Faith is earned 3, p.9
Faith is Earned 3, page 9
“Don’t worry, you’ve got mortal exhaustion. It’s stronger.”
Luke ducked into his own tent, rolled into his bedding and tried to shut the sound out. He was asleep within moments. And then, just as quickly, awake again.
BOOM
It was different from the crack of combat or the cry of a beast, this was sharper, more staccato, a series of thunderclaps that lit the sky in sudden flashes of color. Luke rolled out of his bedroll, grabbed for his sword by reflex, and burst from the tent.
Fireworks?!
Brilliant bursts of crimson, gold, and cobalt flared above the inn like battle Spells gone theatrical, trails of sparkling light chasing one another into spirals and bursting into shimmering wheels. The crowd below whooped and cheered, their voices rising like the roar of an army. And at the center of it all, formed in glittering illusion, perfectly rendered, dancing with unnatural grace, was a goat.
A luminous, radiant goat, prancing midair, its horns twinkling like stars, every movement choreographed to match the crescendos of light above.
Luke stared behind him, the flap of the other tent rustled.
“Luke?”
“Yes, Clef?”
“Can you ask Xelreth to smite that guy?”
“…”
“…”
“I’ll ask, Clef.”
Chapter 11
The morning came with the reluctant gray of a sky not quite ready to commit to sunrise. The trees whispered with a dry breeze, and the earth underfoot held the faint chill of dew still clinging in shaded places. Luke was already up, seated near the last embers of their fire, rolling his shoulders in silence and watching the colors change above the trees and the quiet stretched long, almost peaceful.
Then came the groaning.
A flailing arm flopped out from under the tent flap and the rest of Clef soon followed, tangled in his blanket and muttering curses in three languages, two of which might have been invented on the spot. Luke yawned as he spoke and the response to him came muffled.
“Up. Come on, we agreed.”
“No, dude, we agreed we’d try. I tried sleeping, now I’m trying not to exist.”
Luke tossed a piece of flatbread at him, then a waterskin.
“Eat! Drink. No, no, water, not wine. You’ll feel worse until you feel better.”
Clef made a noise like a dying goat but obeyed, sitting up, hair a wild mat of curls on one side and smashed flat on the other. He chewed with the energy of a condemned man, water sloshing down his chin.
Luke didn’t wait for him to finish before folding up his bedding. The morning rhythm came easily, canvas snapped, stakes plucked, pack loaded. Clef helped eventually, still grumbling, but by the time they finished striking camp, he was upright, if not entirely awake.
They set off after a short while, retracing their steps toward the inn. The grass was soft beneath their boots and the breeze had picked up, brushing against their faces with the faintest hint of warmth. Luke kept his eyes forward, toward the slope rising ahead and couldn’t help but notice the stillness around the inn. No laughter, no lute, no perfume drifting on the wind.
“Huh. It’s quiet, man, too quiet. Think the peacock’s still recovering from his celebratory seizure?”
“Maybe. If we’re lucky, he’s sleeping off a hangover deep enough to count as a spiritual retreat.”
Clef perked up, voice hopeful.
“Ha! Or choked on his own charisma while snoring. It’s what he deserves, hogging the spotlight like that.”
They shared a quiet snicker.
“So that’s what got you so riled up. Not one to be outperformed?”
“Nu-uh. I just, like, really don’t like the flamboyant type, you know?”
“You’re a flamboyant type.”
“Fine, man, jeez. I don’t like the rich flamboyant types.”
The inn sat slouched at the base of the hill, just as it had the day before, but now with shutters drawn and a single young woman sweeping the front porch in lazy arcs. Her apron fluttered with each stroke of the broom and her cheeks were still pink with sleep. When she saw them, she paused and waved.
“Good luck up there!”
Luke nodded and smiled.
“Thanks. Hope the road ahead is emptier than the inn’s yard.”
Clef stopped beside him, squinting toward the door.
“So, what, Sparkles still in bed? Or did his gold-threaded nightcap finally smother him in his sleep?”
The girl giggled behind her hand.
“Oh, him? No, he’s been gone for hours.”
“What?”
“What?”
She leaned her broom against the wall and stepped forward, clearly enjoying the gossip.
“Someone on his staff was a [Potion Healer] of sorts, saw him mixing all sorts of bottles last night. Right before the fireworks he gave him a potion of Alcohol Resistance with his wine, something called Efficient Sleep after the dancing and this morning? Looked like a Stamina Potion to me. He was up before dawn, shining like a second sun and left with a hair flip and a fanfare from what was left of the crowd.”
Luke exhaled hard through his nose, but Clef just stood there, mouth open, then shut it with a click. Then opened it again.
“Mother–”
“Clef.”
“No, dude, I–I mean–fuck me sideways with a shampoo bottle, that’s not fair!”
The girl winced slightly, but tried to offer consolation.
“At least he left alone? No [Bodyguards] went with him. Said it was a solo climb.”
Luke nodded slowly.
“Well. That’s something.”
Clef stared at the sky as if searching for divine validation.
“Yeah… yeah. At least there’s that. Hah, I hope he gets crushed by the weight of his own hair products.”
The girl tilted her head thoughtfully.
“I think he mentioned having a Bag of Holding.”
“Fuuuuuck!”
Luke clapped a hand on his shoulder and started walking.
“Come on. Before he starts naming the summit after himself.”
The hill climbed steadily ahead, the kind of incline that wore you down by repetition more than steepness. Luke set a brisk pace, slower than a jog but close, and Clef did his best to match it, though his grumbling didn’t stop for the first ten minutes.
They’d eaten light and packed fast, but both of them still moved with the faint grudge of men who’d meant to win a race only to find the other runner had cheated by leaving before the starting bell. The sky was still pale, the wind brushing along the slope with a faint promise of heat to come and the dirt path curved gently between tufts of dry grass and the occasional squat stone.
Clef panted lightly, kicking a small rock out of the way.
“He might’ve gotten a head start, but there’s no way that shiny bastard’s in better shape than us. You’ve, like, seen his boots, right? Bet they’ve never touched mud.”
Luke adjusted the straps on his pack, eyes scanning the rise ahead.
“We’ll catch him. If he started that early, he probably burned his stamina early too. Magic potions or not, they don’t replace actual pacing.”
“Yeah… Plus, dude’s carrying at least fifteen pounds of ego. That’ll slow you down eventually.”
Their boots crunched against the slope as they climbed in silence for a few minutes, the rhythm of breath and step setting a steady tempo. Birds called faintly from far off, and the wind carried the sound of distant branches creaking, as Luke’s mind drifted.
“Do you ever wonder what the theme of this one is?”
“Uhmm, theme as in theme song or…?”
“As in the theme of this hill.”
“What do you mean, theme?”
Luke shifted his grip on the strap.
“I mean… I think every one of these hills, mountains, towers… whatever the System catalogues, they all seem to follow some kind of logic. Some specialty. That first hill I climbed, it was all crystal and stone for the wildlife. Summit Champion was the same. Second one was slimes, layers and layers of them, including the final boss.”
“Huh. I never thought about it like that, you know?”
“I don’t think it’s random. The System probably sorts these places by a kind of… metaphysical tax? Like assigning monsters by category.”
“Man, I mean, can’t say I’ve heard anyone talk about it. But then again, I didn’t hang around too many Adventurer Guilds. Most of ‘em aren’t exactly satyr-friendly, yeah? Tried to fine me once for ‘intoxicated footfall’… dude, I was just walking.”
“I haven’t heard anything either, but maybe that’s part of it. If adventurers figure out what kind of monster lives in a place, they’d keep it quiet. Go back, farm it for materials or Skill triggers, maybe even bring in someone paying top coin for whatever’s up top.”
“Yeah, fair, I guess it makes sense. If I had an edge like that, I wouldn’t sing about it either. Still hope it’s not fire, though.”
Luke gave him a side glance.
“You that flammable?”
“You have no idea, my man. My leg hair smells awful when it catches, like singed despair and wet hay. It lingers.”
“And… how exactly did you come to know that?”
“Interesting life, duh!”
Luke laughed, the sound echoing off the hill’s shoulder.
“Well, for what it’s worth, my Rosary should offer some resistance to elements. Not a full defense, but enough to turn a burn into a singe. I can share it if things go sideways.”
Clef blinked.
“Wait, you can share it?”
“Well, it’s bound to me, I think, since I got it. But there’s no rule saying I can’t loan it or even give it away. Think that’s how a lot of the artifacts trade is done. So if you feel yourself burning alive, I’m your [Paladin].”
“Aw, dude. That’s sweet. Horrifying, but sweet.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I won’t, my man. I know how much you love to brood. Sweetness to you is like being chill for Lessie.”
“Lessie’s pretty chill, what do you mean?”
“Yeah, you would say that.”
“I’m serious.”
“And I’m adorable, what’s your point?”
They walked for a while longer, the sun rising fully now, casting soft golden lines through the sparse clouds and painting the hilltop ahead in amber. The slope bent slightly eastward, revealing a ridge of clustered trees clinging to the side of the hill, leaves rustling quietly under the growing light. A narrow forest clung to the ridge, rather thin, but dense enough to murmur secrets when the wind passed through.
Luke slowed slightly as they reached its edge, the trail skirting just beside it, bending around the base of the treeline, where moss and half-buried roots formed a natural lip between hill and wood. Clef squinted toward the branches.
“You thinking monsters?”
Luke shook his head.
“Just paying attention.”
“Good. You’ve got, like, the nose for trouble. I’ve got the nose for lunch.”
Luke rolled his eyes and kept walking, until the brush beside them shivered. More than wind this time, real movement, low to the ground, fast and brief. The kind of rustling that came with something alive pressing through undergrowth with intent. They both stopped and Clef tilted his head.
“Please tell me that was a rabbit, dude”
Luke’s hand had already found his sword, his eyes staying fixed on the treeline.
“Wouldn’t bet on it, Clef.”
Something moved again, farther up, closer to the hill than the woods now and the brush stilled. They waited and the silence that followed felt like the sound of something holding its breath.
“Oh, fuck me. Panitheos, praised be your left butt cheek, make it so the hill’s not themed around ambush predators.”
“…what about his right one?”
“Oh, now you make jokes?!”
The rustling came again, sharper this time and both of them stepped back in sync. Clef’s twin long knives whispered out of their sheaths, held low and wide like the fangs of some rangy predator. Luke had already drawn his blade, though he withheld from swinging. It hung loose in the wrist, the point lowered toward the brush. They exchanged a look and neither said it, but both knew it. Hill territory, System terrain. Rustling could mean a bird, a raccoon or a horror from someone’s worst field report. They weren’t about to gamble. The bush gave a final tremble, a little gust of displaced leaves.
Then a creature popped out.
Clef let out a distinctly unheroic yelp and staggered back a full step, as Luke blinked once, then broke into a grin that split his face like a sunrise.
“Imeanttodothat.”
“That was not a scream?”
“It wasn’t! I wasn’t screaming, I was, like, just surprised, that’s all.”
“Oh yes. Shocked by cuteness. A known hazard among adventurers.”
Clef sniffed and straightened his vest.
“You wouldn’t understand, broody. Some of us are in touch with our more empathetic instincts, you know?”
The creature staring up at them, with a vaguely curious tilt of the head, stood no taller than a foot, shaped mostly like a sapling carved into the rough outline of a biped. Its limbs were thin, fibrous and brown as dry bark, but it moved smoothly, its small feet curling slightly as it took a step forward. Its face was expressive only in the way a statue’s might be, suggestive, but also moving, clearly curious. Deep-set round eyes, large for its size, blinked once. No nose, just a shallow ridge, and a mouth that looked like an open knot in the trunk. A handful of tiny green leaves sprouted from its head in place of hair. Clef’s whole face lit up like a temple on a festival night.
“Oh my Gods! Oooooh my actual, fucking Gods, look at him! Look at this little dude. Who’s the best little dude? You are. Yes, you aaaare!”
The creature raised a twig-thin hand and gave them the most tentative of waves and Clef visibly melted, both knives vanishing back into their sheaths.
“Luke… Luke, my dude, he waved. He waved at me! That’s Clef Jr. right there, man, that’s my boy!”
Luke arched an eyebrow.
“You’re sure Clef Jr’s a he?”
“Shut it!”
Clef took a slow step forward, crouching like a man meeting his son and the creature stepped back in alarm.
“No, no, don’t be scared, little guy. Papa Clef is all about love, you know?”
The creature turned to run, but Clef lunged forward and scooped it into his arms with the ease of someone who had once stolen a badger cub and lived to tell about it. The little barkling or whatever it was, froze for half a second and then began wailing in high-pitched, squeaky anguish, limbs thrashing wildly against Clef’s chest. Luke groaned.
“Oh for- Put it down, Clef. You’re scaring it.”
“I’m comforting it. I’m his new daddy now, mind your business.”
“It’s not a cat, Clef. You can’t just adopt it.”
“He is called Clef Jr. and I can do whatever I—”
“…what?”
“…”
“What, Clef?”
Clef didn’t answer, just pointed. Luke turned just in time to see that the bush beside them had begun to rustle again. No… multiple bushes. One, two, four, seven. Too many. And from them, they began to emerge.
Little barklings, just like Clef Jr. One, then three, then a half-dozen and more. Clambering out of shrubs, rolling over roots, toddling out from holes in the underbrush. Dozens, scores. Some waved, some blinked, some stared. But none of them seemed as friendly as Clef’s adopted son.
Luke stepped slowly back, sword once more held firm.
“Are you going to adopt them all, Clef?”
“I mean, who doesn’t love a large family, right?”
The creature in Clef’s arms squealed in something entirely enthusiastic. Its entire body tensed, and a strange, sharp little squeak burst from its open bark-knot mouth. It was echoed instantly.
Dozens of barklings gave out identical little war cries, fists raised, leaves trembling. Then the wave surged forward, with enthusiastic momentum, feet pounding the earth in chaotic tandem.
The petite army charged.
Chapter 12
They charged like a tide of twigs and fury.
More than a hundred of them now, maybe twice that number, pouring from the brush and the undergrowth in waves, tiny arms pumping, eyes shining with savage glee. They skittered over roots, sprang from low branches, and darted through the grass like living mulch. There was no battle formation, no cohesion, just raw momentum and a war cry high-pitched enough to make Luke’s ears twitch.
His hand was already lifting, the words forming behind his tongue, one of his active Skills flaring to life with a pulse of practiced instinct.
But before he could speak, a voice cut across the slope.
“Wait, dude! Don’t hurt them!”
Luke twisted back just in time to see Clef clinging to Clef Jr. like a sack of wine about to be taxed.
“What are you doing?”
Luke’s boots scraped as he lunged back from the first wave, letting them rush through the space he’d vacated.
“We’re under attack, Clef. That usually means you fight back!”
“They’re tiny, man, for fucks sake!”
Clef was cradling his leafy child against his chest.
“Look at them! They couldn’t hurt a fly!”
One of the barklings leapt and tried to chew through Luke’s shin. He grunted and lifted his leg, flinging the thing away with a swift kick, its little bark fists windmilling as it sailed into a tuft of moss with a plop. Two more replaced it immediately.
Luke swore under his breath and started kicking again, aiming low and clean, more like he was trying to scoot a herd of stubborn goats off a trail. The barklings clung and they grabbed onto his boots, onto his greaves, onto each other, forming a squirming ladder up his legs. Tiny twig fingers tried to wedge into the links of his chainmail and a few even opened their wooden mouths and tried to bite him with what looked like miniature thorn-teeth. They might as well have been chewing on iron.
