out to take a look around…”
She knew Radast’s shade made for an excellent spy, but what would it be looking for in the tunnel of all places?
Jori apparently had the same question. The little imp scoffed.
“Your master doesn’t need to send an invisible spy into the Undercity. He has you here.”
Tessa didn’t react to the implied accusation. Jori’s tone had been matter-of-fact, and besides, any intelligent demon would consider such behavior to be simple common sense.
“Alright, so the Duergar are sending demon spies,” Tessa considered. “That’s not ideal, but it’s not necessarily urgent. We don’t have a counterespionage protocol, but we should tell someone in authority and let them deal with it.”
Jori rolled her eyes. “Yes, obviously. That’s why I am here. I need to find the Great Mage Ed.”
“Nonsense.” Tessa shook her head. “Come on!”
Being careful not to touch her, Tessa squeezed past the little creature and crossed the hall, where a door had already been installed for a smaller office. She knocked politely three times and waited.
“Come in, Tessa,” said a tired voice from inside. She opened the door and gestured to Jori to follow.
“How did you know it was me?” she asked as she stepped inside. Fiora was bent over a desk and filling out paperwork. Like all ranking mages, the woman’s soul had been reshaped. She saw Fiora’s mana network as an intricate abstract sculpture that wove its way through her body, shining too brightly for her flesh or clothes to hide and extending down all four limbs and into her head.
It was distracting and Tessa suppressed the ability with a thought, closing the phantom third eye her pact had granted her.
The older woman snorted. “You’re the only one in this damned place who knocks. What do you need?” Looking up, Fiora finally caught sight of Jori. Her eyebrows arched. “Uh, what’s going on?”
It only took a moment to tell her. The previously tired-looking woman practically bolted from her chair, snatched up her short staff and shot past them out the door. Both Tessa and the demon stared after her lamely for a moment before hurrying to catch up.
“What is it?” Tessa asked, disturbed by Fiora’s sudden urgency. “What does it mean?”
“You don’t send spies out to lurk at intersections,” Fiora said shortly. “That’s where you would put a scout. Unless the thing just happened to be passing through, the enemy is making a move.”
She emerged into the courtyard area at the front of the complex and slammed her staff into the ground with an unnaturally loud, hollow booming noise. About ten guards were training there under Palina’s watchful gaze. Off to one side, Yarrod, the gnome Underkeeper, was facing off with a knife against a short human man. All activity stopped and their eyes turned to Fiora at the sound.
“Potential contact up toward the gate!” Fiora barked. “Everyone with me. Move!”
The guards exchanged uncertain glances for a moment before Palina began bawling orders at them at the top of her lungs. They hadn’t been in training long, but they knew enough to get them lined up and moving. Yarrod caught up just a few moments later, carrying his new staff.
It took them only a few minutes to make their way up to the intersection, through the main tunnel curving off toward the right and to the surface, and to the entrance of the smaller left-hand tunnel which led to where the army was stationed. Fiora called a halt and they looked around nervously. A few of the guards muttered to each other, but Palina shushed them.
Everything looked… completely normal.
Fiora turned to Jori.
“Anything?”
The little imp’s wings twitched and her needle-teeth were bared in a snarl, her eyes locked on the leftward tunnel. But nothing was moving there.
A little hesitantly, Tessa opened her third eye again. Was someone hiding in plain sight?
She didn’t see anything right away, but they all heard it. Steps approached, marching in unison. A few moments later, a handful of soldiers emerged, wearing Beseri uniforms and carrying spears. At a glance, nothing was wrong with them. Nothing except that they were all dwarves, that is.
That, and Tessa could clearly see the demonic souls riding along in two of them. Warlocks throughout time had attempted a wide range of different kinds of pacts and arrangements with demons, but sharing a body with one was, in Tessa’s opinion, by far the most foolish.
A demon’s soul didn’t strictly need its own body to function on the mortal plane, so long as it resided in a body. A warlock who chose to accommodate a demon in this manner could gain full access to the creature’s abilities. Of course, the demon would also gain access to the warlock’s body to some degree. It was practically unavoidable. That alone made the practice illegal in Besermark, but the Solicitors also had their own internal policies against it.
One of the dwarves had a fiery red aura similar to Jori’s. The other’s was a muted gray, which meant she was looking at a demon from the first hell. These robbed souls of their will. If it was at least a class 3 demon, it could effectively paralyze living people into total complacency—though probably only one at a time.
None of them looked their way. Apparently, they didn’t expect to be stopped.
Taking a quick step, Tessa tapped Fiora on the shoulder and explained what she was seeing. The older Underkeeper had, of course, already noticed the dwarves and was watching them with suspicion. It was remarkable that they’d made it past the army camp without raising any alarms—probably the work of the demon with the gray aura.
“Which one is the most dangerous?” Fiora asked calmly.
“That one,” Tessa replied, pointing at the one with the red aura. “I’m guessing he’ll try to set fire to the city. With hellfire.”
Without wasting a second, Fiora leveled her staff at the offending dwarf. A brilliant lance of light shot out of it, but didn’t strike the target. Another dwarf saw the motion and stepped directly into the attack, shielding him. He went down, his chest caved in unnaturally as if he’d been crushed by a massive hammer. Blood ran from his mouth.
Then everything happened at once. Palina roared at her guards to move, the normal Duergar soldiers turned to fight, and the two demon-possessed dwarves sprinted up the tunnel, disappearing around the bend.
Tessa summoned the claws of her midnight hag, trying to think of some way, any way, to stop those damned demons from getting up into the city when she saw, up on the ceiling five paces above, Jori scuttling after the offending creatures faster than a man could run, hissing in rage like a boiling kettle.
11 Firefight
Bernt slowly made his way down from the Upper District, sore and exhausted from a late-afternoon sparring session with Therion. The other mage claimed he was getting better, but Bernt wasn’t sure that was true—judging by the beating he took every time.
He was trying to think of new and creative ways to apply cantrips in a fight when he saw a massive plume of fire rise in the distance.
It came from the Crafters’ District, and that just couldn’t be a good sign. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but he knew this city well. Picking up his pace, Bernt hurried down the street, weaving around slow-moving pedestrians and the occasional cart. After reaching the internal gate that took him into the Lower District, he took a left. That would take him through the Temple District, which he’d been avoiding for several weeks now.
This district was populated mostly by priests, paladins, and their families. While not all of them knew or cared about him personally, very few of the gods had a neutral policy toward demons or warlocks, and none had anything like a friendly outlook. He had to be careful. The gods themselves, fortunately, would likely know he wasn’t a real warlock, so he shouldn’t have to fear a direct smiting for stepping too close to the wrong temple. But being recognized could cause some problems—it might slow him down.
Right now, though, it was worth the risk.
He rushed down a street which opened up into a wide-open plaza. It was ringed with temples, shrines, and even a tiny sacred grove. People bustled about, often dressed in the colors of specific deities, or in the brilliant white of unchosen acolytes. The Temple of Garrus, where he’d repaired a drainpipe just before his first dungeon delve, was just around the corner from here. Relatively minor agricultural deities didn’t rate placement on the main plaza.
Taking care not to draw attention to himself, Bernt ran across the plaza to the far side, which would take him directly into the Crafters’ District. Everyone else seemed to either be looking toward the plumes themselves, likely concerned about what was going on there, or completely ignoring the situation as if what went on outside their own temples was of no consequence to them.
He almost made it across without incident, but then heard a familiar voice call his name.
“Hey, Bernt!” Syrah cried out. “Where are you off to so quick?”
He looked back to see the cleric waving and running toward him.
“Did you see the fire?” Bernt asked, letting her catch up before picking up the pace again. “I think it was over by the breach. I kind of doubt it was an accidental alchemical explosion.”
“Yes, true enough.” Syrah said, frowning. “Something isn’t right in that direction. Your demon friend, or one of her ilk.”
Bernt narrowed his eyes a little, but didn’t bother to argue. He wasn’t about to change her mind.
“I’m going to help. Are you coming?”
She snorted and raced on, forcing Bernt into a trot to keep up.
Bernt wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find there. Maybe the entire street in flames, the new gate collapsed, or a horde of Duergar spilling out of the old breach.
What he wasn’t expecting was Jori dueling with a single, mad, hellfire-slinging dwarf. He started seeing the fight from her perspective in disorienting detail well before they reached the plaza in front of the Undercity Gate.
The imp clung to the back of the dwarf’s head and shoulders and poured fire down onto his face. At the same time, the dwarf blindly threw fire back at her over his shoulder and danced in a little circle, screaming incoherently. Both demonic combatants burned and howled in pain, but neither were consumed in the flames that ate into the cobbles beneath their feet. Jori jumped off the dwarf in flight, but landed hard on her back.
He felt the phantom sensation of a wing breaking as it was bent underneath her in an unnatural position. The green Underkeeper guard who’d been stationed at the new Undercity Gate stood a few steps away, clutching haplessly at his spear as if unsure what to do. Regular city guards were arriving as well, but they kept their distance as well. They were understandably not eager to throw themselves into a hellfire-fight. One passed his spear to another guard and ran off again, presumably to get someone who could deal with this.
They would take too long, Bernt was sure.
Further away, he glimpsed people watching from windows and around corners. Nobody moved to help, and he couldn’t really blame them.
Horrific burn wounds closed almost immediately on both combatants. Pebbled scar tissue grew over them in seconds, and then faded and smoothed into new skin. Bernt wasn’t sure how demons normally fought, but seeing that, he doubted he would do any damage with his usual fire spells.
“Can you fight demons?” Bernt gasped at Syrah, out of breath as they raced toward the fight. “It’s some kind of demonic warlock—he’s fighting Jori.”
The dwarf shook her head. “Do I look like a paladin to you?” She didn’t slow down, though, to her credit.
Jori was back in the fight now, raking her claws down the back of the warlock dwarf’s leg as he tried to keep moving into the city. Apparently he was more interested in going somewhere than in winning the fight. That implied a specific target, beyond just entering the place and making a big mess.
Concentrating, Bernt brought up his wand and began tracing a spell in the air. It was a guess, but he figured it was a pretty good one, considering where he’d found the spell. Even if it didn’t work, it would at least distract the monstrous Duergar long enough for Jori to do something. He hoped.
Cold fire, as he’d learned when he finally cast it on an old, rotting log down by the river the other day, didn’t do very much to physical objects. The wood had blackened and bubbled oddly, but nothing more.
Casting it correctly would take him a moment, and he’d need the time before they reached the fight up around the next corner. Thanks to his familiar bond, Bernt knew exactly where the dwarf was when he rounded the corner. It also helped that he was facing away from him. The warlock slung bits of hellfire back at Jori as he limped off toward the far side of the small plaza, where several of the nervous city guards were waiting. They didn’t want to fight the warlock, but they weren’t going to let it run wild in the city, either.
Bernt sprinted toward the warlock. He hadn’t had time to modify the spell—it was still just a loose cone of fire, not a fireball or anything that would cross the distance to the dwarf without also striking Jori or simply diffusing into the air short of the target. He needed to close in quickly.
When the dwarf noticed him and turned, Bernt was within just a few strides of him. It was close enough. With a snarl, he unleashed the spell.
He was too slow.
The warlock flung a hand toward him and lobbed what looked like a liquid gobbet of fire directly at him. The two attacks met in the air. Only then did Bernt realize he’d completely forgotten to remove the effects of his investiture from the spell. Rather than the plume of gray fire he expected, a broad stream of flickering, burning silver sprayed out against the dwarf’s head and shoulders and splashed down onto his legs and feet.
The ball of hellfire barely cut through the silver flames, coming out as little more than a translucent wisp of flame. Still, it flew true and struck Bernt’s right arm with a sizzling hiss. Bernt gasped and shook his arm, as if trying to shake the fire off, but it was already out. Still, it hurt, radiating bone-deep pain all the way up to his shoulder.
The screech that tore from the warlock’s throat was too loud and high-pitched to belong to a dwarf. It was inhuman agony tearing from a mortal throat. He flailed for a second, then dropped to his knees in shuddering silence. When the fire went out—it couldn’t have been more than two or three seconds—the dwarf looked ruined. His skin was cracked and peeling off, charred black where it had curled away from the body.
Unlike before, no hellfire gushed out of the wounds to close or regenerate his wounds.
A soft hiss of pain escaped his lips, followed by a single ragged inhale. Then Jori was on him. She sprang at him and slashed out his throat with her long, clawed fingers. Hellfire gushed out, and Jori growled in pain, but she reached in with her other hand and tore again as the flesh threatened to grow back.
The enemy warlock died messily.
Bernt groaned, cradling his wounded arm. He wiggled his fingers to make sure they still worked and let out a sigh when they did.
Then Syrah was there, pulling up his sleeve to get a better look at the injury. A part of his lower arm was colored an angry red, with skin sloughing off parts on top. At the center, the skin was burned clear through in a rough oval shape, and he saw seared flesh beneath. The robe hadn’t been damaged, somehow. It must have slid down his arm when he was casting.
She eyed the wound critically before laying her hand over it and muttering something under her breath. Then she took a small bottle from her belt and poured water out over the wound.
The pain lessened almost immediately, as if he’d plunged the arm down into a barrel of icy-cold water. He breathed another sigh and sat down on the ground. Syrah bent down to follow the motion and kept murmuring her prayer.
Bernt wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but soon other people began to arrive. The city guards arrived first, several moving to watch the gate, while one who looked like he might be in charge asked if anyone else had been hurt and if anyone had seen what caused the big explosion earlier.
“I saw it. I think it was some kind of alchemical device,” explained the gray-clad Underkeeper guard, who’d finally decided to join them. “These two dwarves came running up out of the tunnel—this one had a kind of strange-shaped bottle. It wasn’t very big. When the imp came up after them and started throwing fire at them, I thought the demon was attacking our people at first. But then the weird dwarf’s eyes glowed and he started throwing fire right back. The bottle got hit and you saw what happened then. I thought the fight was over. The other dwarf disappeared—ran off or got blown up, I don’t really know. This one was fine, though, barely a scratch.”
The guards turned to look over at Jori, who was trying to wipe her claws off on the dead Duergar warlock’s shirt. While the dwarf was badly scorched, his clothes had taken relatively minor damage—an effect of the cold fire, Bernt suspected. It interacted harshly with hellfire, though, and it prevented the demon from healing. If he was right, he’d stumbled on something specifically designed to fight demons. He’d have to see how it did against enemies that weren’t suffused with infernal power.
