Preface: Greetings, all! This is the ninth chapter of the tale that began with “Heroes – Chapter 1,” and is the third story is a series that began with “What You Don’t Know,” also located on this site, although it features a mostly-different cast of characters.
As always, my standard disclaimer: The monster girls featured in this tale, and many elements of the setting, are based off of the works of Kenkou Cross, and as such this work is intended to be a tribute to his creativity. The characters, however, are my own. Pray neither sue nor steal; I have very little to take, but I love that which is mine.
Chapter 9 – Sibling Rivalry
As the first light of dawn gleamed off the western mountains, making its gradual trek down to the plains below, a single column of smoke stood out against the pastels of the morning sky. All was quiet, as the daytime life stirred to wakefulness and the creatures of the twilight slipped into their dens surreptitiously. The chill wind gusting musically over the fields stirred the tall grasses and the leaves of the sparse trees in a faint susurrus, climbing the loping notes of the foothills to clash against the mountains’ rising crescendos with whistles of its own. In that timid stillness, the percussive hoofbeats against the ground were a shocking violation of the mood, all but taboo and only serving to panic the offended animal natives of this pastoral emptiness.
The person who had made the dying campfire noticed the motion of that single horse and rider that rode southwards along the edge of the mountains, and stood from her seat atop a stone that leaned over a precipitous drop facing east. With a grin spreading across her face jaggedly, she rolled her neck and stretched the toned muscles of her back and shoulders. Finally, just as she had predicted, her rival had come out to play. It just wouldn’t do to be unprepared for their games together. With that in mind, the woman spent the following long minutes warming up her impressive muscles, stretching and jogging in place. Next, she picked up her massive axe and swung it experimentally, changing her grip on the haft to turn broad strokes into short chops, maneuvering through several blocks and deflections with the haft. Finally, she took a moment to arrange her appearance, using her reflection in her bucket of water to arrange her pale hair, and to straighten her brief attire to best effect. Only then did she make for the stone seat that had been the reason she had chosen this campsite, a natural arrangement of flat rocks that vaguely resembled a high-backed chair.
And so it was, as Priscilla arrived at the campsite, she found Berala Blackaxe seated upon a rocky throne, the very picture of a wild tyrant. The high orc wore her usual scant clothing, little more than strips of black cloth across her most intimate places, or the bleached skulls that capped one shoulder and sat atop her mane of wild white hair. Her lean, muscular body glowed in the morning sunlight, her mocha skin exposed to the chill air. Leaning against the ‘armrest’ was her long-handled axe, which featured a keen head made of a dark steel and capped by a skull of a boar that matched the one that sat above her head. Berala’s citrine eyes glowed with eagerness as she stared at the newcomer to her domain, a queen ready to pronounce judgment upon an invader in her kingdom.
Priscilla dismounted, clad in her full armor, sword belted to her waist. She took her time leading her horse to the side to a patch of thin grass, tying a long line to a nearby scraggly tree that poked up between the rocks to secure it, before turning back towards the other woman. She walked up casually, her face locked into a challenging smirk, before glancing around the campsite. “Hmm. Rabbit bones – you prefer boar. Raggedy blanket, no pillow. And I can see the stains on your clothes from here.” Priscilla’s eyes gleamed as she met Berala’s gaze without a hint of fear. “So. Let me guess. Viola kicked you out.”
Berala’s answering stare was cold and mirthless. “She din’t.”
“Oh, so they all did, together? Same thing.” Priscilla shrugged as she walked around the dying campfire. “She’s chief now, and you’re exiled. I would almost be sympathetic – I’ve been through that, you know – but I remember the smile on your face when you threw me out of the tribe. This just seems like justice to me.”
“Oh, that so?” Berala stood from her seat, glaring down at her former subordinate. “Feels like yer fault t’ me.”
“Blaming someone else for your failings yet again?” Priscilla’s exaggerated shrug was well-shaped to further fuel Berala’s anger. “Just one more time the truth couldn’t get through your thick head.”
“Ye know jes’ how thick it is, don’cha?” Berala’s grin was sharper than her gleaming axe. “Surprised I didn’t flatten yer skull – might have been better if I did.”
Now it was Priscilla’s turn to glower, her anger over the fight that had led to her exile from her tribe still raw. “I’m not drunk this time. And you don’t have a whole tribe for me to fight through first, like when Roger and I beat you. Sure you want to try your odds with an even fight? Don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before.”
“Says the girl in the shiny, fancy armor,” Berala sneered, her eyes roaming over Priscilla’s gleaming plate.
“Armor from the same woman who made your axe,” Priscilla rebutted. She watched as the high orc reached over and lifted the massive weapon by the butt end of the handle and, with casual disinterest, heaved it away from her, against the rocky scree at the edge of the cliff. Priscilla stared after it for a moment before shrugging, her fingers deftly moving to loosen the binds that secured her various pieces of plate to her body. She gently laid each piece upon the ground, treating the armor with greater respect than Berala had shown her own weapon. Last to go was her swordbelt and scabbard, and she draped it carefully across her supine cuirass. When she stood again, she wore only the lighter leather armor that served as padding for her plate – an outfit intentionally similar to the garb she had worn as an outlaw under Berala’s command. Now as unarmed and unarmored as her opponent, she started to step forward, but paused. “The skull,” she demanded, glaring at the demon boar skull that sat atop Berala’s head. The high orc chuckled at that, reaching up to pat her unorthodox helmet, her fingers gently brushing against a hairline fracture in the structure of the snout.
“Aww, how kind of ye to remember ‘er,” Berala purred viciously. She reached under her chin to undo the buckle there, loosening the strap that held the bleached skull flush atop her head. She set the macabre crown aside with exaggerated care, brushing invisible dust from it lovingly. It had always been a status symbol for her, proof she had traveled further and seen more of the world than the orcs she commanded, and at the same time almost as favorite a weapon as the massive axe she had taken her sobriquet from. Stepping away from the bone-faced observer of the duel to come, Berala flexed her muscles once more, loosening herself up as she walked closer to Priscilla. Though her face was bright with eager confidence, the musk in the air thickened, and her opponent felt her pulse pounding in her chest. The high orc’s battle-stink could make berserkers of the unaware, and, even though she was well-accustomed to it from years fighting at Berala’s side, Priscilla still wasn’t immune to its effects. “Ye know ye can just surrender now,” Berala offered genially.
Priscilla glared at her coldly. “No chance. Not after last time.”
Berala’s harsh, barked laugh showed the lie behind her grin. “That’s the problem with ye, Prissy. Ye just don’t accept yer place. Orcs follow strength, and they only r’spect those that beat ‘em. But ye never do that. Even when yer beat, ye still jes’ won’t quit. Yer unnatural. Ye’ve got no respect for our her’tage.”
Priscilla scowled fiercely at the insult. “Heritage? You come at me with ‘heritage?’” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the mountain passes that led towards Goslar. “You know, I wondered for a while why the others didn’t come after Roger. He beat them. He beat you.” Berala spat to the side, her good humor decaying, as Priscilla continued. “Our ‘heritage’ says that they should have followed him for that, but I’m guessing you convinced them that it didn’t count because he used a weapon you don’t understand. That’s your problem, Berala – as strong as you are, your head is too thick for anything you don’t already know… like the concept of ‘equals.’” Priscilla’s face turned to the ground. “I knew you were stronger. But for everything I did, for all my plans and hard work and all the loot I helped you get for the tribe, you treated me like I was just another pawn. Someone to be kept in her place.” Her eyes burning with frustration, she stared back at the high orc.
“That’s what leadership is!” growled Berala. “If I wasn’t strong, why would any of ‘em follow me? If I let my second walk all over me-!”
“Walk over you? I just wanted to stand beside you!” Berala’s only response was a harsh laugh, and Priscilla pressed on. “And then you tried to punish me. To hurt Roger.” Priscilla’s face twisted into a snarl as she remembered Berala’s threats on that day. “I’ll never forgive you for what you were going to do to him!”
Her fury, given voice that echoed from the hills around them, made the high orc step back, but Berala’s own burgeoning wrath drove her back towards the other woman. “Fuck yer boytoy! He never mattered!” Her eyes shifting away from Priscilla, she let her voice lose some of its heat. “Ye jes’ had to lord ‘im over us. To make the others mad. They would never be happy knowing ye had somethin’ they din’t. So I had to punish ye.”
“Punish me? You threatened to rape Roger in front of me! To take him away from me forever!” Priscilla’s face glowed blood-red with her fury, and Berala refused to meet her gaze.
“I din’t think… I, I got hot. It’s yer fault. Ye made me so mad that…” The high orc stammered uncomfortably, her muscles tensing as she scowled at the stones to the side of them. “He shoulda belonged to the tribe anyways. That’s natural. Yer the one that wanted to keep him for yerself. And I woulda let you back in the tribe, to have him back, once ye’d been humbled. Ye din’t have to bring the Demon Queen’s lackeys down on me.” She glanced up, and, seeing the rage still openly displayed on Priscilla’s face, Berala sneered at her former subordinate. “He’s jes’ a male. Sure, that’s what they all want – what you want – and I do too, but…” She stopped, her words tangling in her throat, the pressure building inside her until she erupted, louder than before: “But he ain’t the one I meant to break!”
The suddenness of that long-expected truth should have brought Priscilla a feeling of triumph, but that quenching gloat hissed into vapor against the inferno of her fury. The orc stalked forward another step, her fists clenched. “And so you would hurt us both, just to dominate me. You could have just talked to me in the first place, Berala. I didn’t want to leave my tribe, my sisters. I wanted to lead with you, even under you – if you would’ve just listened to me.” The words, as yielding as their substance was, sounded like they had been forged from steel.
“Then come away wit’ me.” The request was the first thing to slow Priscilla’s inexorable advance. “Jes’ you and me, and ‘im.” Berala shrugged. “You can keep ‘im. And we can go back to the way it was.” She spread her arms wide, displaying her generosity. “Us again’ the world, lootin’ and takin’, livin’ like we’re queens!”
Priscilla would hate herself for it for a long time to come… but she thought about the offer. She stared at Berala, at the high orc’s smiling face, and the same charisma that had driven a younger Priscilla to lead her sisters to follow a brash upstart with a big mouth out into the world almost made her trail along once more, made her long for those halcyon days… but she remembered the other side of those days, too.
“Queens.” Priscilla shook her head. “You said it yourself. Your idea of leadership means you have to be on top and to squash those beneath you, and what kind of queen would that make me?” Her jaw set, she shook her head. “My life with Roger – my friends back in New Haven – it all means too much to me to give it up like that.” Her eyes softened, and her voice took on the hints of a plea. “You could be part of that, too, if-”
“If I bow ‘n scrape to a man like ye did?” Berala asked, snorting derisively. “Tame little house-piggy. Livin’ like that, ye don’ deserve to be a queen!”
Sighing, Priscilla shrugged. Her shoulders slumped for just a moment, and she looked into Berala’s eyes with regret. “I guess there’s only one way this ends between us, then.”
Berala nodded, her white teeth gleaming in the cold air. “Yep… with me kickin’ yer ass and draggin’ you back with me!” She immediately lowered into a wide stance, her arms and legs spread out in a grappler’s posture. Instinctively, Priscilla found herself doing the same, surprised at the familiar opening to a game that the orcs often used as martial training. While Berala had introduced this form of wrestling to the tribe as a way of burning off their frustration and developing their skills at subdual, it had been Priscilla who had given it the name ‘manhandling,’ selling the concept to her sisters as a way of training themselves to dominate their future mate, to coerce him into submitting bodily to their needs. The other orcs had eagerly embraced the practice after that, and since then it had become a frequent pastime, entertaining the orcs while letting them burn off the energy of their pent-up hunger for a male on each other. While it remained an open secret in the tribe, Priscilla knew some of her sisters had even taken it a bit further than that, continuing their ‘sparring’ in private chambers, but their need for a communal male remained a burning priority – and now that Priscilla had her mate, she understood even better why that was. The thought of Roger weakened Priscilla’s resolve for just a moment, but the bitter musk in the air made her heart pound with battle-lust, and she and her former chieftain circled each other warily, years of similar sparring ghosting through Priscilla’s mind as she ached for the laughter that had come with it. Neither of them was laughing now.
Priscilla had other memories from those sparring sessions, too: memories of being pressed into the dirt every time, overpowered by Berala’s sheer strength. She expected that was why Berala had chosen this form of combat for their duel. Her grin took on a razor’s edge as she stared into her opponent’s eyes. It had been a different orc that Berala had defeated all those times – she had trained with Lacy’s mercenaries exhaustively, in Goslar and now in New Haven, and one of their favorite training styles was similar in nature to this, but with enough differences that she knew she had surprises in store for the high orc. Still, despite her newfound confidence, some part of her remembered old bruises and simmering frustrations, and her decision to let Berala make the first move wasn’t entirely a tactical maneuver.
Still, Berala was predictable, and with a grunt she lunged in, clasping her hands with Priscilla’s and tensing her biceps to try to force the smaller woman back, to bend her backward through sheer mass. Priscilla shifted her weight to keep her body out of line with her enemy’s, all too aware of Berala’s favorite move, and fought to use Berala’s strength against her, pushing to unbalance the high orc and let her continue onward so she could force her down to the ground, but Berala split her attention on her upper and lower halves, staying rooted to the earth even as she pressed Priscilla back. One of Berala’s hands was snatched away as she tried to loop her arm around Priscilla’s, and their bodies slammed into each other, shoulders to chins. Now, both sets of arms writhed against each other, grasping and shoving, twisting and straining, as their feet dug into the stony ground, fighting for balance and power. Berala managed to hook first one of Priscilla’s shoulders, then the other, and with a triumphant howl she drew her head back, leaning away from her rival even as she gathered the power to launch her face back forward.
Knowing how powerful those headbutts could be, Priscilla reacted immediately. If her raw power wasn’t enough to topple Berala, then she could weaponize weakness instead. She let one of her legs collapse just as Berala tried to hammer forward, using that momentum against the high orc as she twisted into her fall. As they both dropped, Priscilla’s weight yanking Berala along with her, Priscilla tried to start a roll that could end with her atop the high orc. She knew that was the only way she could win this – to use gravity as her weapon, her way to equalize Berala’s strength advantage – but the high orc knew this as well, instinctively if not consciously, and even as they slammed into the ground she pushed back against the roll, and instead the skin of their sides scraped along the jagged stones under them as their earlier grappling repeated with them both horizontal.
The air was full of the sounds of grunting and growls as the two women fought to take the upper hand, half-twisting over each other only to be shoved away or back down. Knees lashed upwards, and hands slapped and wrenched at clothing, while dust and thin streaks of blood from scratches decorated their skin. This argument was beyond words, was a primal shoving match born out of a desperate hunger for recognition, and their pain only incensed their desire until they were lunging at each other with their whole bodies even as close as they were. Priscilla’s brain raced as she fought to keep Berala from breaking away, but the high orc managed to drive a knee into her solar plexus, and those thoughts were dragged away with the breath that blasted from her mouth. Berala stole that moment of advantage, shoving Priscilla over and climbing onto her chest, victory lighting fires within her yellow eyes as she took her enemy as her throne, ready to crush all resistance from the smaller woman.
Berala’s eyes widened as she saw Priscilla’s face redden furiously, and she clasped her legs around the orc’s sides as, with superhuman effort manifesting as a snakelike wave of her body, Priscilla forced herself off the ground, lifting Berala with her. She couldn’t make it all the way up onto her feet, but she still managed to twist as she fell back down, reversing their positions so that they landed on Berala instead. It was the high orc’s turn to cry out as the back of her head slammed into an unaccommodating stone, leaving her dazed. Priscilla frantically scrambled upwards, planting her knee on one of the high orc’s arms to lock it in place. She leaned across Berala, resting her forearm on the high orc’s throat as she tried to capture the right arm, but Berala erupted in fury, her feet drumming and tearing at the stones as she squirmed under Priscilla. The orc almost had the shoulder, Berala’s face turning a dusky crimson, when Priscilla noticed the balled fist at the end of that right arm. Her eyes had only a moment to widen-
‘So. We’re punching now.’ The thought echoed in the quaking cavern of her skull, accompanied only by a fierce ringing, as the sky whirled back, and then the hills behind her… With a grunt, Priscilla landed on the ground, trying to force her pain down, to steady the world around her, but abandoned that effort to instead throw herself to her feet as she heard the other woman doing the same.
For a long moment, they glared hatred at each other, panting, dirty, and staggering. This should have been familiar territory, since they had fought each other to this extent twice before, but for them both the pain inside was still fresh and hot. They were beyond words now, beyond thought or tactics – lost in the realm of anger and surging might. With berserkers’ cries, they launched at each other, and dull thuds echoed through the sharp hills around them as fists hammered flesh, painting grief and rage in bruise-black.
Priscilla didn’t remember hitting the ground. It was the last blow for a while – the hurting stopped for a moment, and her arms only twitched instead of battering against skin and bone. Maybe that meant that her opponent had fallen too. She had to get up, to end the fight – winning was the only way to make the hurting stop. But she just couldn’t… she was too weak. Bitter tears welled in eyes already swelling up, and the shame of it made her fight to rise – but she couldn’t.
The shadow passed over her, and she readied herself for the pain to recommence.
Meanwhile, Berala staggered to her feet. Her stance was wide – not in her wrestler’s readiness, but in a desperate attempt to stay upright, feet splayed out as her torso drew circles in the air with its weaving. She, too, was almost beyond thought, but instinctual bloody-mindedness kept her moving. This was the only way to end this – it had to be sure. No more interruptions-
“Hey.”
Both women froze as they heard the third voice. Priscilla still couldn’t stand, but she turned her head to dimly see the figure standing between her and her opponent, dressed in an unfamiliar dark duster. The shape of the shoulders, the dark hair, was painfully recognizable, however, and a new sort of regret and concern squeezed her heart. She doubled her efforts to climb to her feet, to just shout out, but she could only flop and groan desperately.
Berala, meanwhile, glared venomously at the man walking towards her. Despite the riding gear that hid most of his figure, including the scarf that covered the lower half of his face to protect it from the dust of a hard gallop, she recognized him easily from the dark hair hanging into his eyes. As he approached, she fought to stiffen her spine, ready for whatever the newcomer would bring to bear against her. “Well, well, if’n it isn’t the boytoy himself,” she snarled. “Sorry if I’m not wantin’ to play with yer balls this time.”
Roger chuckled darkly as he came closer to her, ignoring her curled fists. “I’m fresh out of Diffudozers,” he admitted, spreading his hands to show they were empty. Despite this display of seeming goodwill, Berala’s eyes narrowed at his open right hand.
“What’s with the gauntlet?” she demanded, eyeing the leather-and-metal glove enclosing that hand, unmatched on the opposing side.
“Oh, this? My friend Valerian made it for me.” Smiling, he held up the hand in question, showing it to her. “It’s just a little something he came up with – and it has a few interesting features.” Now within arm’s reach of the wary high orc, he pressed a lever that extended across the palm, and with a whir of gears and a ‘chunk’ a flared nozzle extended from beneath the lower edge of his hand. Berala’s eyes widened, too late, as she saw the hose running along his arm that led to that aperture, and before she could react he pointed it at her face. “I call it the Dozerfist.” He pressed the lever towards his fingers, and the hose vomited a fountain of plumskin-colored gas directly into Berala’s face.
Despite her wariness, the shock of the plume of gas spraying into her face and eyes caused Berala to inhale sharply, and immediately she regretted that action, even as she coughed violently. The gas, more viscous than the version that had emerged from the smaller orbs Roger had used in their last fight, coated her face with a tacky layer that she only managed to smear as she frantically fought to clear her vision. Her head swam – sank – drowned in violet haze, but red crept in at the edges of her vision as she lunged at the human, though it felt more like falling to her. He caught her by the shoulder strap of her top, keeping her up even though she was taller than him, her face dangerously close to his. His dark eyes speared into her own over the scarf he wore, and even as the world faded away at the edges she could see the anger burning there, searing away his false levity, as he yanked her close. “You didn’t get this message the first time, so I’ll speak clearly,” he growled, his voice iron, “If you keep coming after the people I love, you are going to keep ending up at my feet.”
‘Damn,’ Berala thought, her eyes pulled from his and drawn towards each other by a fatal gravity, her previously-aching face too numb to shape words, ‘that’s kinda hot-’ And she fell forward, down and down, and never landed.
******
Roger gently lowered the snoring high orc to the ground, surprised at how heavy her nerveless body was. Once she was settled on the stony earth, he turned to look to where Lacy was walking up to him, a serious expression on her face and a collection of bottles and jars in her arms. She glanced at Berala’s still form before walking over to Priscilla, lowering her load to the ground delicately as Roger approached, levering at the straps that held his gauntlet in place. Lacy smirked at that device, her eyes teasing Roger. “Told you it was a weapon.”
Roger shrugged in defeat, kneeling next to Priscilla and the collection of unguents and salves as he set the Dozerfist aside. Its creation had been a collaborative effort between himself and his friend via their letters, and he had only recently received the prototype after a caravan from the west had brought him supplies from Valerian’s workshop. His mechanist friend didn’t know all the details of Roger’s life in the east – considering Valerian still worked for the Holy Orders (though he was more a conscript than a zealous member of their ranks), it was better for all involved that their letters didn’t discuss the monsters in Roger’s life. Still, a carefully-worded discussion of the last battle Roger had survived with Berala’s band had inspired Valerian to make a more targeted method of delivering Roger’s Dark Lavender mist, and that discussion had also led to Roger’s refinement of his own recipe to make a more potent vapor that the gauntlet could use. He was glad they had undergone the effort; he had been decidedly nervous when the high orc had lunged at him, but now she was asleep like the mountain underneath her. “Its other practical uses seem a bit limited,” he admitted to the lizardwoman, and she snorted in reply, heading back to the horses they had left a short distance away.
As Roger unstoppered one of the bottles of healing potions, Priscilla looked away from him, her face crimson from shame under the darker colors of bruising. Even as he dashed some of the red fluid onto a clean rag and rubbed it lightly across one of the abrasions on her side, her only utterance was a soft hiss of pain. He relented, opening the conversation himself, “You should have told me. I would have supported you. I would have-”
“You would have stopped me.” Priscilla sighed, wincing as he continued rubbing the scratches with the rag, brushing the dirt and gravel away from her shallow wounds. “I had to know, Roger. I had to see for myself. I…”
“You had to try.” Roger’s voice was compassionate, but he wore a frown as he pulled down the scarf that had helped to protect him from the gas that had subdued Berala. “I understand that, but…”
Priscilla tried to push herself to rise, but her body complained loudly enough that she settled to pushing herself up on her elbows to look directly into her lover’s eyes. “She would have come for us, you know that. She wouldn’t be happy until-”
“I know,” Roger confirmed, but as he dashed more liquid onto a fresh rag, his eyes captured hers. “But it wasn’t her obsession that worried me.”
Priscilla’s head hung down, and she let herself sink back to the ground as Roger continued tending her wounds. There was little he could do for the bruising, aside from the potion that he started to hand to her but instead uncapped and poured directly into her mouth, careful to avoid the red, rending split in her lip. He let a single drop fall onto the cut before he dug around in a bag that Lacy had dropped off beside him, pulling out a thin, cloth-wrapped object. He pressed it against her swollen eye, and the coolness seeping through it made her sigh in relief – it was one of the enchanted coldstones that he had purchased from a yuki-onna in town to treat injuries such as hers. Something about this situation brought Priscilla greater relief than the icepack itself – the nostalgic feeling of Roger tending to her wounds, just as he had when they had first moved in together, chased away the lingering doubts and self-recriminations she had been suffering since she had left New Haven in pursuit of Berala.
“How did you even find me?” she asked as he continued dabbing at every scratch he could find.
“Lacy’s scouts had seen a campfire in this area recently, and they were able to give us the quickest route to get here,” Roger explained. Priscilla nodded gingerly; that made sense, as she was certain she had left New Haven long before they could have, but she had also spent part of the pre-dawn hours riding south along the mountains looking for a sign of Berala’s presence. She’d also taken a few unintentional detours along her route west, not accustomed to the terrain of this region and hindered by dusk. “We followed the smoke to get here when we got close enough to see it.”
Priscilla nodded, relaxing as she felt the effects of Roger’s handiwork seeping into her skin. She knew that all of his potions tended to have side effects, and most of his healing tinctures left the patient feeling tired as their body hurriedly repaired its damage. Sinking into that exhaustion also let her avoid thinking about how poorly her bout with Berala had gone – she had let herself fall into a rage, and to stop thinking; fighting on Berala’s turf had meant she was doomed to lose. But even if she had lost, she had still… what, exactly?
“Priss… what if this had been another trap? What if she had wanted to use weapons?” Roger’s voice wasn’t scolding, and that made it so much worse. “I could have lost you.”
“But I know her. I was right.” She cracked open her swollen eye to see his expression, and his eyebrow arched high over a tight-lipped frown. “She wouldn’t have killed me.”
“Last time, she wouldn’t have killed me, either,” Roger pointed out dourly. “But you’re both too stubborn to stay down. And she cheats.” Priscilla didn’t reply, sucking on her sore cheek as she looked to the side petulantly. “And you know, if she had dragged you off somewhere, I would have chased after.”
That drew a response from the orc. “You can’t-!” She forced herself up from the ground, only to hiss in refreshed agony. Briefly, she wondered if she had managed to pull something during her attempted body slam of her opponent. She twisted, trying to relieve the aching muscle, and with a sigh Roger reached into his bag for a different salve. He helped her roll onto her side, and began to carefully probe at the muscles of her back, exposed by the scant leather armor she wore. After a bit of wincing guidance, he located the sore place, and began to rub the ointment into the skin above it. Immediately, the skin began to tingle and warm as his medicine seeped into the pores, and she let out an appreciative groan as he leaned over her, still working the thick balm into the skin with circular motions. A minty scent filled the air, and she inhaled it as she tried to relax the afflicted muscle – only to freeze in place as another smell crossed her nose, mixed in with Roger’s familiar, comforting scent. With wide eyes and a slowly-blooming smile, Priscilla turned her head to look up at her lover. “Roger… did you and Lacy…?”
Immediately color flooded into his cheeks, and he glanced to the side. “I mean, you were pushing for it yesterday morning, so-”
“Did the trick with the nectar work?” Priscilla demanded, looking over to where Lacy was walking past them, the snoring high orc thrown over her shoulder. All of Berala’s limbs were tightly bound in rope, and Lacy threw her across the back of one of the horses. Apparently she had heard their conversation, as the lizardwoman’s cheeks had also begun to glow.
“No, we just… figured it out. We did use some of the nectar later, though,” Roger muttered, still crimson. “You… still don’t mind, right?”
Priscilla’s grin was triumphant. “No… I’m thrilled. Our tribe is growing, Roger!” Her voice was loud enough to carry to Lacy, who glanced at her with shy acknowledgment. Next, Priscilla’s eyes fell onto the sedate high orc with a feral eagerness as Lacy returned past them to gather up Priscilla’s discarded armor and weapon. “And, once I bring Berala around…”
“Are you sure you can do that?” Roger asked quietly, still applying the salve. “Just because we’ve caught her doesn’t mean that you can convince her.”
“Let me worry about that,” Priscilla replied. Already, her mind was awhirl with devious ideas to that very end. She ignored Roger’s still-concerned frown as he straightened and offered a hand to help her to her feet. Already his mending work was having great effect, because she climbed up with only a fraction of the pain she had felt before. Still, she wasn’t looking forward to the long ride back to New Haven on a jostling horse. Roger helped her climb back astride her steed, and she smiled her gratitude back to him.
As he looked up to her, his brow still furrowed, he started to resume their previous conversation, but a wary tone from the third member of their party distracted him. “Roger, you better come look at this,” Lacy called, her voice loud enough to carry across the distance but still carefully quiet. Recognizing the concern in her tone, he rushed over to where she stood, next to the stone ‘throne’ that Berala had taken. Lacy held the high orc’s boar-skull helmet, but with her other hand she pointed into the distance, towards other cliffs along the same range as the one they stood upon. For a long moment, Roger searched the pale stone cliffs with his eyes narrowed against the reflected gleam of the morning light, but to no avail. Finally, Lacy stepped to his side and guided him more carefully with her pointing finger, and finally he spotted what had drawn her attention: two figures on horseback far into the distance, practically specks atop darker blurs. His heart plummeted, though, as he saw the colors they wore: gleaming white and black, with the shine of metal armor. The colors of the Holy Orders.
“Could they just be rangers, mapping out the area? It’s been uninhabited by humans for a long time…” Roger suggested hopefully.
“Maybe. Or they might be the forward scouts of a larger force.” Her voice made it clear that it was the commander of the Company of the Forked Blade who was speaking, rather than his lover Lacy. She looked at him gravely, nodding towards the horses. “I hope Priss is ready to ride hard. We need to get back to warn John and the others.”
Nodding, Roger paused to watch the distant knights for a moment more, seeing them turn and ride back into the mountain passes. He couldn’t help but be dragged back to the day that the Orders had ridden into Goslar, threatening to seize the town and put to death all the monsters that lived there. Would they have to run once more? Abandon the homes they had only just started to make in New Haven? Or would they have to fight, against men for whom monster slaying was a righteous cause? Could he fight? He knew Lacy and Priss would, and that meant he would too, but that realization only made him feel like he had more to lose from such a battle. “Come on, Roger,” Lacy said gently, holding Berala’s axe and helmet. “We need to go as quickly as we can.”
“Right behind you.” Roger trailed in her shadow, his mind awhirl with doubts and malformed plans, determined that he wouldn’t let the Orders take yet another home from him. Not just the half-finished building that he shared with them; what mattered was Lacy and Priss, and he would protect them – he just wished he knew how.
******
It was late in the day when Roger finally had time to breathe, although his mind still ached from fruitlessly chasing his anxieties around in circles. As soon as they had arrived back in town, Lacy had headed straight for John’s tower, with an expectation that she would be heading afterwards to her mercenaries’ camp to give them patrol orders. Roger and Priscilla, on the other hand, had headed for his alchemist shop on the fringes of New Haven’s mercantile district instead of towards their home. That destination had been Priss’s idea; beyond the fact that Roger had several orders that were due to be picked up, the shop also featured an examination and treatment room with a bed. Priscilla had chosen to take Berala there for the time being, though she still refused to explain to Roger what she intended to do with the high orc. Shortly after they had arrived, while Roger was hastening to catch up on his concoctions, she had emerged from the room with a grim smile, and told Roger that she would be back shortly. He had, of course, worried about being left alone with the presumably-wakening high orc, but Priss had only reassured him that Berala wouldn’t be going anywhere until they chose for her to – not a response that necessarily comforted him, but the best he knew he would get for a while. With that established, Priscilla had departed the shop, her arms laden with a large empty box, leaving the door to the examination room closed behind her.
While he waited for her to return, Roger moved constantly through the shop, grinding and mixing, brewing and pouring. Even with the sign on the door flipped over to ‘Closed,’ Roger knew that his routine customers would depend on the potions he made for them regularly, and so he hastened to get caught up with the day’s work. Each completed item was deposited in a box meant for a specific customer, except for the extra crate he had found himself placing off to the side. Into that one, he put more curatives like he had used earlier on Priss, along with spare bandages and rags. He debated with himself on the wisdom of this; after all, it didn’t exactly strike him as wise to get the high orc back on her feet and raring to go quicker than they had to. Still, it was inevitable that, each time his thoughts brought him back to that conclusion, he would remember that the exact same argument could have been made the day that he had found himself pulling an orc bandit out of the rubble of a landslide and taking her back to his home to heal her. And so, despite his misgivings, he eventually placed the box right outside the door leading into the examination room. He didn’t dare enter to put it inside, or to put its contents to use – Priss had warned him against that, and he trusted her judgment. Mostly.
After a while, Priss returned, carefully balancing her mysterious box on one hip as she opened the door. Roger started to step around the counter, offering to help her carry the obviously heavy burden, but she quickly moved towards the door leading into the examination room, waving him off with a brilliant smile that felt just a ‘bit’ forced. He watched her go, wondering at what might lay within the box – and why the one thing extending out of it, dangling like an abandoned fishing pole, was clearly a riding crop. Soon enough, Priss entered the room, closing the door behind her. He tried to ignore what might be happening in there, relieved when she emerged shortly afterwards – only to notice she still carried the box, now empty. Telling him she would be back shortly, she hurried out of the store, leaving him with a hanging jaw and a swarm of creeping suspicions as to what her intentions were for their captive high orc.
When the bell attached to the door chimed a second time, he turned, expecting to see his orcish lover returning with her mysterious box yet again. Instead, a familiar face led two other women into the store, and regardless of his friendly relationship with their leader he inclined his head in respect to her, even if he didn’t hide his surprise at seeing her come into his store. “Lady Alpestria. What can I do for you?” He swallowed his nerves, hoping that Priss didn’t return quite as quickly, if it meant running into the genteel knight with her crate of horrors.
The armored figure of Ceann Alpestria strode confidently into the center of the store, glancing about with an appreciative eye. Roger’s shop was already considerably better equipped than the one he had run back in Goslar – which was largely due to John Foster’s generosity, as the items Roger had managed to bring from the town they had abandoned had been supplemented with other items shipped in from the East at John’s suggestion. Many of them had been new to Roger – alchemy among the people of the Hellenistic Empire was largely the study of herbal concoctions and some more dangerous elements, while the art practiced by monsters of the Demon Realm focused on the manipulation or extraction of mana found in living creatures. One of the greatest improvements to Roger’s repertoire had been thanks to a leystone mana infuser, which enabled him to draw his own mana out and to imbue his creations with it – a procedure that could leave him feeling tired and drained, but massively improved the effects of anything he crafted with it. He had cached away the fruits of several of his experiments with the device, included some that had exhausted him to the point of falling asleep on the floor nearby; he now knew better than to tax himself to that extreme, especially after the lecture he had received from Priss, Lacy, and John all at once, but part of him wondered just how powerful those creations could prove to be.
“Good evening, Roger,” Ceann greeted him warmly, standing upright and pressing her fist over her heart as she bowed her head to him. He knew the salute was one related to the Demon Queen, and was treated with gravity by most of the older monster women he knew, but recently Ceann had begun offering it to him as well when they met. “I hope I don’t come at a bad time?”
“Ah…” Roger glanced back at the door leading into the examination room. He remembered that Ceann had already met Berala once, back when the orcs had tried to capture him and Priscilla; Ceann had helped to rescue them, and had given Berala’s band an intimidating lecture on defying the laws of monsterkind, according to her. He wasn’t entirely certain how either of them would react to a second meeting, nevermind whatever Priscilla was up to. “Um, no…?”
“Wonderful!” Ceann’s smiling face brightened further. Roger had gotten used to this aspect of her nature – she tended to present a very optimistic, formal persona, aside from any occasion having to do with Lady Mephis. “I come with a special request from John. If you have time, he would like for you to complete a larger order, as soon as you are able.”
“Oh, okay,” Roger encouraged, smiling. Considering how much he owed the lord of New Haven, any request from the former Hero was one he took seriously. He glanced beyond Ceann, to the two women standing behind her, surprised that, for once, Ceann was apart from the man she typically guarded. “What can I do for him?” As he asked the question, he eyed the two newcomers with curiosity, trying to divine what had led to them following in the shadow of John’s protector.
One of the two was familiar, if not in face, then in apparel: she was dressed in the strange Far-Eastern garb that Lady Mephis’s stealthy guardian had worn, and armed similarly as well. There were some obvious differences, as this woman looked younger, with her black hair cut much shorter and styled into purple-dyed spikes on her left side. Her arms were less covered, although the right one had a chain wrapped around a thick sleeve covering her forearm. Roger could see handles emerging from sheaths behind her, but from this viewpoint he couldn’t see what variety of weapon they were for, though what looked to be bandoliers for short blades wrapped around her thighs. If anything, this woman seemed more dangerous than the one he had spoken to in the restaurant, if for no other reason than she seemed more on edge than her predecessor, her eyes flicking over every inch of his store as if a band of murderers could be hiding behind the counter – or, well, a high orc bandit could be hiding in the backroom.
The other woman was decidedly less martial in aspect. She had the horns and shaggy legs of the cow-women holstaurs that had settled in the farms across the river, but her dress was considerably less rustic: a shimmering Far-Eastern silk gown that was both clingy and translucent enough to make him glance away quickly. She wore a square hat atop her head, centered between her horns, and below its rim, framed by her shoulder-length white hair streaked with black, was a third yellow eye. Behind her small glasses, her more-typical eyes had red irises, adding to her exotic appearance – an appearance that was somewhat spoiled by the roundness of her cheeks, and the eager grin she wore, as if she was too excited to contain herself as she looked all around the alchemist’s shop. She, too, looked younger than Roger, by at least a few years, and her natural energy was clear in the way she swayed this way and that, distracted by everything within sight.
“First, please allow me to introduce the women with me, on whose behalf you will be working. Misses Chieko Mistwords and Kusari are both fellow agents of the Demon Queen and-”
“Actually,” interrupted the bovine girl, as if she had been waiting for just a chance to do so – and from the tension in the smile of the overly-polite Ceann, she probably had expected just that – “I work specifically for Lady Mephistopheles. I was cast out of the Demon Queen’s court, you see-”
“I couldn’t ever imagine why,” Ceann interrupted, pouncing on an indrawn breath and clutching to the lead of the conversation with a deathgrip, “But they will be departing rather soon on a mission for John- and Mephis,” she insisted, heading off the next interruption the instant before it could emerge, “and have need of whatever aid we can offer them. They will be travelling into very dangerous territory, and their mission is of the utmost importance.” To punctuate this, Ceann drew a rolled parchment from her side and offered it to him.
“I understand,” Roger hazarded, easily discerning that the personalities of this strange group were as potentially reactive as any chemical he handled in his store, including the explosives. The dark-clad martial artist was still searching for hidden threats, and the Far-Eastern cowgirl seemed possessed of an intrusive bookish helpfulness that made him instinctively wary. He reached out to take the parchment with one hand, and unfurled it, his eyes scanning over the page. He whistled, long and low, before looking back up to Ceann. “Are you sure? A lot of this stuff is really expensive, and these mana infusions he has listed – it will completely deplete the stores I have built up over the past weeks.”
“Tragically so, yes,” Ceann replied, “the mission is that crucial. I will gather whatever ingredients you are lacking tomorrow, if you will make me a list, and of course John will pay for anything you have to use-” Seeing Roger’s expression, she relented with an appreciative smile. “Yes, I know you say that you already owe him a great deal, Mr. Miralis, but he is deeply appreciative of your help this time in particular.”
Before Roger could reply with further niceties, the cowgirl behind Ceann piped up once more. “Did you say ‘Miralis?’” Not noticing Ceann’s wince, Roger nodded grudgingly to the younger woman. “As in, the wealthy noble family that once held political power in Italia before it was subsumed into the Hellenistic Empire? Controllers of the production of explosive powder and investors in metallurgical research, with large-scale vintner operations producing wine for the upper classes of both the clergy and the Holy Orders?” Utterly unaware of the dour look on Roger’s face, the girl continued her encyclopedic recitation. “The same Miralis family that has strong ties to the Archbishop of the Cathedral of Faithful Munificence, and has recently begun to invest in operations in Olissipo and-”
“That’d be the one, yes,” Roger interrupted with a rictus grin. He had shared details about his family’s history with those he trusted, but this woman was concerningly well-informed on matters he found personally distasteful.
“Oh.” The girl’s innocent expression tilted to the side. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet someone so noteworthy. You really must tell me how you came to-”
“Another time,” Ceann insisted, diplomatically yet unyieldingly. She nodded her apology to Roger, who returned the gesture with sympathy of his own. “Will two days be enough time, if I get you the ingredients tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I can make that work,” Roger promised, looking again to the slip of parchment. “I have the materials for a lot of these, but ‘Boar’s Strength’ takes-” He paused, deciding to avoid that topic for the moment as an epiphany struck him. “Nevermind.” He frowned, re-reading the list of potions, and grabbed a sheet of parchment of his own. He took up a quill and began scratching the necessary ingredients before handing it over to Ceann. “I can handle the rest if you can acquire these.” He glanced again at the original list, shaking his head. “Wherever you are going, it must be pretty dangerous. That’s a lot of healing potions.”
Ceann nodded gravely as she slipped his grocery list of ingredients into her gauntlet. “Incredibly. The Hero’s Grave hasn’t been visited in over a hundred years, by man or monster.”
Roger blinked in surprise at the sinister moniker. “The ‘Hero’s Grave?’ What kind of place-?”
Both he and Ceann realized their mistake at the same moment.
“Oh! Oh! Pardon me, do you mind if I erase this?” The bovine woman scampered over to a nearby standing chalk-slate that Roger used to keep temporary records of customers’ orders, though one side of it was typically used by him, Lacy, and Priscilla to leave notes for each other if their respective responsibilities kept them apart. The cow-woman snatched up the eraser, clearing a space for herself, before beginning to scratch her own tightly-written words and art atop the dull surface. “Let me see here…”
Ceann and Roger exchanged despairing glances, and even the woman in assassin’s attire behind the knight rolled her eyes at what was to come. This was promptly ignored by Chieko, who turned to face them all, her stance that of a lecturing academic.
“The Hero’s Grave, also known as the Rumbling Labyrinth or the Laboratory of-”
“Short version, please,” Ceann bargained. Chieko sniffed, insulted, before beginning anew.
“The Hero’s Grave was a stronghold used by the Dark God during previous eras. Located on an island off the coast of the far-western peninsula, this location was on the opposite side of the continent from the Dark God’s major holdings. Despite this, it did not feature a strong military presence, and few records remain of its true nature.” As she said this, she tapped her roughly-drawn map of the continent, complete with a small island near her shoulder. “It is incredibly hard to reach – the island itself is surrounded by jagged cliffs, and the doors leading inside remain sealed to this day. However, legends say that there is a passage-” Here she drew a dotted line to the nearby coast, “that opened only once an age. Once the Champion of the Chief Goddess defeated the Overlord of that age, bringing a temporary end to the war between monsters and mankind, the Dark God would extend an invitation to face him personally, at the end of this undersea tunnel connecting the mainland to the island and the temple atop it. Of course, considering the Dark God’s survival until the war over a hundred years ago, each reincarnation of the Chief Goddess’s Hero failed at this quest, until Adam Milton, of course, slew him at-”
“On topic, please,” Ceann insisted wearily.
“Err- yes. With the Dark God’s demise, the secrets of this facility were considered lost – and, regrettably, believed of lesser importance despite clear historical significance.” Chieko’s tone made it clear she took that decision, made decades before her birth, very personally. “However, after a recent visit by… a person of interest,” here her voice faltered, and she looked to Ceann for guidance, only to be ignored by the knight, “there have been suggestions that the confluence of leylines at this location may be a point of strategic and academic import.” Roger nodded along, more out of a desire to end the lecture than out of actual interest, but the cowgirl’s beaming smile made it clear she found him to be a brilliant pupil. Considering the forced disinterest of the other two women in the room, he supposed he was, at least by comparison. “And thus an expedition was proposed, wherein myself, an academic specializing in archeo-mytho-anthropology, would delve into the site alongside a couple of protectors, Miss – Kusari was it? – and another deployed west already, and return with any appropriate artifacts or intel-”
“She’ll be going to see what’s there,” Ceann summarized helpfully. “John thinks it’s important, and she’s all we ha- rather, she is uniquely suited to this assignment.” Ceann’s smile was ice-brittle.
“I… see.” Roger nodded, looking back down to the paper in his hands. “Well, I’ll make them as potent as I can, then.”
“My deepest appreciation!” gushed Chieko. “And, should you find you have time for a brief personal interview on the-”
“Another time,” Ceann cut her off, smiling sheepishly back to Roger. “We should be heading on to the next place for supplies-”
At that moment, before she could herd her charges out of the store, Ceann was interrupted by the bell attached to the store’s door. Priscilla pushed her way inside, her eyes widening at the trio standing in her path. They, instead, stared at the box, three pairs of cheeks darkening. “Excuse me,” the orc offered lamely, edging her way past the trio. Typical courtesy consumed by shock, they didn’t move out of her path, instead gaping at the contents of the box, which, due to distance, Roger couldn’t quite make out. There was something uncomfortably wobbly, and a shockingly-large feather? Jars clanked together inside, and straps dangled from the sides of the crate. Priss nodded another greeting to Ceann, smoothly pivoting to keep her body between the box and Roger’s eyes as she walked towards the door leading into the examination room. A moment later, and that door closed behind her, leaving Roger with the still-motionless trio.
“Thanks for choosing Roger’s Alchemy!” he offered half-heartedly, his grin plastered on loosely. “I’ll get to work on your order right away.” His darting eyes indicated the door behind them with something akin to subtlety.
“Right.” Ceann nodded, visibly swallowing her curiosity. “Right. Let’s, ah, head to the next store…”
Cheiko did not have nearly so much tact. “But, Lady Alpestria,” she started, her tone wheedling, as the trio walked out of the store, “why would she ever need so very many se-?” The closing door interrupted her, leaving Roger alone with the exact same question hanging in the air.
That question took a while to be answered, as Roger worked in silence, his head awhirl with an entirely new volume of questions than those that had plagued him earlier. He had longer to wait this time, too, as Priss did not immediately emerge from the room as before. Swallowing, he bent to his tasks, hoping distraction would spare him some of the grief of his curiosity.
It did not.
Finally, the door swung open, and Priscilla stepped outside. Her bruises still mottled her skin, and her eye was only partially back to its usual form, but her smile was easy and eager. She met his gaze, and something he saw there – something dark and swift, hungry and triumphant – sent a shiver racing up his spine. She nodded to him, motioning towards the open door, the darkness inside. “She’s ready for you.”
Steeling himself, not certain of what he was about to face, Roger stepped towards the open door, bracing himself for whatever chaos he was about to step into. For however his life was going to change.
The door swung closed behind him, and the shop was silent.
Continued in “Heroes, Chapter 9”
Author’s Note: Alas, the Convention Curse survives another year. Just as with my last go at writing this story, this season has managed to throw me slightly off schedule. Not so greatly as last time – I’m two weeks late, not two years – but still, I had hoped to beat the jinx this time around. Hopefully I can remain on target now, despite grades being due soon, and perhaps Christmas break will give me a chance to even catch up on my original schedule… only time can tell.
This chapter marks, hypothetically, the halfway point of this work. I’ve outlined 18 chapters, although the last four are heavy enough that they may end up being split into six – with three main protagonists, there will be a considerable amount of falling action to resolve after the climax. Next chapter is Roger’s last solo focus for this work, and then we return to Simon with chapter 11. I will say, I had considered leaving the last section of this chapter to be part of the next instead, but after my schedule slip, I figured a longer chapter would be best. That section, of course, is intended to lay the groundwork for the next story in this series, and to introduce some of the new characters that will be part of it – though, like Wisdom in Shadow, it will feature a new protagonist. I’ll save more discussion of it for later, but I will offer one final reveal: since I have been doing different genres with every story in this series, from this story’s heroic quest to WiS’s mystery, the theme of the next story is… an old-fashioned dungeon crawl.
Finally, a note of gratitude towards you, my readers. First, I offer specific thanks to the unnamed reviewer on FFN who suggested the idea of making a wiki for my series – since I had already been working on a series guidebook for my own use (Remembering details of appearances can be tricky – I always forget I gave George light brown hair to distinguish him from Simon, for example, instead of the blond I often picture him with) I decided just to lump most of it into an actual wiki, minus the spoilers and such. It’s a nascent project, but it can be found here. At the least, it gives me something to work on when I can’t write on the story itself. But beyond my enthusiastic appreciation of that person’s kind words and useful idea, I thank all of you reading, as well, especially those who leave comments and questions. I’ve got a long way yet to go on this series, but I hope that you all will enjoy what is still to come.
But, eventually, I need… sleep…
~Wynn Pendragon
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So Roger will be the dom of Berala, absolutely fucking great! I wonder where the rest of her troop is….
Btw, can you please answer my question on the previous chapter, if it’s not too much?