i went on an adventure and all i got was this barbarian orc

Crack Fantasy Adventure Chapter Two —in which Berklak teaches Lawton how to loot like an adventurer, and the party learns how well they work, fight, and get along together.

Jennifer Cody

contents

Content Warning

Glossary

Characters

1. Berklak

2. Lawton

3. Berklak

4. Lawton

5. Berklak

6. Lawton

7. Berklak

8. Lawton

9. Berklak

10. Lawton

Author Note

Reader Warning:

#NotJason

About the Author

Also by Jennifer Cody

Copyright © 2023 by Jennifer Cody

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The use of any real company and/or product names is for literary effect only. All other trademarks and copyrights are the property of their respective owners.

This book contains sexually explicit material which is suitable only for mature readers.

Formatting by Tammy, Aspen Tree E.A.S.

Editing by Shannon, Aspen Tree E.A.S.

Cover art by Yori, yoridesu15@gmail.com

Cover assembly by Tammy, Aspen Tree E.A.S.

blurb

Berklak:

Starting an adventure is always an exciting time. I’ve gone on a few by myself, but nothing compares to gathering a full party and seeing how everyone will mesh. We might have a clumsy bard and a chaotic paladin, but with everyone working together, we’ll figure out what’s happening in Fasgard. We may have to break a few laws to do it, but I don’t think there’s anything an orc would change about that.

Well, I might change how quickly I’m getting attached to the necromancer, but there’s nothing to be done about that now; he’s mine.

Lawton:

I’m finally getting out of the palace, and I even manage to do it without breaking too many laws! Only, like, two, maybe three depending on your interpretation of “smuggler” and “spy.” My adventuring party is amazing. They like me, don’t flinch when I touch them, and are genuinely interested in my magic, and I don’t know if a necromancer could ask for anything more.

Well, except for maybe a few more hours of alone time with his traveling companion; I could definitely get behind (or rather in front of) that idea.

I Went on an Adventure and All I Got Was This Barbarian Orc is a five chapter serial fantasy adventure with a light-hearted, fun TTRPG vibe. Expect big magic, lots of cuddles, plenty of steam, and a team of characters that might not get a natural 20 on every roll, but they make up for it with creative solutions to both magical and mundane problems.

content warning

Spiders. Giant fucking spiders. (They all die.)

glossary

Aelysou- the gods that rule over what mortals consider good or neutral ideals

Aelich- the messengers/servants/warriors of the aelysou

Aethyr- the realm of the gods

Draconian- a race of reptilian people that are born in fire

Elher- a species of felid people

Maelysou- the gods that rule over what mortals consider negative or neutral ideals

Maelich- the messengers/servants/warriors of the maelysou

Pescer- a race of reptilian people that are born in water

Qilatone elves- high elves; they claim to be the original elves from which all other elves are descended

Semer- a species of canid people

Thyr- the mortal realm

Viltz- a race of corrupted elves that live in the deep caves

Xenecar- the race of people that were born from a maelysou and a legion of humans hundreds of thousands of years ago; they are not considered human anymore

characters

The Adventuring Party

Berklak- Barbarian, founding member of the League of Extraordinary Rage, orc

Lawton Arcival Fairkin- necromancer, High Sorcerer of Fasgard, fourth child of King Valerian, human

Darian Silverleaf- druid tracker, wood elf

Armus Song- bard, xenecar

Inghram Sepferaline- paladin of the aelysou Benilon, the god of redemption, child of the maelysou Sepferel, human demigod

Frost- ranger, watchman, close guard for Lawton, halfling (human-elf)

Tavia Lark- ranger, soldier, close guard for Lawton, halfling

The Royal Family

King Valerian James Fairkin- King of Fasgard

Princess Haughney Lyssa Fairkin- heir to the Fasgard throne

Prince Exander Florian Fairkin- second child of King Valerian

Princess Adama Lilith Fairkin- third child of King Valerian

Princess Chanti Gloria Fairkin- fifth child of King Valerian

Prince Jerod Halen Fairkin- sixth child of King Valerian

Princess Saimey Dela Fairkin- seventh child of King Valerian

Haulissa Fairkin- deceased wife of King Valerian, mother of Lawton and Saimey

Swahla Fairkin- ex-wife of King Valerian, childless

The Palace Staff

Hildred- Steward of the palace, draconian

General Curtis Aleron- Palace Warden, human

Kyln- Warden of the palace jail, elher

one

berklak

The gates to the Fairview palace, the Jewel of the Emerald Sea, stand open, shining in the midday light. I admire them as I head for the watch tower where I check in on my mead barrel and other accoutrements, sticking my head into the lower room. Yesterday I gave the tap to my mead barrel to the watchman currently leaning over the ledger sitting on the table, but it’s time to retrieve it and all my things.

Just to check, I reach over and shake my mead barrel—it could have been switched out, but I’m relieved to find that it’s both full and still has the raging orc face I scratched into the wood.

“Are you picking up your items?”

The watchman’s voice startles me, but I play it off like I’m still shaking my mead barrel. “I am. I’ve officially been hired by Steward Hildred to be Prince Lawton’s manservant; she’s even going to sponsor me to join the Servant’s Union.” I hold up my second or third most precious belonging (it depends on the circumstances if it’s number two or number three): the keyring that holds my references.

She frowns at my keyring, stepping closer to get a good look at it. I’m pretty proud of my accomplishments. I'm a member in good standing of the Adventurer’s Guild, the Barbarian’s Club, the Feud of Assassins, the Mercenary Company, and a champion of the Bane’s End Crucible seven times. Even if I do say so myself, it’s a significant accomplishment for someone of my age and experience. Soon I’ll get to add the Servant’s Union to this key ring.

“What’s this one?” she asks, pointing to the key to the League of Extraordinary Rage.

Without lying to her, I reply, “That’s the key to my home.”

I’m a founding member of the League, and while it’s not a recognized guild in the kingdom of Fasgard, it is on the books of Omgranokk, the land of the orcs, as a secret society. The entrance exam is extraordinarily stringent, but every member of the league appreciates how difficult it is to get into. The exclusivity of it is what makes it special.

“Where do you live, then?” she asks curiously.

“My home is in Omgranokk, but for now, I’m going to be living here, I think, for as long as Prince Lawton wants to keep me in his employ, or at the very least, for the length of our quest.”

She brightens up at that. “Oh, a quest, eh? What kind? Treasure seeking? Solving a mystery? Saving the world? Oh, but it’s the high sorcerer, eh? I suppose that would be saving the world then, right?”

I didn’t know if I could ever like someone who would stand between me and my mead, but this watchman is quickly falling onto my good side. “Probably a bit of all three, actually. You know, we need an escort of guards. You could join us.”

She laughs at that, reaching into her satchel and pulling out the tap to my mead barrel. “Fuck no. I’m an admin because I’m good at it. Unless you need someone to administer your quest, you’ll have to drag me away from my watchtower kicking and screaming. These ledgers would be a mess without me here.”

“Gotta appreciate the person who keeps the rest of us organized, but I don’t think we’re going to need an admin. Too bad. You don’t sound like the other watchmen and guards who treat the prince like he’s got the plague or something.” I knock on wood for that, since I don’t want to accidentally call up the plague carelessly.

She shrugs. “Who has time to hate people they’ve never met? Besides, that’s a lot of energy to invest that I could use for my ledgers.”

“Hey, Captain!” the voice of a watchman calls from outside.

The captain sighs and rolls her eyes. “Give me a moment and we’ll check out your items,” she tells me, then pushes past me as I retreat from the watchtower.

I follow her with my eyes to a group of two watchmen and two others. Brightening at the sight of them, I follow her over.

“What’s wrong?”

“These two don’t have invitations, but they’re insisting they’re here to meet the high sorcerer.”

“That they are,” I announce upon seeing Darian, the druid tracker, and Armus, the xenecar bard. “This is Darian Silverleaf and Armus Song, and they’re with me. I’ve hired them to join the quest Prince Lawton and I are going on. We’re the outside contractors of the adventuring party. We’re just waiting on the prince and General Aleron’s escort.”

Darian isn’t the type of elf to smile very much. He grew up in the Circle of Animal Friends, which sounds nice, I know, but trust me, it isn’t good at all. When your only friends are animals—well, there can be a lot of problems when you think smiling indicates aggression, if you know what I mean. Darian’s better now, but for a while when I first met him, he thought everyone wanted to rip his throat out.

He greets me with a dip of the sharp V of his chin. His long, pointed ears twitch and rotate independently of each other. For most elves, that indicates nervousness, but for him, it’s his way of tracking his surroundings. His dark brown eyes sweep the area in continuous motion, and his tiny mouth stays closed unless he absolutely must speak. Long and lean, he’s only about a head shorter than me, but his hair is almost as long as mine, falling down his back in a yellow-blond braid that brushes his ankles. That was one of the reasons I used him the first time I saw him: he had great tips for the care of long hair and listened to mine too.

The other man with him, Armus, smiles at me with extra sharp teeth and a split tongue that flicks out to taste the air. His mahogany skin shines like he rubbed oil into it, and his gold eyes smile happily as he fist bumps me. His dragon-like horns gleam with inset jewels and golden bands that match the spade shaped golden blade attached to the tip of his black tail. On one hip in a sheath he carries a rapier, and on the other he carries a recorder flute. On his back a long wooden tube sticks up along with the neck of a banjo. He refused to play the banjo for me, but the rain stick makes a pretty noise like the sound of rain on thin wooden slats when he rotates it.

“Berklak! I’m relieved to see you. We were apparently not put on the list,” Armus says, affecting the accent that the nobles have decided to use to make them stand out from the peasants. It’s laughable to me, because King Valerian sounds like all the rest of us, so who knows what the nobles think they’re accomplishing by faking their accents.

Armus steps forward, loses his balance, and falls face first into my crotch, catching himself from face-planting by grabbing my leather pteruges.

“What the hell is happening here?”

I look toward the sound of Lawton’s voice as I help Armus back up. “Prince Lawton!” I exclaim, releasing Armus to go to my new employer/companion. I don’t know what the protocol is for our relationship in front of other people, but I do know that I have zero plans to make him feel like I’m not fully committed to our companionship, so I bow and ask for permission. “May I greet you with a kiss, my prince?”

Lawton smiles like the light of Edon shines in his very bones, and he reaches up to grab the lapel of my leather vest. “I would be put out if you didn’t, Berklak.”

See—communication makes every romance better! This is why orcs are known for their prowess in bed; we ask sexy questions to get even sexier answers so we can be the sexiest lovers in all the realms.

I wrap one of my arms around Lawton and pull him in close, pressing my lips to his, lingering there for a moment before pulling back with a tantalizing lick of the seam of his lips. “Hello, High Sorcerer,” I greet him softly.

He’s adorable, and his purple glowing eyes shine at me under tousled, wavy blond hair. He smiles happily and sighs, hugging me around the neck. “I hope Hildred wasn’t too hard on you. I meant to be there for the interview, but it took longer than I expected to get my lab packed up and locked down. I had to trick Saimey into trying to get in twice. The first time she managed it. I plugged the hole in my ward and then did a little jig when she couldn’t get in the second time. Plus I was exhausted after I bonded all those raskar we found to their knight masters.”

“Sounds like you’ve already worked hard today. Do you still want to travel? We can make it to the farms that were attacked by the viltz, but not before midnight. We can sleep on the road if we get too tired,” I explain quietly. I don’t think we need to wait, but Lawton is a prince, and I doubt he’s ever spent a night in a tent rather than his bed.

Lawton wiggles out of my arms, frowning up at me. “Of course we’re leaving, and we’re not sleeping before we get there. We’ve already wasted too much of the day. Where is Aleron, our guards, and the horses?” He looks around, but the general hasn’t arrived yet.

“He’s not here,” I shrug, then turn to indicate the other members of our party. “Let me introduce you to our druid tracker and our bard. Prince Lawton, this is Darius Silverleaf and Armus Song.”

Lawton raises his hand to both of them, maintaining his bright smile. “Hello, please call me Law while we’re on our quest. I will be moving incognito for this adventure.”

“Do not call him Law in the presence of anyone who would have you jailed for it.” That voice brings our attention to the man leading a small contingent of armored guards, several horses, and a team with a covered wagon.

“General Aleron,” Lawton greets him, gripping the man’s arm. “What is this?” he asks, waving at the cart.

General Aleron looks back at him. “If your party is riding horses for this quest, we need a team to haul Berklak. I figured you might store your belongings in there with the provisions we’ve packed, and it would be a more comfortable place to sleep at night.”

Lawton holds up his backpack. “This is all I’m carrying.”

General Aleron gives it a suspicious look. “You need money, clothes, and a bed roll at least.”

Lawton laughs. “Oh Aleron. I have everything I need. I packed up my entire lab and most of my personal belongings. It's all in here and in my aelysson chest. I have everything I could possibly need.”

General Aleron pinches the bridge of his nose. “Your highness, is that a maelysson smuggler’s bag?”

Lawton widens his big purple eyes and blinks innocently up at the general. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. I made this backpack myself and I stored all the things I might need in it without ever talking to a single maelysou or smuggler.”

General Aleron drops his hand with a heavy sigh. “I’m glad to hear it, your highness, because it would be extremely irresponsible of me to allow anyone onto the palace grounds with a backpack that can carry any number of items that can only be recalled by the person who put them into the bag. That could lead to all sorts of problems that might endanger our good king.”

Lawton maintains his mien of innocence. “Oh yes, I can see how that would be problematic. I would never do anything to make your job more difficult, General. I value your insight, and if I ever come across a maelysson smuggler’s bag, I will turn it in to you posthaste.”

General Aleron grimaces at him. “Thank you, Prince Lawton.”

Lawton’s smile widens and he steps toward the company of soldiers. “Introduce me to my new team!”

“SORRY! SORRY!” That bellowing apology comes from behind the team of horses, accompanied by the clank of heavy armor. “Sorry I’m late!”

As we watch, the person emerges wearing dwarven-crafted heavy armor from head to foot emblazoned with the emblem of Benilon, the god of redemption, a bear with a lotus branded onto its haunch. The paladin comes to a halt before us and removes their helmet, revealing an adorable face, round and worried under curly brown hair and big puppy brown eyes. Rosy-red lips pout for a moment before the man bows to Lawton, folding his rather tall and well-built body in half. “I apologize for my tardiness, your highness. I’m Inghram, your paladin. I swear to protect you with my life for as long as you have need.”

“Aleron, you failed to mention that he’s cute as a button,” Lawton tells his friend, then he addresses Inghram. “Nice to meet you, Inghram. What made you late?”

The adorable man blushes like a virgin in a bard’s bed. “I found myself inexplicably in a fight for my life.”

“Are you ok?” I ask, checking his armor over for any indication of serious injury. It looks pristine, but that could be a magical effect if he’s a sorcerer or something besides just a paladin.

“Oh yes, I smote the ropes entangling me and freed mysel—”

A cacophonous uproar in the yard beyond the gate cuts him off, and one voice comes through loud and clear. “He cut the washing lines! Who cuts the washing lines? Why would he do that? We were hanging out the linens and he cut them! We have to rewash them all!”

“Um, maybe we should, uh, get under way? We’re losing daylight, don’t you think?” Inghram suggests, glancing behind him a moment before sending Lawton one of the most angelic smiles I’ve ever seen on a human before.

two

lawton

I’m tickled that the child of a dark god is so deceptively beautiful, and I can’t help but smile at Inghram until the words of the other guards Aleron gathered drift to my ears. “Between the necromancer and the paladin, we’re all going to die,” one of them mutters to their companions. A round of agreement from two of them sets my back teeth on edge. I don’t think Aleron believes me about how antagonistic most people are toward me, because when he’s with me, they behave at least well enough to remain polite.

If it was just my own safety at risk, I might not say anything, because I can defend myself better than any guard Aleron could assign me, but it’s not just me going on this adventure.

“I refuse those three.” I tell Aleron, pointing to the three that think they’re going to die by being in my company. “I won’t take anyone with me willing to say in my hearing that my magic is going to get them killed. My magic isn’t dangerous.”

Berklak immediately turns toward the three soldiers, giving them the stink eye. “General Aleron, with all respect, if you send people who aren’t committed to the prince’s safety, they’ll be dead by morning. I won’t put up with anyone endangering him. The necromancer isn’t the one who’s going to kill them; that’ll be me when I accept the contract on their lives. And trust me, there will be a contract—I’ll submit it myself.”

Inghram clicks his tongue, stepping up beside me. Armus follows, runs into Inghram, and knocks him off balance, tripping the adorable paladin. Berklak’s arm shoots out to steady Inghram before he can topple either of us over, though he fails to save Armus from hitting his knees. Inghram reaches down to help Armus back up, and the clumsy xenecar gets his feet under him, giving the pretty paladin a grateful smile.

Inghram looks back to Berklak. “You know it’s just murder if you submit the contract and then take it yourself. It’s against the rules of the Feud of Assassins to both submit a contract and take it.”

Berklak hums in agreement and turns to Darian. “You’d submit it for me. I have plenty of coin to cover it, though we could low ball it so no one else thinks about taking it.”

Darian’s tiny mouth forms a frown as he moves his unreadable stare to the three soldiers I’m definitely not taking anywhere. He steps up to become part of the wall of guards surrounding me. “Of course, Berklak.”

The three soldiers in question back up a bit and pale at us, but things really get interesting when two almost identical young women dressed in the light armor that adventuring rangers are known for step away from the other three and deliberately walk toward us, landing next to Aleron. On their backs are bows with short swords slung on their generous hips. They both have physically robust physiques, and they’re likely some mix of human and elf, though maybe they’re actually halflings. Their auburn hair is tied up in messy buns, and the freckles on their light brown cheeks match their nearly identical mischievous, amber eyes.

The last of the guards wavers a minute between us and the three guards I’m dismissing, and that makes me click my teeth at her. “No. If you can’t make up your mind, you’re not coming either.”

She grimaces, but the acceptance of my decision visibly relieves her. She would rather be left behind.

“General, I believe with the adventuring party and these two troublemakers, we will have plenty of people to guard me and keep me out of too much trouble,” I tell Aleron, turning my attention to him. “With Berklak driving the wagon, and the rest of the party on horses, we’ll make faster time with a smaller party and won’t be so conspicuous.”

Aleron looks like he’s sucking on a lemon, and he glares at the four soldiers he picked for this. “You four report to my office and wait for me.”

We wait and watch as the four soldiers trot away, then Aleron sighs and looks at the two volunteers. “You still intend to serve as Prince Lawton’s close guard?”

The young women hit him with matching grins and bow to me. “Oh, we’re very excited for this adventure, sir. We’ll keep the prince safe,” the one on the right says with a husky voice that makes me think she might have grown up digging in the dwarven mines of Drokagard Underthyr.

The other young woman’s voice is the complete opposite of her friend’s, a mousy squeak in a high pitch that I love as much as I like her friend’s. “Excuse us, your highness, but you’re safe with us. We both finished training at the top of our classes. The other trainees were embarrassingly bad compared to us, but don’t you worry, we brought enough luggage to carry our egos.”

She giggles while her friend chortles, and Aleron’s lips twitch like he might smile at their antics. I have no reservation about smiling at them. ”Sounds like it’s a good thing we’re bringing a wagon! What’re your names?”

“I’m Tavia Lark,” the one with the higher voice says. “This is Frost.”

Frost strikes a ta-da pose complete with jazz hands. “We look alike, but we ain’t blood. We’ll take care of you, your highness.”

“Call me Law” —a look from Aleron has me adding, “while we’re traveling, obviously. We’re going incognito as much as possible.”

Tavia nods and does a little jig. “We’re going on an adventure,” she sing-songs.

“You’re going to be an excellent fireside companion,” Armus decides with a big smile, then he looks down at me.

I step back from my entire party, look up at all of them, and sigh. “How did I end up being the shortest person in the party? We should have hired a gnome.”

Berklak chortles, patting my back affectionately. “Maybe we’ll find one on the way,” he teases.

I roll my eyes, but the party around me feels good, like we’ve got the right mix of people to get the job done. “General, I think this adventuring party is complete. Do you require anything else from me before we ride out?”

Aleron eyes the group for a long moment before shaking his head. “I do not, your highness, assuming that you have your linestone.”

I tap a small pink diamond earring. We have matching linestones that live in a tragus piercing on our left ears. I created this line of communication between us almost a decade ago, and we utilize it when we have emergent issues that need to be addressed with immediacy.

“Good,” he tells me. “Check in regularly. If I don’t hear from you every three days at least, I will send out a search party.”

I smile my biggest, brightest smile. “I will keep you apprised of our status,” I promise, then I wave to the horses waiting for us. “Alright everyone, choose your steeds.”

Berklak immediately jogs back to the watchtower. I watch him gather his things from there before I find my horse. I have my own, of course, and take her reins from the stablehand holding them. I pet her nose and offer her a carrot from the stablehand’s pocket. “Hello, Sweetie. You look shiny and healthy, my dear.”

Sweetie and I have a good relationship, even if I only get out to ride her once or twice a week. She’s a temperate and beautiful blond mare who has extensive training for all sorts of situations, including the kind that a necromancer on an adventure might come across.

“Woah, woah. It’s ok! I promise I’m not a terrible person!”

That declaration from Inghram is accompanied by the snort of an aggravated horse. I look around Sweetie, finding Berklak on the wagon, Darian on his horse, Armus tangled in his horse’s reins, and Inghram’s horse skittering away from him like he’s a wight.

Darian pats his horse and the horse takes him over to Inghram’s increasingly agitated horse. “Sunny,” Darian says calmly, placing a hand on Inghram’s head. Magic swirls around both the horse and Inghram, and Sunny immediately calms down.

Inghram smiles up at Darian, dazzling everyone with the beauty that his smile adds to the world. “Thank you, friend!”

Darian blinks at Inghram’s smile. “Don’t smile at the horses. Displaying your teeth is a threat to prey animals, and they’re already nervous being in the presence of a child of darkness.”

Inghram’s brow furrows with a little hurt and surprise. “Wish fulfillment. I’m the child of wish fulfillment, not darkness,” he corrects, pouting prettily. Honestly, the guy is just so cute that it’s easy to forget that one of his parents is a maelysou.

Darian doesn’t respond to that, just silently indicates Inghram should mount Sunny now.

Inghram sighs and puts his foot in the stirrup. As soon as he’s seated, we turn our attention to Armus, who’s managed to get more tangled since I glanced past him. The stablehand is trying to help, but Armus keeps making it worse. I giggle at the sight and clear my throat to try to help, but the stablehand finally loses his temper.

“Stop moving!” he barks.

Armus immediately freezes, looking at the boy with not a small amount of incredulity. “Did you just yell at me?”

The boy glares at him. “Stand still and I will untangle you,” he emphasizes.

Armus crosses his arms petulantly, and his tail twitches back and forth, a clear sign of frustration. “I was going to get it.”

The stablehand moves deftly and quickly untangles Armus from the reins, standing back as soon as he has them. “You were making everything worse. Do you need a mounting block too?”

Oof. That’s dis-re-spect-ful.

Armus straightens his shoulders and a little twinkle from a jewel set into his horn indicates the use of a spell set in the stone. The stablehand suddenly smiles flirtatiously, and Armus says, “That wasn’t very nice. I’m a perfectly capable rider, my friend.”

The stablehand gives Armus a searing up-down. “But do you enjoy being ridden, too?”

“Cheater,” I huff, laughing under my breath.

Armus sends me a wink and somehow manages to get up on his mount without another incident. He leans down, patting the horse's neck and taking the reins from the boy. “I’ll be very interested in finding out when we return, my dear.”

The boy smiles wide at that and blows Armus a kiss before getting out of the way.

Now that we’re all mounted and ready, I point to Frost. “Lead us out, Frost. We’re heading down the road toward Gladfield.”

Frost salutes me and takes point, leading us out under the worried glower of General Aleron and the relieved faces of everyone else staying behind.

Despite the awful circumstances that led us here, I’m excited for this adventure.

three

berklak

It doesn’t feel like only two days have passed since I discovered the dead at the farm on the road between Fairview and Gladfield. The smell tells me my perception of time is squirrelly, and the contingent of soldiers that meet us on the road just this side of the farm warn us as we approach that we need to take another route. They’re grumpy because it’s midnight and it stinks, but they get out of the way once Lawton shows his face. Most of the soldiers don’t recognize him, but the sergeant does and tells her soldiers to stand down, apologizing to the prince.

Once we’re through the roadblock, the stench of death worsens until Armus gags. “Oh this is ridiculous,” he grumbles, pulling his rain stick out and turning it a few times while singing under his breath. A breeze starts up, light at first, then picking up to an actual wind blowing the stench away from us.

Lawton giggles, shooting Armus a smile. “I forget that people aren’t used to the smell of death,” he says lightly. “It’s only a few days old. I’d say barely four.”

Inghram points upward with one finger, and a mage light bright enough to light up the entire area around us appears, revealing the tragedy we’re here to investigate.

“Enough time to attract the flies,” I point out as we stop outside the wooden fencing around the farm where the bodies of the people were left. Above us, on the sign over the gate, three arrows in a triangle formation testify to the people responsible for this massacre: the viltz.

Farms aren’t small things in Fasgard. I’m certain there are farms that only feed small villages, but the ones out here are large with many people working them. This one had over twenty people working it, and it’s not even harvest season when the farms hire dozens of workers to come pick the fields clean. Each of those bodies are piled up, visible from the road.

Lawton jumps off his horse, and immediately both Tavia and Inghram jump off theirs, taking up position flanking him while Frost keeps her eyes moving at the edge of the light, guarding from the height of her horse. I grin at that response, glad we got rid of the soldiers that didn’t want to join us anyway. Tavia and Frost are definitely here to do their jobs. Not that I’m going to let them take all the responsibility. That man right there is my companion. I step off the wagon and tie the team of horses to the gate and join Lawton and his guard.

Lawton glances around at the party. “I’m about to do something very illegal, so if you don’t want to be implicated if this gets back to the king, I suggest looking away and pretending I don’t exist.”

Armus snorts, holding up a keyring with a key to the Keyroom, the guild of thieves that’s problematic to belong to even if it’s a legally recognized guild in Fasgard. “I’m not worried,” he says with a grin full of sharp teeth. “Besides, how often is one going to get to witness the work of a necromancer in Fasgard?”

“You could always cross the border to Smos Esten if you really want to see a necromancer at work,” Tavia suggests with a bright smile. “Frost and I went and had an adventure over there once. It was fun!”

Frost matches her friend’s enthusiasm even as she keeps watch. “Necromancers over there are common enough, though most of them run funeral businesses. I never would have thought that the gravediggers over there would be the necromancers. Seems a bit…” she trails off with a shrug.

“Mundane,” Tavia supplies, and Frost points to her, nodding.

Lawton peers at them with keen interest. “Gravediggers? I suppose that would be a fine job for a necromancer, but don’t the people dislike having their loved ones at the mercy of people who can turn them into wights?”

Tavia shakes her head. “There aren't the same prejudices in Smos Esten as there are here. People have their funeral rites and leave the bodies to the necromancers. Most of them aren’t strong enough to even make a wight, so there’s no real danger of that happening. Necromancers have to register, and the kingdom provides training for them so they can be licensed to perform necromantic magic. Some of them go into the business of healing rather than gravedigging, but most often when that happens, it’s a pair of them, and the healer’s spa is right next to the funeral parlor. ‘Come in for a heal, and if we can’t fix you, we can arrange your final farewell.’”

Lawton considers this for a moment, leaning on me because I’m right here and available for cuddles any time. I wrap my arms around him and press my nose to his sweet-smelling hair as he speaks. “I wish I could visit Smos Esten without needing to be an emissary or some such nonsense. Oh well. Anyone else with no qualms about anything illegal I may or may not do?”

Darian doesn’t speak, but he does hold up the key to the Feud of Assassins—a key he has because I sponsored him for it (listen, the one time we worked together, we did a lot of things). Frost and Tavia both hold up keys to the Adventurer’s Guild but shrug in tandem. “We haven’t had a chance to join anything else, but we’re going to join the mercenaries when we retire from soldiering,” Frost explains.

“And then maybe the Feud or the Keyroom. We’ve got goals,” Tavia adds.

Inghram shrugs in his heavy armor. “I’m a Sepferaline; I’m not going to tattle.”

Oh. That explains all the comments about him being the son of a dark god. Sepferel is the maelysou of wish fulfillment. He is one of the most breedy maelysou known. People wish for children often, and Sepferel happily obliges. I wonder if Inghram has a mother or a father that wished for him. I hope they treated him well; often the people who wish for their children regret making their wish, and that leads to abandoned Sepferaline offspring.

Lawton’s wicked chortle brings my attention back to him. “I bet Aleron had no idea who he was sending with me,” he laughs, then waves at anyone who wants to join him. “Well, if you want a peek at my work, come along. I’m going to interview one of the dead. Maybe a few just to see if there’s more than one perspective.”

Armus and Frost join the three of us, leaving Darian with the horses, which I can’t say I’m surprised by; he relates better to the animals than he does to the people. As a group we walk down the little path to the place where the bodies were dragged.

Lawton kneels beside the corpse of a middle aged human woman. Her throat has been ravaged, but that doesn’t stop Lawton from beginning to draw around her body in the dirt. We watch him scratch out the symbols of his magic around her body, then power stirs around us, and from one moment to the next the corpse looks a little less dead. Not alive, it doesn't move or even twitch, there’s just some quality about it that feels less dead than it was before.

“Hello, thank you for returning so easily. My name is Lawton; I’m the High Sorcerer of Fasgard. Will you please tell me what happened when you died?”

So polite. Even when he’s talking to the dead, he doesn’t treat them badly. I’m just a barbarian half-orc in a deeply committed relationship with my mead, but Lawton might be slipping into the space I reserve right next to my mead for people just as important. I’m not saying I’d leave my mead for him, but I am saying I would save him if it was a choice between him and my mead. I can’t say that’s true for all people, and I know that makes me a bad person, but what part of “barbarian” doesn’t already imply that I would kill for a barrel of mead, and that’s not an exaggeration?

Well, now I would kill for the little prince too, and that’s also not an exaggeration.

The corpse’s voice comes out of her mouth sounding as if she hadn’t died at all. The mouth parts move like they would, but that’s the only part of the corpse that animates, and she's talking out of her mouth, but she’s just moving it. The voice that comes out of the corpse isn’t formed by breath but by magic; it’s just a mimic of life, not at all real once you look closely.

“‘Ello, your highness. O’course, I’ll tell you what happened to us. We was working in the field, ‘cause it was the day to wither the weeds—I’s a hedge witch, so I was just asking the weeds to stay small until after the true harvest, you know? Then the goats started screaming from the pasture. We all looked and this great big group o’ viltz were coming through the fields, shooting people with their arrows and running them down. I started running for the farmhouse, you know? Not sure what I thought that was going to do, but I guess I hoped they was just passing through, not out to kill for the sake of killing. Stupid I guess, but the next thing I know, I get attacked from behind. Taken down by one of their spider dogs. The thing bit my back and then tore my throat out. I lingered long enough to watch them pile all our bodies up here, but then the goddess called us all to the aethyr, so we all left with her. Well, except for Jim. That idiot was hollering and hell bent on sticking around to get revenge on those viltz. I’m pretty sure he went with them when they took all the animals.”

“Thank you, darling. Do you want me to do anything for you before I return you?”

“Oh no, your highness. I’m just fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“Good then,” Lawton says tenderly, then whispers the rest of his spell and the corpse becomes more corpsy again.

I pull the tiny mead sack from my belt and drink the contents. I’d pour one out for the dead, but that would be a waste of perfectly good mead, so I drink their parts too. I wish I hadn’t left my barrel at the wagon, because then I’d have a proper drink for them. Next time I won’t be so reckless with my mead barrel.

Lawton stands, and with him, the corpse comes up, floating on air. He directs the corpse to a different place and sets her down again, then his magic mage hand picks up another body and places it in the array. Lawton whispers his spell again, and this corpse also becomes less corpsy.

“Hello, sir. I’m Prince Lawton, the High Sorcerer of Fasgard…” he continues with his introduction, and the voice that comes out of this corpse is much more reedy than the last woman, and a whole lot more irritated.

“So now you’re performing illegal magic in this great kingdom? Pulling perfectly content farmers out of their resting places just for a laugh? You already talked to my daughter; I ain’t got nothing to add to her testimony except fuck you. Fuck you for taking me away from my home and my wife. I worked to feed the royal palace for over two hundred years; I’ve earned my rest.”

“Ah, yes sir, you certainly have. I apologize for bringing you back; I just wondered if you had a different perspective than your daughter.” Even in the face of this spirit’s animosity, he’s still polite and compassionate. It’s astounding that the kingdom of Fasgard considers necromancy evil. Honestly, it’s never been the magic that’s the problem, it’s the person wielding it, and Lawton is good to the marrow.

One necromancer rampages and it makes them all look bad, but honestly, one bad guy shouldn’t make a whole class of sorcerers illegal. It’s like making men illegal because one of them killed fifty women (that happened in Smos Esten about forty years ago). Utterly ridiculous.

“Different perspective? Of course I did. I’m a different person. Those cursed viltzen killed my family and friends before my eyes. I died when my daughter did, and then they killed me with their arrow. Advance scouts, but you already know that because you saw the arrows on my sign.”

“Viltzen?” I ask, surprised.

“You heard me. Every last one of that scouting party was female.”

“It’s hard to tell viltzen from viltzi,” Frost points out.

“It ain’t hard when they’re naked except for their war paint,” the corpse scoffs. “Send me back, necromancer. I don’t belong here no more.”

“Of course, sir. I apologize for the inconvenience,” Lawton murmurs and releases the spell holding the spirit here.

He stands again, wiping his hands on his off-white traveling clothes. He looks around and then back to the group. “So, we have another attack led by females,” he mutters, looking around. “I need…” trailing off, he pulls his travel pack off his shoulder and kneels on the ground, digging through it.

He pulls out a basket full of zombified hands, though he did explain to me that they’re only active when he activates their animation spell, but otherwise he keeps them in stasis. I thought the hands were a nice perk of his magic, helpers that hold things for him or fetch, whatever he needs them to do, and the way Frost and Tavia close in when he sets them aside tells me that I’m not the only one who thinks so. Who wouldn’t want a few extra helping hands? I mean, I don’t need them because I’m completely capable of doing all the important things with the two I was born with, but if I ever needed an extra, I know who to ask.

Speaking of important things…

“Be right back,” I tell them and jog back to where Darian is waiting with the horses. “It was viltzen,” I tell him as I grab my mead barrel from the wagon. “He’s doing something else, but he interviewed two of the recently dead.”

Darian nods thoughtfully and points south easterly toward the mountains.

I follow his line of sight to the tracks that the viltz left behind on their retreat. “Yeah, I know. We’re heading that way if we want to follow them. I’m hoping they didn’t cut a swath through the kingdom, but I suspect they did if they came up through the mountains. The only hope we have is to find another cave closer.”

“There are close caves,” he replies steadily and nods toward a speckled brown owl the size of a child perching on the fence, keeping him company.

“Who’s that?” I ask curiously.

“A friend,” he shrugs, then makes a soft screeching noise. “She does not have a name that you can pronounce.”

I dip my chin to the owl. “Thank you for your help,” I tell her.

Darian doesn’t smile, but I get his Eyes of Approbation. It’s a thing. I may not know him well but I can see the approval in his stare.

“Berklak!” Lawton calls.

I turn to see him waving me over, so I jog back to him, this time with enough mead to mourn the dead properly. He’s pulled out some interesting looking potions and a portable stove with a small spice shelf full of little glass bottles. He looks a little put out, but I’m sure whatever is wrong, we can fix it.

“What can I help you with?” I offer.

He sighs and gives me the biggest puppy eyes I’ve ever seen on an adult human before. “Can I fill up a little vial with some of your mead? I apparently forgot alcohol—”

“You want my mead?” I can’t believe he would betray me like this! “Orcs don’t share mead, Law. We don’t. How can you—?”

He increases the puppy eyes, and it might be the glowing purple or the tears glistening in them, but somehow he makes me feel guilty about hoarding mead, which is ridiculous, and absolutely no one should ever be made to feel bad about their mead hoard, but somehow his softly whispered “please” has me reaching for the little glass vial he’s holding, and to my entire clan’s shame, I fill it up and hand it back to the little prince.

“Sorcery,” I whisper, agog that anyone could get me to share my mead, but somehow feeling better about it than I did about not sharing.

“I’ll buy you your next barrel,” he promises, and that does help immensely with the shame; no one could blame me for trading a small sip for a whole barrel.

To finish making myself feel better, I open the tap into my mouth and take a few very healthy swallows of the wonder inside. Mead is the nectar of life, obviously, and partaking is as close to the answer to the meaning of life as anyone has ever gotten.

Lawton mixes a few ingredients together, including only three drops of my mead, into a bowl on his stove, and the ingredients turn into a gray sludge that he dips his finger into even though it’s clearly boiling. He wipes the mixture on his eyelids, and when he opens his eyes, the glowing purple looks like I’m seeing it through a veil or like someone dropped a thin dark oil into his eyes.

It’s impressive, if a little on the creepy side. I don’t usually judge, but going from a pretty purple to a black sheen is pretty weird.

“Hmm,” he hums softly. “Yes, the same blanket of disruptive corrupting magic layers over everything here too,” he tells us, looking around with his altered vision—that’s what I’m guessing is happening here.

“Will that stuff work for me to see?” Armus asks curiously.

Lawton tips his head to the side with a thoughtful expression before shrugging. “Probably. Want to try?”

Armus smiles broadly. “Fuck yes, I do.”

Lawton giggles and dips his finger into the sludge. He swipes it over Armus’ eyes, making it look like the xenecar is wearing gray eye makeup. Between the two of them, I think Lawton looks better with it, but there’s no missing the dashing mystique that dark eye makeup adds to the bard’s appearance.

“Ooof, maybe we should get you some black eye powder to add to your pack,” Tavia comments, clearly noticing the same thing I am.

Frost nods. “You should, bard. It just adds a bit of oomph to your overall aesthetic.”

Lawton laughs, leaning against my arm. “It does suit you.”

Armus smiles at us, but the smile fades when he looks around. His eyes narrow in confusion and then widen in disbelief. “Fuck a maelysou. Is this what you’re investigating? This darkness?”

Lawton’s happiness gives way to a grim expression. “It’s covering the whole of Fasgard, I think. We need to find the source and stop it.”

“You think it’s gone down as far as Chilghen?” Armus questions as his eyes wander around full of disbelief.

“Can I also see?” Inghram asks curiously.

Lawton swipes Inghram’s eyes with the sludge as he replies to Armus’ question. “I think we need to descend if we’re going to find out.”

I’m not a fan of delving into the depths of thyr. Chilghen is the deepest anyone goes, and most people have the sense to stay away from the viltz, who occupy most of Chilghen. The dwarves live that far down, but they occupy the spaces where the magma flows; the viltz prefer the icy parts.

“Benilon’s blessing,” Inghram gawks, looking around the entire area. “This is dark magic indeed, but there’s something not right about it. Something…I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I feel that too. It looks like dark magic, right, but it doesn’t feel as heavy as dark magic. I think that’s probably how I didn’t notice it seeping in; it’s lighter than the usual weight of evil,” Lawton agrees, pulling a cloth out of his bag and wiping the magical sludge from his eyes.

Inghram nods as Lawton hands the cloth to Armus. The paladin pulls out his own cloth from between his undercoat and his armor, but before he can use it to wipe his eyes, a black streak flies by, grabbing the cloth and quickly disappearing beyond the boundary of the mage light. Inghram’s shoulders droop as he stares after the bat that stole his handkerchief. “My niece made that for me,” he complains, taking the cloth that Armus offers him and wiping his eyes.

“You want me to hunt it down?” Tavia offers, pulling her bow forward.

Inghram shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. This bullshit happens all the time. I’ll make my father find it for me later. He’s a sucker for his niece, and she’s going to be heartbroken when she finds out one of his minions stole it out of my—”

He’s cut off by the screech of a bat that swoops in and drops the handkerchief on his head. “Oh good,” he sighs relieved, stuffing the cloth back into his hiding place and giving us all a pleased smile. “I guess my father was paying attention.”

I don’t think any of us know what to do with that. I’m not sure how I feel about having one of our party members being stalked by a maelysou, but that's definitely not something I’m experienced with, so I encourage Lawton to start packing up his stove and accoutrements into his not-a-smuggler’s bag with a gentle push.

“General Aleron is definitely going to confiscate that bag,” Frost chortles softly as we watch our prince.

Lawton smiles up at her. “It’s a good thing I have a couple, then.” He stands up with his packed backpack and slings it over his shoulders, turning toward the south east mountains. “We can’t follow the trail of the viltz with the wagon.”

“Distribute the supplies among the six of us and send it back to Fairview,” Frost suggests as we head back toward the road.

I nod in agreement. “I don’t mind using my feet. I’m not as fast as a horse at a gallop, but I can keep up.”

Lawton frowns up at me, which makes me want to kiss him, but I resist because it doesn’t feel like the right time. “Do you know of any breeders in Fasgard that sell steeds large enough to carry you?”

“The horses most suitable for orcs are bred by my people in Omgranokk. I haven’t seen any of the right breed in Fasgard. The orcs wandering this kingdom do it on foot like me.” There’s only a handful of tribes that even ride horses, and mine isn’t one of them. I can ride, but I prefer keeping my feet on the ground. It’s easier to drink my mead that way. Although I do admit a horse could carry more mead than I can…

Maybe I should consider buying a pack mule. It would possibly free up one of my hands.

I look at the tap that I literally only have to turn my head to partake from and immediately dismiss the idea of a mule. I’ll carry my barrel on my shoulder just like my father did, and his father before him, and his father before him, et cetera into the ancient past when mead was discovered by orcs in the lands of the xenecar. Humans might have stupid prejudices against species, but orcs recognize a good thing when we come across it, and mead is the best thing thanks to Armus’ ancestors.

Lawton gives me a frustrated look but surrenders to the practicality of letting me walk instead of pulling a wagon. It’s adorable how miffed he is by it, so I set my barrel down and pick him up, letting him stand atop it so I can kiss him. He swoons into me, assuring me that now is the right time. He clings to me as he lets me lick into his mouth and get another delightful taste of him. He hums happily as I pull away, keeping his eyes closed to savor the experience before slowly opening his glowing purple orbs.

Smiling mischievously, he executes a perfect ballet leap off the barrel and onto the road. “Fabulous idea, Berklak. I know just what to do!”

four

lawton

Berklak’s cute confusion makes my smile grow as I turn to the wagon and gesture for everyone’s attention. His kiss sparked a fabulous idea. “We don’t have to over burden ourselves with the supplies in the wagon. I can move it into the veil of the aethyr where I store my aelysson chest. Darian, if you don’t mind, please send the horses back to Fairview, I’m sure the soldiers on the road will be able to escort them back. Does anyone want to look through the wagon supplies so we know exactly what is in there?”

Frost immediately jogs to the back of the wagon and returns with a small strip of parchment. “We got a list of supplies here. Mostly rations and water, but there’s some essentials: three lengths of rope, six tinderbox, twelve torches, a mess kit, six bedrolls, three hatchets, twelve traps, three crossbows with sixty bolts supplied, and three quivers.”

Impressed by Aleron’s generosity, I clap. “Perfect. I’ll move the wagon into the veil, and then next time we camp for the night, I’ll move it back so we can refill our waterskins and make supper.”

Darian steps up to the team of horses and starts whispering as he unhitches and decouples them. While he’s doing that, I give them an extra bit of life magic, something to refresh them for the walk back home, then dive into my bag for sugar cubes to distribute among the team. They take my offering with happy snorts, nuzzle Darian’s hair to bid him farewell, then the biggest mare leads her team back up the road toward Fairview at a steady pace.

As soon as those horses are out of the way, I pull out a jar of black paint and a boar hair paintbrush. “This is going to take me a few minutes to get done, but at least I only have to do it once. Berklak, do you mind watering Sweetie while I’m painting? There’s a well on the farm everyone can use.”

Armus groans slightly and looks back at the farm. “Can we bury them or burn them? Do we have to wait on the families?”

Berklak grunts. “We can ask the soldiers up the road if the families have been notified. Unless there’s a specific request, the bodies will be buried in the farm’s graveyard.”

Tavia elbows Armus. “If you go talk to the soldiers, I’ll water your horse with mine.”

Armus practically gives her his heart right then and there. “Thank you, love,” he exclaims dramatically, pressing her hand to his chest. “You are my hero today.”

She giggles in her high pitched voice and points back up the road. “Get on with you,” she laughs, taking back her hand.

Armus sweeps low in a bow to her and somehow gets his banjo tangled up on the hilt of the short sword on her hip. When he jerks up, it catches and he tumbles to his knees, face planting in her crotch in the same position he was in when I first met him. Tavia shakes her head, snaps the string on his banjo, and pushes him away, helping him back to his knees.

He grimaces sheepishly. “Apologies,” he mutters quickly and runs off.

Frost rolls her eyes behind Tavia’s back, following Armus with her suspicious eyes, and I grin, wondering if there’s more to those two women’s friendship or if Frost just wishes there was. Neither scenario would surprise me, but I admit that my romantic little heart hopes that I get to watch a new romance blossom on this adventure. Yes, of course I’m on a serious adventure to save the entire kingdom and maybe even the world, but what’s the point if love can’t blossom, if the joys in life aren’t sustained along the way? There’s literally no reason to bother if I’m not going to protect and nurture the best things in life in my own little sphere of influence.

Berklak cups my ass in his massive hand as I dip my brush into the paint, and he leans down to press a kiss to my crazy hair. “I don’t like leaving you alone, but I will take your horse to the well because you asked. I’m leaving Frost with you, though. Scream if you need me.”

I smile up at my wonderful companion, thanking my luck that we happened upon each other. “If I’m screaming, I hope you run away. Anything that can make me do that isn’t something I want you facing.”

Berklak chuckles, straightening to his full height and winking at me. “I’m hoping to be the only reason you scream on this adventure.”

I giggle as his words make me wiggle my butt happily. “I support this goal.”

Berklak taps my butt twice and moves away. I listen to his conversation with the others as I summon a small mage light to hover where I’m working. I start painting the array on the wagon that will allow me to banish it to the veil of the aethyr and summon it without having to draw a new array every time. This is the least expensive way to travel with it, magically speaking. It’s not my preferred method, but I can’t banish living animals to the aethyr without summoning back dead animals; hence sending the horses back to Fairview. If I could’ve kept the team, I would have. Berklak doesn’t deserve to have to walk while the rest of us ride.

I know, it’s a little redundant to have both a banished chest and a smuggler’s bag, but the smuggler’s bag is limited by the size of the opening, whereas the chest is one of those six foot long wall trunks that stands nearly three feet tall. As a shorter than average man, digging in it is a challenge, but I do like that I can fit an entire suit of armor in it plus some very cushy pillows.

I work drawing the array all around the wagon, making sure that no part of it will be left behind when I banish it. It’s a little tricky with the wheels, but I manage to convince the array that they are part of the wagon even though they are independently moving parts, and when I’m done, I speak the spell I made up for this particular banish-summon array. The wagon immediately fades beyond the veil, and I let out a relieved sigh.

I banish the mage light as I blink away the focus I put into my work and discover that the rest of my party have finished what they were doing and already set up camp for us. I’m surprisingly hungry, and I note the moon has moved along far enough that we’re in the wee small hours after midnight, and the odor that afflicted the area since we arrived has all but vanished.

“It doesn’t stink?” I ask as Berklak hands me a roll of dense bread with plenty of vegetables sandwiched in it. “Thank you.”

Berklak points to Darian and Armus with his chin. The party is sitting on their bedrolls around a small campfire drinking from travel cups and passing a pitcher between them. “Those two managed to bury the dead while you were working. It turns out nearly all the farm workers were from the same family, and the rest don’t have family. Armus moved the bodies to the graveyard, and Darian asked the earth to accept them into itself.”

Armus shrugs with a proud little smile. “I learned the mage hand spell ages ago, and I fucking love that little snapspell. Useful for moving bodies, and not just the dead ones,” he says, wagging his eyebrows up and down.

“You call it a snapspell! Does that mean you learned magic in Crouwisal?” I ask excitedly, then take a huge bite of my sandwich to keep myself from asking too many questions all at once.

Snapspells are the easy spells that magic users can learn and do with a snap, rather than the words and rituals that most magic requires. Mage hand and mage light are both easy enough snapspells to learn, though in Fasgard they’re called a magic user’s buff. Personally I prefer the term snapspell, but that’s just because it’s exotic to me.

“I started out there, but I finished my training in Fairview at Bards College. I spent my youth learning all my snapspells in Crouwisal, but I got into a bit of a pickle there and ended up in Fasgard as a refugee,” Armus explains, and I grimace at his way of describing the human-xenecar wars that happened a hundred and twenty years ago in Crouwisal.

“I’m sorry you went through that,” I say, and my sentiments are echoed by everyone except Darian, who merely touches Armus’ elbow for a brief moment instead of speaking.

Armus rolls his golden eyes and blows out a huffy breath, swinging his tail from side to side to disperse the emotional outpouring around him. His tail snags on his banjo, which pulls him off balance, but Darian catches him and rights him, and he gets his tail disentangled with a little bashful smile on his mahogany lips. “Don’t feel sorry for me still. Crouwisal has more than made up for the evil acts of the previous senate. Anyway, don’t let the experience of my youth bring the party down. Shall I sing us a little tune before we bed down?”

In unspoken agreement, our little party decides to honor his desire to curtail our compassion, and Tavia lightly punches his arm. “Let’s hear an original Armus song, and it better be inspiring for good dreams.”

Armus shoots her a grin. “Shall I sing us the song I wrote to the orc that accompanied me from Crouwisal to Fasgard?”

“As long as his name was not Cerklak, Derklak, or Ferklak, I don’t oppose,” Berklak says, handing me a cup of what smells suspiciously like watered down mead.

I wash my sandwich down and me and my magic both decide the best seat for me is in Berklak’s lap. I have to pull it back from seeking him out again, but getting to suck his heat directly from his body is worth the small struggle. My magic really likes him, and I’m sleepy enough that it’s trying to take advantage of my lowered guard. I’m not going to let it get me in that kind of trouble though. Anchor bonds are only for legal sorcery. Necromancers don’t get those, even if they would be useful. I don’t particularly need one anyway since anchors are generally useful for two things: grounding a magic user’s magic to make it easier to control, and combining energy with the magic user to give them a boost in their magical power. I’m already at demigod levels of magic—I don’t need an anchor to add to my power—but I can’t say it wouldn’t be nice to have the grounding. I have amazing control, but sometimes, especially when I get very emotional, my magic can get a little feral.

It doesn’t matter though. Right now what matters is who Cerklak, Derklak, and Ferklak are.

Frost asks the question we’re all thinking. “Younger brothers?”

Berklak grunts. “My parents desire above all else is to have a son for every letter in the common alphabet.”

I snuggle into his broad chest. “So the next one is Gerklak?”

Berklak nuzzles the top of my head groaning. “Fuck. I forgot about the next one. He’s likely been born already.”

Armus chuckles as he starts plucking on two of the three strings on his banjo. Two more strings hang off the instrument, broken and limp. He sighs at his instrument and with a snap, the two broken strings mend themselves. He smirks at us. “No –erklaks in my songs, although I think I have met your father. Erklak, right?”

Berklak grumbles softly. “Yeah, that’s the orc that fathered me.”

Armus’ grin widens. “I can’t promise I don’t have a song dedicated to him, but I can promise I won’t sing it unless I’m annoyed with you.”

Berklak groans, hugging me tightly. “I have heard three songs dedicated to my father since I left his campfire. I cannot be shocked. I don’t want to hear more, but considering his shame, sometimes I’m glad to be reminded that he has honored our ancestors.”

“His shame?” Tavia questions with a gleam of glee in her sleepy eyes. She yawns, leaning against Frost, who wraps her arm around her.

“He married a female Qilatone from High Eminitis,” I reply, yawning too. “Sing for us, Armus, before we get too sidetracked.”

Armus plucks on his banjo a few more times, rocking his upper body as he gets into his rhythm. Berklak holds me safe in his arms, unquestionably here with me, willing and enthusiastic, and as Armus sings about the cock and cumstains that taught him the joy and pleasure of shared orgasms with an orc named Muforik, I send a silent prayer into the aethyr just in case a god had a hand in bringing my half-orc to me.

I don’t have a patron, but I’m not going to dismiss the possibility that one wants to contract with me and I haven’t been paying enough attention to figure it out. If Berklak is a gift, clearly the sender knows me well enough to earn my attention. Either way, sitting in his lap surrounded by his arms is a happy place I never knew existed until this moment. I might not be willing to give it up after this adventure is over, but that’s not something to think about yet.

Instead of focusing on the unknowable, I tilt my head up and kiss the smooth skin on the underside of his jawline, sighing happily.

five

berklak

The sun wakes the party up after an extremely late night. Inghram stirs the fire while the rest of us pack up our supplies and Armus prepares a cold pot with oats, spices, and water. This is why I hired him—without him I'd be eating dried meat and hard bread for breakfast. He holds a key to The Kitchen, and anyone with a key to that guild is an automatic hire for me. They put potential candidates through a vigorous competition before allowing the winner entry into the guild. I attend competitions as often as possible because the food is delicious and well worth the entry fee.

Lawton looks adorably rumpled this morning, but a small smile lingers on his lips, which I give the credit to his first time being snuggled up with an orc all night for that morning happiness. Waking up with me is supposed to be a pleasure and set the tone for the day—

Speaking of which…

I gently touch his elbow, pulling his attention up to me. He eyes me curiously and I subtly knock my head toward the farm. “Let's go see if there’s anything we can loot.”

Lawton’s brow furrows in surprise and a happy smile spreads his mouth wide. “Yes.”

I take his hand, announcing to the others, “Law and I are going to go loot the place. Everything we find will be put in the party pool so everyone gets an equal share.”

“We probably shouldn’t split the party,” Tavia points out, but I quickly wave her off.

“This isn’t splitting the party, this is me finding a moment of privacy with my companion.” Orcs need sex almost as much as they need mead, and I’m not going to let anyone cockblock me this morning like they did last night, insisting that we all sleep around the same fire.

Lawton giggles, leading me away with a spring in his step. “Save us some breakfast!”

“Why am I jealous?” Inghram grumbles behind us as we leave them behind.

I lean forward, following Lawton’s perky little ass toward the farmhouse. “Because I’m the only one fucking the cutest necromancer in all of thyr on this adventure and the rest of them know they’re missing out,” I murmur to him, squeezing his hand.

He giggles again. “I’m so excited! Are you really going to fuck me this morning? We have to ride all day, not that I’m worried. I can just use a restoration spell, obviously, but I was thinking it might take more time than we have, especially if we loot the place. I’ve never looted before! I think I’m about as excited about that as I am about the fucking. I hope that’s not offensive.”

“How can I be offended? If you still think looting is as exciting as sex after I really take you apart, then I might question my skills, but today you have no idea what orc cock is like, so I can be excited with you. Besides, looting is really fun. You never know what you’re going to get, and the anticipation is just as fun as the anticipation of sex.” I completely understand why he would compare the two.

“Question: how do orcs become such good lovers? Everyone knows that all orcs are worth bedding, but I don’t think anyone has ever explained how you all become such good lovers,” he asks curiously as we step up onto the porch of the farmhouse.

He swings his backpack forward and digs in it until he pulls out one of the zombie raskar we caught. It looks surprisingly whole, like a living raskar. We try the door, but it’s locked, so I pull out my lockpicking tools and take a knee as I explain, and he sets his raskar on the porch. “This isn’t exactly a secret, but orcs don’t advertise this either, so I would appreciate your discretion.”

“Certainly. I don’t have many friends and I don’t think any of them want to talk sex with me,” he promises with ease.

I smirk up at him as I quickly get the door unlocked (having trained with the Feud of Assassins, this lock stood no chance against my skills). Lawton shoos his raskar into the door but looks up at me expectantly instead of entering the building.

“We practice with other orcs; usually our fathers will find a friend to teach us. Our mentors teach us everything they know about sex, but there’s also the magic of the trees that lives within us all. We don’t have any active magic like you, but we do have tree magic, and trees connect to each other. Orcs connect with our lovers in the heat of the moment. It’s magical and a little psychic, but we can’t orgasm unless our lovers do. Training with other orcs is an act of pleasure and torture for both orcs, and it focuses us. We can’t orgasm with each other, but we learn to enjoy the pleasures of sex without the element of the end goal that most other species have. We can’t orgasm without a lover who can, but we can connect to each other and the learning is fun. After a few months to a year of orc-to-orc training, our mentors will bring in their lover to finish our training, or if they aren’t in a bonded relationship, they will go out to find a willing lover. Of course, orc sons can choose not to participate, but I’ve only known one orc of my generation to decline training, and she became a paladin of Myses.”

“The goddess of the chaste took on a contract with an orc?” Lawton looks both surprised and impressed.

“Hephob was only six when she announced at the clan tournament that she was a girl orc and that she was going to become a paladin to any god who would take a girl orc. Her father immediately took her to the temple citadel in Omgranokk—you know orcs have a temple to every god that exists in all the lands of the thyr, right?”

“I had heard that,” he nods, opening the door into the farmhouse wider and letting me step in first; I suppose the raskar reported back that the farmhouse was empty.

“Well, Bohpeh started petitioning the gods for his daughter that very month. He got many rejections, but many more gods accepted her. Some of them were just intrigued by the idea of a female orc, since we don’t usually have daughters, but Myses told him the same thing she tells all potential paladins: if Hephob matured and came to her as a virgin, she would accept her as she would accept any virgin woman who came in for a contract. She didn’t treat her like she was unworthy of her service because she was born an orc, but she also didn’t treat her like being born an orc made her a curiosity or more special than any other girl on thyr. Hephob chose to contract with Myses, and when she did, the entire clan celebrated her contract just like we would any of our sons who accomplish something for themselves worth celebrating.”

“The paladins of Myses are intense,” Lawton comments, wide eyed. “I bet she fit right in with that order.”

I nod in agreement. “Hephob found the right place for herself.”

Lawton points around the great room of the farmhouse. “Anywhere in particular you want me?”

I walk over to the long dining table and set my bag on it, digging through to find the travel kit for orc companions. I set everything out and twist the lid off the jar of oil while I’m at it. “I want to take my time with you, but even if we only have a quick fuck, you’ll enjoy yourself. I was planning to stretch you out and suck you dry, but if you want my cock, I’m excited for that too.”

Lawton understandably looks torn between the two options. “I want both,” he sighs, fiddling with his traveling trousers.

He waves his hand between us and magic cleans us up as if we just bathed. Delighted by his foresight, I pull him in close and pick him up. He wraps his legs and arms around me, staring into my eyes.

“You’re so pretty; I love looking at you.” Compliments are very important when pulling the clothes off a lover; they have to feel safe with you before they can enjoy the pleasure you have to offer.

Lawton blushes, coming in close and pressing his lips to mine with a soft moan. “How about both?” he whispers against my lips.

The best part of adventuring is setting your own working hours. We might have to apologize to the party later for taking so long, but that’s no burden to me.

I lick into Lawton’s mouth, drawing him into a titillating kiss that sets the tree magic off. Almost immediately the timber tremble in my chest starts up like a soft purr, vibrating between us. Even though I trembled for him at the palace, I’m still surprised to find myself doing it again. The connection between us is strong. Our shared arousal builds to the point that we need fewer clothes and more oil, so I tip him onto the table top, releasing him when his shoulders meet the smooth wooden surface.

I grab the strings on his trousers and pull the tie loose, shifting them down his hips and off his body with his boots, then I release the belt on my skirt and loosen my own ties. Pulling my cock out, I remove his little clothes and shift his legs to a comfortable position, leaning over to lick into his mouth again as I unstopper the small vial of relaxant to help ease the way for Law’s first time on a cock. I pull back, showing him the vibrant green liquid in the tiny glass.

“Open your mouth,” I instruct softly.

Lawton immediately drops his jaw and sticks his tongue out a bit. I pour just a few drops onto his tongue and restopper the vial as he swallows. Almost immediately, his body loosens under me, magically relaxing. If he needed to move quickly, the magic wouldn’t interfere with that, but as long as he’s aroused, it helps keep him relaxed and happy. An orc developed this potion with the help of his lover five thousand years ago, and the recipe has never needed a single improvement since then.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Lawton sighs with a laconic smile.

I dip my fingers into the jar of oil and hold them in front of him. “May I?”

Lawton nods. “Please do.”

I take his mouth again, rubbing my oiled fingers over his fresh, sweet hole. I scrape my tusks on his fair skin, leaving stripes of red on him as I work my way down to his hard little cock and massage the muscles around his hole to take them from relaxed to open. As I reach his groin, I press two fingers into his body, licking over his pretty, leaking head. He tastes divine, of course, and the breach of his entrance leaves us both panting and breathless.

Lawton moans softly, reaching down to grab my free hand and entangle our fingers. His grip on my hand is the perfect mix of sweet and needy, and he cries out with a surprised “Fuck!” as I graze that spot inside him that exists to give men their pleasure.

Orcs call it the Gate to Aethyr, though every culture has a different word for it. Fasgardians call it the Veil of Men. My favorite is what the elves call it: the Way to War and the Path to Peace. Men have started and ended wars because of the gate, and as I rub against it, Lawton whispers praise and curses to the veil in the tongue of his ancestors.

I close my lips around his cock and he bucks his hips into my mouth. He wails as I pull out and then push in three fingers, twisting them in half circles back and forth until he relaxes completely and his body tells me it’s time to replace my hand with my cock. I pull off his cock and dip my fingers into the jar again, rubbing a fresh layer of oil over my shaft. I spread his legs wider with my free hand as I notch my crown against his entrance. I smile as I lean over him and squeeze his fingers with my other hand. “Alright?”

He nods, breathing heavily. “Get in me, please.”

“As you command,” I laugh, pushing into his warm body. The volume of my timber tremble increases, sending vibrations down my shaft.

Lawton gasps, clutching my hip as my pelvis meets his ass. “Fucking fuck! Oh gods. You’re vibrating like a cicada!” he yells, releasing my hand to grab my shirt, then my arm, sent into a scramble by the pleasure of my tremble.

His hand tracks all over me as I push his knees up a bit to hold him in place. I lick his open mouth. “The timber tremble is special,” I tell him as I set a slow, steady pace designed to maximize the experience of my tremble’s vibrations.

His body contracts all at once, tensing as I slide in and out of his perfect little channel, and the surge of arousal that flows between us tells me my little necromancer is close. I palm his cock, jerking it a few times before he cries out, nearly screaming into my mouth as I kiss him again and our orgasm strikes, hard and fast, full of the shock of the newness of the experience. It feels like the first time again, beautiful and hard, shocking and addicting at the same time.

Lawton shoots off in my hand as I fill his insides with my own cream. He whimpers when my touch becomes too much for his sensitive skin. I release my hold on him, cleaning up my hand with a few quick licks before I gather him into a tight hug. He jerks with aftershocks that cause my dick to twitch inside him as we both come down from the high of such a perfect orgasm.

“We’re doing that every day,” he groans as he catches his breath.

I grin, nuzzling his neck carefully. “With joy,” I agree, pleased to have given him so much pleasure for his first time.

“So much coitus,” he giggles, a little sex drunk and completely adorable.

I pull back just enough to kiss him again as I pull my cock out of his ass. He moans a complaint at the loss, but I grab the healing potion on the table next to the jar of oil. “This will help. It’s specifically designed for combating the soreness that comes from having sex with an orc.”

Lawton stares at me affectionately, eyes glowing a little brighter for a moment. “I’m a necromancer; life and death are both my domain. I can self heal better than any other kind of magic user. If I have access to my magic, there’s no wound, injury, or soreness I can’t heal on myself or others.”

I set the potion aside and straighten up, helping Lawton stand with me. “How convenient,” I chuckle softly, picking up his little clothes and helping to tie them in place, then I kneel with his trousers so he can step into them again. I pull his trousers up, and while he ties them back on and steps into his boots, I put my own dick away and get my clothes sorted.

When we’re set to rights, Lawton pulls me down for one more kiss before looking around the house. “Shall we loot this place? What do we take when we’re looting?”

Before I can respond, his little raskar shows up, mewling at him noisily. Lawton reaches down and picks the zombie creature up, staring at him for a moment before brightening. “Oh you poor thing. I made you a little too real, didn’t I?”

He sets the raskar on the table and reaches into nothingness. His hand disappears, and when it reappears, there’s a jar of ear worms in his hand, wriggling about. He pops open the jar and takes one out, closing it up as he looks up at me. “Go on,” he encourages me, feeding the earworm to the little raskar, who eats it down noisily. “What are we supposed to take?”

“Preferably small things of value, but if you find anything that looks mysterious, we should probably keep that. Letters often have clues to where treasure is buried or stored. Keep love letters too—they have value to the recipient or sender, although a lot of the time you’re going to find a dead body at the end of a love letter mystery. It’s tragic, and honestly you would think that people would stop writing love letters because it usually starts a series of events that end in the death of one or both lovers.”

Lawton stares at me agog. “Seriously?”

I nod sadly. “Yeah. The treasures that lovers send each other sell for a good price. Sometimes you find the treasure and letter on a body, and when that happens, you just store it for later, because eventually you’ll find that person’s lover and they’ll usually give you a decent reward for the return of the treasure. I once spent a full year chasing love letter mysteries. I made out like a bandit, and it was heartbreaking sometimes, but I felt better knowing that I was helping people find closure.”

“I wonder if there’s a curse on love letters or if one of the maelysou is cursing people who write them?” Lawton hums thoughtfully.

“Probably,” I shrug. “You could petition the temple citadel in Omgranokk for the history of love letters. The trees will know if one of the maelysou is cursing love letter writers.”

Lawton’s countenance brightens excitedly. “Good idea! Thank you. Ok, so anything mysterious, anything small of value, and letters. Got it. Anything else?”

“Sometimes I take the silverware if I have enough room for it. It sells better when you melt it down, but you can always take it to a minter who will pay you better than most merchants.” Minters will turn a nice set of silver into coins. Their profit comes from paying the people who bring them valuable metals less than the number of coins they can make from what they buy. It’s my preference for selling gold, silver, and copper items.

Lawton hums thoughtfully. “We have a full wagon that we will be taking things out of; we can put all the precious metals we find in it. We don’t really have to worry about carrying weight that way.”

I grin, delighted by this news. “We’re going to be so rich when we finish this quest.”

Lawton returns my smile. “I’ve never had a source of wealth of my own. I’ve relied on the palace coffers my entire life. This is exciting.”

I lean down and kiss him again because he’s terribly cute and it’s fun to do this with a novice adventurer. It’s easy to forget how fun adventuring can be when every other quest leads to some kind of bad guy trying to destroy the world. “I’m going to remember to not let the evil in the world jade me to how fun the journeys are.”

Lawton’s eyes soften and he gives me an extra kiss. “Good.”

I’m so glad I chose him for this adventure.

six

lawton

I must be cursed in perception or investigation or whatever today, because I went through the upper bedrooms and found only a couple of coins on the dressers, but when Berklak comes out of the same rooms, he has a pillowcase full of loot, and he found five love letters by three different people all addressed to the same woman. Berklak explains that he thinks she was running a dangerous scam where she would write love letters and wait for the recipients to die so she could go collect the loot.

Well, now she’s dead, and we get to go collect what’s left if we have time for it on the way back from saving the world. I think she took her life in her own hands if she was deliberately writing love letters and waiting for her lovers to die.

After the farmhouse, we loot the barn, and I find a handful of crowns in a sack of grain! I’m pretty proud of myself for that. Berklak adds the coins to our stash and uncovers a small chest full of silverware and a silver tea service.

“I bet you anything the person writing the love letters is responsible for this loot chest,” he tells me with a sexy chortle.

I laugh. “No bet unless the bet is for sex, then I definitely will take it because then even when I lose, I win.”

“The bet is always two coppers, but you can buy about two minutes of a prostitute's time with that, so we could change it to two minutes of whatever the other person asks for,” he replies thoughtfully.

“That works between us, but with the rest of the party it will have to be two coppers, because I’m not sharing you with them,” I decide, feeling a bit more possessive than most humans would. “That’s strange isn’t it? I didn’t expect I’d be a possessive companion.”

Berklak pulls me in close, one hand holding his loot, the other squeezing my ass. “It’s ok to be possessive of me; I’m certainly possessive of you.”

I can’t help but sigh; it’s nice to feel so very wanted after a lifetime of being the rejected prince. “Please keep showing me I’m yours; I’ve never had that kind of relationship with anyone.”

Berklak’s eyes soften with empathy, and he bumps my nose with his. “I won’t stop unless you tell me to,” he swears softly, and the promise fills me with bubbles.

“We’re coming in!” Armus’ voice yells from outside the barn.

Berklak chortles. “I’m surprised it’s taken them this long.”

We turn as the others come in through the open barn doors. “We were just looting!” I explain, pointing to the bag in Berklak’s grasp.

“We’ve gotten about thirty crowns worth of loot so far, plus several love letters that might turn out for us,” Berklak says, shaking the bag.

Armus claps his hands and rubs them together. “Perfect. I love a lucrative adventure. We looted the bodies last night, so we can add that to the bag, and we took care of the outer buildings and found a few things, including an enchanted pebble.”

Frost holds up a small rock between her fingers and drops it into Lawton’s palm when he makes gimme hands for it. “None of us could tell what it is.”

I’m surprised Darian wasn’t able to suss it out, but I guess druids aren’t all knowing.

Lawton whispers under his breath as he peers at the pebble and then squeaks excitedly. “It’s a goldenrod! Look!” He moves the pebble toward the loot bag and it starts glowing brighter. “It glows in the presence of gold. The brighter the glow, the more gold. The dwarves use these in their mines all the time.”

Frost slaps her face and Armus groans, flushing with embarrassment.

“Fuck a maelysou. I should have recognized it right away!” Armus bemoans.

Frost nods. “Me too. I’ve fucking used goldenrods.”

Tavia pats her friend’s shoulder. “It’s out of context, so there’s no reason that you should have recognized it immediately.”

Frost snorts. “Nah. I’m just blind today.” She gives me and Berklak a flat look. “I didn’t find anything while we were looting.”

I reach out and take her hand in solidarity. “It was my first time, and Berklak kept going through things behind me and finding so much stuff I didn’t see.”

I’m extremely pleased when Frost doesn’t flinch from my touch, and in fact, she squeezes my hand back. Maybe I should see if I can hire her for my close guard when we get back to the palace. Just to push, I reach out to Tavia, and she also takes my hand without flinching.

“That’s fine for a novice adventurer,” Tavia assures me, then side eyes Frost. “She doesn’t have the same excuse.”

Frost narrows her eyes at Tavia. “You just said it was reasonable for me to not recognize a goldenrod, and now you’re implying that I should have done better looting than I did.”

“Well, there is a difference between finding the loot and recognizing what it is,” Tavia teases with a smirk.

“I’ll show you how I find loot,” Frost threatens with a husky growl, releasing my hand to grab Tavia.

Tavia skips away from us with a laugh, and her friend chases her as Armus and Inghram take their places at my side. “They’re definitely together,” Inghram decides, watching the girls flirt.

Armus nods in sage agreement. “Of course. They have matching matrimonial tattoos on their necks.”

Inghram and I look at the bard curiously. “I didn’t see any tattoos,” I say, looking back to see if I can spot what he has.

“Oh, I only saw them when I had your magic seeing gloop on my eyes,” Armus explains.

“I was looking at you,” I admit. “Because you’re pretty.”

“Me too.” Inghram shrugs, heavy armor clanking softly as his cherubic cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink. “For the same reason.”

Armus smirks, winking at Inghram. “I was looking at all of you and basking in the compliments.”

Berklak chuckles, rubbing his belly. “That is the best way of basking, unless there is mead involved, and then any basking is made better with mead. Speaking of which, is there breakfast for us?”

Armus throws his thumb over his shoulder toward our campsite. “Waiting in bowls by the coals.”

“Thank you,” Berklak tells him, taking my hand and leading me out of the barn toward our campsite.

“I wonder why they’re hiding their marriage status,” I ponder as we walk toward camp.

Berklak shrugs, pulling my hand up to his mouth and giving me an affectionate lick. “People hide that all the time. With them it might be as simple as the fact that they look like sisters.”

“I suppose,” I murmur, and let it drop; it’s none of my business, and if they want to tell me later, I’ll be more than happy to have my curiosity slaked.

* * *

After breakfast, we pack everything away and hop on our horses. Darian has to help Armus with his (the poor bard gets tangled in his reins again), and then as a group we start following the trail the viltz left in their wake heading south toward the Smos Mountains. While they didn’t take the road, their trail follows the road south toward Gladfield. Most of the land south of the farm house is fields, and it occurs to me as we’re passing the third one that we need to replace the family of farmers as quickly as possible, so I touch my earring, activating it so that Aleron can hear me.

“Non-emergent, but urgent.” That is how I tell him that what I need to say can wait.

Berklak walks beside my horse, sipping at the mead barrel on his shoulder. He closes the tap with a content smile, and I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with such a simple sort of happiness. “I should have asked already, but did your charge get settled in at Bards College?”

Berklak swipes his mouth on the back of his hand before answering. “Yes. Oliver is now Oliver Sunglider, and he settled in without problem. He’s a snarky little ass sometimes, but I think that will serve him well in the future. People will like him and welcome him because he seems so unapproachable. He’ll be the man to conquer rather than the one who conquers, if that makes sense.”

“Certainly.” It makes perfect sense to me. Some men are unreachable and therefore desirable, and some are desirable because they make the person they pursue feel like they are the unattainable one.

“Prince Lawton, I’m with his majesty,” Aleron interrupts.

“Aleron,” I greet him so that Berklak knows I’ve switched conversation partners. “Please give my father my greetings.”

“Your majesty, the high sorcerer greets you,” Aleron immediately says, then after a pause adds to me. “His majesty would like a report.”

Of course. “We are heading south toward the Smos Mountains, but we need workers in the fields as soon as possible. Someone experienced with farming would be good. It’s a large farm.”

“I will make sure the alderman knows,” Aleron promises. “What did you find at the farm?”

“More of the same dark magic covering everything. It was viltzen that attacked, according to a witness. We’re tracking them now. I will report when we find out where they went to ground.”

“And the people I sent with you?”

“Wonderful,” I assure him. “The best choices for certain.”

“Good then. Report back later, and be careful, your highness,” he says with a kindness in his voice that I enjoy hearing from him. I would have liked it better if he was alone and could call me by name, but even his formal address sounds friendly most of the time, so I count it as a win. Plus it’s good for my father to see that not everyone treats me like an anathema.

“I will be, I swear.”

With that I touch the magic to disengage and return my attention to Berklak. “He’s a very caring warden,” I explain, bubbling with delight. It’s always nice to be reminded that someone cares for you.

Berklak shoots me a toothy smile. “I did pick up on that. I wondered for a moment if it was his job he excelled at or if he genuinely likes you, but it became clear that he considers you a friend.”

“I don’t have many, but I count Aleron and Hildred, and possibly Kyln, among the few people I would trust with my safety.” I run my fingers over the top of Berklak’s dark hair. “And you, of course.”

“And me,” Tavia chimes in with her high voice. “I swear you’re safe with me and Frost. We’re not like the rest of those fuckers who’re scared of your magic. Frost grew up with dwarves, you know. She’s not prejudiced against necromancy.”

“I ostensibly distrust all magic,” Frost points out with a wicked grin and mischief in her amber eyes. “Because clearly all magic is dangerous, and if my parents ask you, I was forced by honor to join this party because it would bring shame to my family if Tavia defeated me in anything at all including her connection to the prince of Fasgard.” She rolls her eyes and shoots Tavia a wink.

“You are obviously an honorable dwarven daughter,” Berklak responds, laughing under his breath.

“I am committed to this adventure and the safety of our prince,” Inghram announces, pulling our attention to the paladin taking up the rear of the party with Armus. Darian is at the lead, naturally taking point because he’s the best tracker of us all. Frost and Tavia are on either side of me and Berklak, ahead and behind by a few steps each.

“Thank you, though I wonder why you volunteered,” I mention curiously.

Inghram has moments of seriousness, and then they are brushed aside by what is such an adorable smile that it’s a wonder he isn’t harassed everywhere he goes. He turns a pretty shade of pink and smiles a bit shyly. “Well, you know I’m a Sepferaline. I’m contracted with Benilon, and I’m working out my redemption for being born the son of a maelysou. Obviously I don’t think I’m evil at the heart of me due to the circumstances of my birth, but sometimes I struggle with making the right choices. Benilon is teaching me to make the right choices and that when I don’t, not all hope is lost. And he was very specific about accompanying you. There’s something going on that requires his paladin, and I gladly obey. Your necromancy has no bearing on my commitment to this quest. I’m the son of Sepferel; I don’t think I have any room to judge you about your magic.”

“I honestly didn’t think that six people existed that wouldn’t be afraid of my magic,” I tell them. “I was under the impression that most people in Fasgard would flinch from me.”

“I don’t think the palace is a good representation of the attitudes of Fasgard citizens toward necromancy,” Armus interjects. “I personally don’t know any people who even talk about you; you’re a non-entity for most people. The high sorcerer of Fasgard protects the land from magic and invents magical items, and that has no bearing on the lives of the peasantry.”

“You saw how the two different generations treated you when you talked to the witnesses,” Tavia points out.

“The daughter didn’t hesitate to talk to me and had nothing to say about my magic,” I acknowledge.

“While the old farmer was vocal about it,” Frost points out. “The older generation remembers the devastation of their parents who lived through the damage that Kiogen Fetic wreaked on Fasgard when he rose to power.”

Kiogen Fetic, known as the Plague Master, swept through Fasgard five hundred years ago (before necromancy was illegal) with necrotic magic and brought this kingdom to the brink of devastation. He recruited every necromancer on the continent and nearly wiped Fasgard off the map. Smos Esten and the Isle of Flight both sent legions to assist Fasgard, and without them our kingdom would have been defeated by armies of the dead. I don’t think that by himself Kiogen would have been able to change the laws of Fasgard to make necromancy illegal, but he invaded a hundred years after his mother, Begrim Bane the Carver, wreaked havoc on Fasgard and Smos Esten for four hundred years. After those two it was completely reasonable for the queen to do something drastic to preempt the rising of a new necromancer in Fasgard.

“So the younger generation that doesn’t remember Kiogen and Begrim aren’t as anti-necromancer as their parents. At the palace, with the exception of the king, only the people who loved my mother have any love for me. Every other person is, if not outright antagonistic or fearful, then dismissive or withdrawn.” That’s a sad truth, but I’m hopeful after my meeting with my father a few days ago. Hildred thinks I’m making progress with him, and I’m inclined to agree.

The others stare at me with pity, but I don’t need it and wave them off. “I’m still a prince of the realm. Even with every person who dislikes me for my magic, I have a very privileged life. I’m the high sorcerer of Fasgard, for fuck’s sake. I’m the second highest ranking royal in the kingdom next to the king, even though I’m a middle prince. If my father died today, I would be the highest ranking person in Fasgard until my sister was crowned. Don’t pity me. Besides, I am working on winning my father over. He even looked at me the other day. It was terrifying and magnificent.”

While the rest of the party struggles to understand, Berklak pats my leg. “I think your father cares for you, Law. He would not have interrogated me like he did if he wasn’t concerned about your well-being.”

Darian turns in his saddle as Berklak says that. “The friends are chattering. The viltz that came through here hunted a wyvern that had protected the land until the viltz killed it. There are spiders ahead. They’ve encroached since the death of the wyvern.”

“Ooh! I always wondered what it would be like to have a giant spider.” I’m not normally excited by arachnids, but they are useful for spying. A giant spider might be useful for other things; I won’t know until I can raise one from the dead.

Berklak jogs ahead, joining Darian at the front of the party. “There’s nothing but fields and a few buildings for leagues until we get to Gladfield. Why would they expose themselves out here?” Berklak asks, swiveling his head as he walks ahead with our tracker.

“The friends say there are entrances to caves among the rocks,” Darian replies, pointing west to a small group of boulders clumped together in the middle of the field.

Berklak looks back at us as he calls, “Let’s move faster.”

“Lawton wants a spider,” Armus points out.

“If I was trying to avoid them, I’d keep us walking sedately,” Berklak smirks, and Tavia laughs.

Frost explains, “The beating of the hooves will attract the spiders. Berklak is trying to draw them out to make the fields safer for the farmers the alderman will send.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Armus decides and starts singing, gathering his magic to inspire us for the upcoming battle.

I wonder if it’s unfair for me to use my magic to just pull the life out of the spiders. Granted, that would require stopping to make an array…

No, I don’t think I should do that. Everyone looks really fired up for a fight. I should let them have their fun. Besides, as deadly as giant spiders are, humans are fairly good at keeping alive while fighting them. The worst part is when they spit venom at you. It’s fine if it’s only on your skin, but if you have even a single cut, it will cause necrotic damage, and depending on how much gets into your blood and how healthy you are, it can kill you over the course of a few hours. Deadly stuff, but an enemy easy to defeat.

I whisper to Sweetie and signal her to move into a canter with the rest of the horses while Berklak takes a moment to prepare his warhammer. As soon as it’s in his hand, he runs to catch up with us, jogging at my side until one of Darian’s friends screeches above us and Darian signals for everyone to stop.

I pull Sweetie to a quick stop, patting her neck to thank her for the quick reaction, and then I look around, keeping an eye out for the giant spiders we’ve lured in.

seven

berklak

The trail of the viltz leads through the fields, and if the party wasn’t being careful about following it, I’d feel bad about trampling the crops, but they’ve already been trampled, so we’re not doing more damage. The giant spiders hanging around are bothersome but a good opportunity to see how this party will behave when attacked. We don't necessarily need any strategy for giant spiders, but if someone decides to put forth a plan, unless it’s stupid, I’m going to support it. I like playing with others, and that extends to fighting.

Moving the party at a canter makes a lot of noise without forcing me to sprint (I am not, in fact, a sprinter; I’m a marathon runner thanks to my father who started training me as a lad by making me run for hours at a stretch before he would let me pick up a weapon). I expect the spiders to track us and emerge from a cave ahead of us, but after about a league, instead of meeting spiders, we discover where the viltz descended into the caves.

A henge of boulders surrounds a small watering pond in a deserted grazing field. From the southern point of the henge, an aisle of upright boulders leads directly to a cavern gaping out of the ground in a hill. The tracks lead straight into the cavern, but I find it curious that someone decided to mark it like this, especially if it leads all the way down the Chilghen. Most places that lead down to the viltz are guarded or closed off, but I don’t see any dwarves here keeping the dark elves at bay.

As we approach from the western edge of the pond, I hear the tell-tale click of giant spider fangs and point my warhammer in the direction of the click. “Company,” I murmur to my party, ready to fight as soon as I see the enemy.

A pulse of magic runs through me followed immediately by another as Armus starts belting out a jaunty tune of encouragement. I glance at my party, seeing that Inghram is glowing with power and Lawton’s eyes blaze with excitement.

“We've got five giant spiders waiting behind the boulders,” Inghram tells us. “But they have a whole swarm of their smaller cousins waiting with them.”

Giant spiders and spider dogs. Fun. The viltz sometimes domesticate packs of spider dogs, but for the most part they are feral, hound sized chimeras created by the maelysou Thetris, the goddess of the deep. They have the body and legs of a spider and the head of a canine with a venomous bite. Because they are much smaller than their cousins, they’re more dangerous than the giant spiders. They’re still easily killable, but more dangerous nonetheless. Fortunately, orcs and xenecar are naturally immune to spider venom, so that’s helpful.

Darian’s horse comes to a stop and he turns to me. “Help me up onto one of the boulders,” he requests, rising in his saddle to stand on it.

Leaning my weapon against a boulder, I offer him my shoulders, which he takes, one foot at a time, and balances there. The heel of his boot digs in hard on a nerve and I jerk, unbalancing him for a moment, but he manages to grab the boulder to stabilize himself. The movement lifts him off my tender nerve and I’m able to offer him my hands, lifting him up so he can pull himself atop the boulder.

Once up there, he draws his bow and aims, letting loose two arrows in close succession. The scream of the spider he hits rallies the rest of us. I grab my warhammer and charge. The spiders appear as a swarm, but the one I aim for is the biggest. It’s larger than a horse and covered with needle-like hairs all over its legs. I’ve gotten a face full of those fuckers, and the barbs on the ends make them especially difficult to extract. I’ve done the manual extraction once; the second time I paid a witch to get them out magically. It cost me a hundred crowns and was worth every coin.

The spider has its eye on my necromancer—I can tell by where its six big red eyes are looking that it wants what’s mine. Well, it can’t have him. I give in to my natural berserker rage and let it consume me as the spider spits venom at the man behind me. All I can see, hear, and feel is the spider, its swarm, and the need to make sure it never touches Lawton.

I raise my warhammer and roar as I strike down on the thing’s head with all my might. Screams from the other spiders feed my rage as I lift my weapon for another strike. The spider, critically wounded and nearly dead, stabs at me with a fang. I take the hit and slam my weapon back into the spider. As it crumbles to the ground, dead as fuck, I grip my weapon’s shaft just under the warhammer and rage-punch through the spider’s maw, effectively decapitating the fucking oversized monster because it pissed me off.

The magic in the warhammer absorbs the soul of the creature, storing it inside the weapon to empower it. If I hadn’t enchanted the thing, I would feel its weight shift as it gains density, and the anti-magic properties of the weapon that give me the ability to use it to destroy magical enemies grows in strength.

I turn from this one to the next, smashing my hammer into jointed legs and gaping maws. I smash through carapace after carapace of the swarm, fury growing with every spider I defeat, even as my warhammer absorbs soul after soul and makes the battle easier with every strike. These creatures might want him, but they will not have my necromancer. They won’t even get a chance to touch him. Mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

Dead? Dead? Dead.

I turn around in a frenzy looking for any enemy, but as I search and none appear, my anger fades into the background and I come back to my senses. Around me in a circle is a litter of spider parts and bodies, and next to me at the center of the circle is Lawton, pristine and perfect on the back of his horse with a sweet smile on his face.

Relieved he’s safe, I reach for him, stopping just short of ruining his clothes with spider ichor. “Ah. I’m glad to see you’re safe. Good job letting me protect you.”

“You are incredibly effective in combat against spiders,” Lawton giggles, waving his hand around at the gore. “But you didn’t leave me even a single one to use.”

I look around guiltily at the smashed remains of the swarm, wading through a few of the bodies to see about any of the other party members’ kills. Dismay weighs on me as I look until I find the remains of the spider that Darian killed. “Here’s one!” I exclaim happily, waving Lawton over.

Sweetie brings him to me, gingerly stepping through the spider carcasses, and his purple eyes light up with magic and excitement. “Perfect!”

I watch as he jumps off his horse and starts circling the spider. He reaches into his backpack and pulls out his black paint and brush, then he hands me the lid of the paint jar. “This should be relatively simple,” he explains, writing on the side of the spider in a swirling script that I can’t read.

Besides being black on very dark gray, the language doesn’t use the same structure of any I’ve learned, but I’m only literate in three languages besides orcish: Trade, Dwarvish, and High Elvish. They are the only languages most people need to be able to read if they want to participate in the economy and culture of most kingdoms, and unless someone has a particular interest in scholarly pursuits, elvish is optional.

“What language is that?” I ask him curiously.

“Ah, it’s actually Cilweitethi. The king insisted that my grimoire be readable by as few people as possible, so I taught myself the language of the old continent.” He pauses to explain, then returns to writing.

Five thousand years ago, what is now Fasgard, Smos Esten, and the wild lands of Gwafellaw to the south was the thriving kingdom of Cilweite. The most famous king of that era, who reigned during the height of the kingdom, was Supri, a half orc with a wood elf mother. At the time, people didn’t distinguish the different races the way we do now. They described each other without using racial terms like draconian or orc or human. They were described by their competencies, which drives the orc historians mad when they’re trying to decipher genealogy from the old kingdoms. We only know Supri’s lineage because we have a surviving portrait of him with his parents when he was a small child. If the stasis spell on the art in that section of the orc archives ever fails, ten thousand years of pictorial history will be lost for all time.

I shudder at the thought and watch Lawton finish the lines of the spell he’s casting on the spider. “That must’ve been challenging to learn. Where did you find a tutor?”

“I’m not usually one to confess to crimes against the kingdom,” Lawton giggles, glancing around at all of us as he takes the lid to his paint jar back and wipes his paintbrush off on a rag he pulls out of his pocket.

“Do you even know how one earns a key to the Keyroom?” Armus questions, holding up his keyring to remind us that he is a member of the thieves guild in Fasgard.

“I suspect it requires stealing something of value,” Lawton replies with a sunny smile. “And I know at least two of you also have keys to the Feud of Assassins, so we know there are murderers among us as well as thieves. I suppose my crimes are safe between us.”

Armus attempts to return his keyring to the loop on his trousers, but it snags on something, which sets off a chain reaction of events in which the fun little xenecar rips his shirt, breaks his banjo’s neck, and slips and falls in the ichor of the spider massacre. Inghram helps him back to his feet, carefully avoiding the ick all over the poor bard. “Please tell us all about your crimes before I accidentally impale myself on my own sword,” Armus begs with a self-deprecating laugh.

We all laugh with him except Darian, who moves to stand next to him and grips his arm firmly in a show of physical support. It’s cute that the druid has decided to keep the bard alive. I’m sure Armus is perfectly capable in a fight—after all, he’s still alive and unharmed—but apparently Darian has decided he’s a danger to himself and needs handling.

Lawton gives in to Armus’ plea. “I called back from the aethyr a tutor from the old kingdom to teach me the language. It was my mother’s suggestion, and I put the spirit into a host we paid well for the use of their body. To this day, my father thinks that Wenilyn is a scholar we brought in from Smos Esten to teach me Cilweitethi, and he will never think otherwise, because bringing spirits back from the aethyr is extremely illegal, giving them the bodies of still living people is even more illegal, and never banishing them back to the aethyr is at best a death penalty.”

“Woah. You gave a spirit that lived five thousand years ago the body of a living person and you never banished them back to the aethyr?” Inghram demands, clearly shocked with a small spark of admiration, I think. There isn’t a lot of rebuke in his tone at least.

“We paid for the body. The host wanted her family given a parcel of land and a yearly stipend equal in pay to double what she would have made by working at her trades. She was a healer and prostitute in the Aeyar temple in Sakai Citadel, and her family had grown beyond what she could support on her own. We moved her family to a small parcel of land in the Smos Mountains, we hired dwarves to watch over them, and we found a set of adoptive parents to raise the children. The host is still inside her own body. She and Wenilyn have a romantic partnership now.”

“She gave up her children?” Frost’s wide-eyed question reminds me that she was adopted too, and I wonder if she’s upset that the temple healer gave up her children to do this.

Lawton gives her a sympathetic expression. “She knew when she chose her profession that she might find herself with child, and she accepted that as the cost of fulfilling what she felt was her calling. She loves her children, but she never wanted to be a parent, and she is happy leaving them in the loving arms of people who want to be parents. She visits her children during the new year celebration and travels with Wenilyn the rest of the time, spreading the blessing of Aeyar everywhere she goes.”

“How did you find her?” Tavia asks curiously. “I don’t think I would immediately find a temple healer or prostitute when looking for a host for a spirit five thousand years old. Not to sound judgy, but those are some of the most well-cared for people in Fasgard. I think I would have gone to the docks first, or maybe a mine.”

The poorest people in the kingdom work the docks, and the only people in the mines are prisoners and their dwarven wardens. Most kingdoms ship their long-term prisoners to the dwarven mines, including Fasgard. It helps offset the costs of the gems and metals that the dwarves dig up from the land.

“The previous high sorcerer scried for a person who needed help, was dying, and wouldn’t be easily recognizable in the palace. He refined it to someone without strong loyalties to family or friends. We chose Sakai Citadel because it’s on the border and our story would be better corroborated if we needed to travel to the citadel to escort back our new tutor.”

“Oh, she was dying and you healed her in exchange for the use of her body as a host,” Inghram notes, nodding his head thoughtfully. “That’s good. Her children would have been orphans otherwise.”

Lawton huffs and shrugs. “She didn’t even know she was sick. We had to break the news to her, but I would have healed her even if she hadn’t agreed to host Wenilyn. I absolutely hate wastings.”

Oof, yeah. Wastings kills almost everyone who gets it. According to healers, it’s resistant to all but celestial magic, and since there’s not a plethora of aelysson descended sorcerers with the ability to heal, people who get it end up dying. Fortunately, people with it don’t usually know until the end. A person could have it for years, then something triggers it, and within a week, they waste away and die. A perfectly healthy looking person will go from a normal weight to skin and bones in a week. It’s tragic, but at least it’s not something people have to endure for months. That is its only small mercy.

Lawton’s expression sobers and saddens as he explains. “My mother died of yearning wastings. By the time we were looking for someone to tutor me, she had already been diagnosed. She wouldn’t let me heal her, because my father would have known I used my magic to do it and would have been forced to banish me, if not execute me, so it was a small joy to be able to heal Wenilyn’s host.”

I pull him into a tight hug and press my lips to the top of his head. Yearning wastings is the version of the disease that takes years to eventually kill the person afflicted with it. They slowly waste away in a cycle of pain-bad-better–worse-pain that eventually leads them into the aethyr. It can take a full decade of this kind of suffering before the person passes across the veil, and it hurts my heart to know that Lawton watched his mother go through this. “I’m so glad you got to do that for the host, and I’m sorry that the laws of this kingdom prevented you from saving your mother. You deserved better than that, and so did she.”

“Why didn’t your father get a celestial sorcerer to come heal your mother?” Inghram demands, a question reiterated by Armus, who also looks more than a little peeved.

Lawton pulls back from my hug and wipes a few stray tears. “It was strange. We sent for three celestial healers from Sakai Citadel, and each of them met a grisly end on the road to Fairview. When the high sorcerer decided that the death of three healers was suspicious, he discovered a curse on the Jewel of the Emerald Sea. Celestial magic is prevented from touching any of the inhabitants of the Jewel. The spellwork was built into the foundation of the palace by Shavna Fairkin herself. The pride of the Fairkins is that we are so powerful without a speck of celestial origin, and apparently our ancestors were so proud of that that they made it impossible for celestial magic to even touch us.”

Shaking his head, he returns his attention to the spider. “High Sorcerer Yomo died breaking the curse, but it was too late for my mother. Thank you all for your sympathy; it’s been ten years since then, and I have come to a happy place in my life even without my mother in it, so let’s just concentrate on what we’re going to do with a zombie giant spider. I’m thinking that I can set it to guard this entrance so that there aren't any more attacks from creatures of the dark.”

Taking up the change in subject, we all switch from learning about our friend to planning our next steps.

“It can weave a web to close off the cave, and we can leave it here to keep the cave guarded, but we also need to leave a visible sign to other adventuring parties that the spider is meant to keep this entrance to Chilghen closed,” Tavia suggests.

Armus nods enthusiastically. “I can magic up a sign in Trade that will read itself aloud so that any passersby will be forewarned. You know, even if we leave the spider and it effectively keeps more viltz from attacking more farmers, eventually there’s going to be an adventuring party like ours that will take the challenge and destroy the spider just for the experience,” he declares with a chortle.

“Sounds like future Fasgard’s problem,” Frost snorts, looking over to the pond. “Darian, do you think you can bury the bodies?”

It would be bad if the venom from the spiders poisons the pond. Animals drink from it, and it appears to be fed exclusively from rainwater. We don’t want to ruin the source of drinking water for the local animals. Not that there are any left after the viltz stole them, but whoever takes over the farm will buy animals for it too. Herds help renew fallow fields for the next planting season, so it will be important to replace the livestock as quickly as possible.

Darian points to one of the fields. “If Armus will move them there, the plants would use them.”

Armus rubs his hands together. “Happily.”

Lawton speaks a lilting spell over his giant spider, infusing it with magic, and the arachnid immediately rises up, scuttling to the cave entrance, where it starts weaving. My little necromancer turns his smile back to me and snaps his fingers. “I can help move the bodies too,” he tells us as the shimmer of his mage hand appears next to Armus’.

Since I soiled his pristine clothes already when I hugged him, I grab his shirt and dip down, kissing him briefly before pulling back and watching him and Armus work together with their translucent hands to move the corpses to the fields that can use the fertilizer. My poor necromancer has gone through some difficult times and lost important people, but the more I learn about him, the more I’m a little worried that our time together doesn’t have a limit. If we’re not careful, he’ll be stuck in my heart for the rest of my life, and orcs are nothing if not loyal to their hearts.

eight

lawton

After the bodies are buried and the sign is up, I wave my hand, setting off a little wish-spell to clean us up from the battle, leaving us all refreshed like we’ve just bathed.

Tavia pats my shoulder in appreciation. “Love that spell,” she murmurs softly. “If you did that every morning, I wouldn’t be mad about it.”

“I think I can arrange that, and if I forget, please just ask for a refreshment. I’m happy to clean us up,” I tell the adorable woman.

She winks at me with a chipper smile. “I won’t forget.”

With everything ready, Berklak sighs. “Well, the horses were nice while they lasted, but it’s time to send them home,” he says, slipping Sweetie an apple from his travel pack.

I can’t say that I’ve walked for hours on end at any time in my entire life, but I’m a necromancer. If I can’t spell us some energy when we’re flagging, what use am I? None, I tell you. “Darian, will you make sure our horses get home?” I ask the quiet, mysterious druid.

Darian gives me a silent nod and starts murmuring to the horses, sending them off one by one back north to Fairview. Sweetie nuzzles my hair and snorts before she leaves, then as one the party enters the cave, careful to avoid the strings of webbing that our spider is working on.

I pat the zombie and make sure the soul magic keeping it animated is strong. I didn’t do with it what I did with the raskar; instead, this one will have a tether to me so that when it is destroyed the magic will return to me. It’s a simpler spell and one that I typically use on my insect zombies. They can hold a surprising amount of magic, so if I need a boost, I can just draw the magic inside the creature back to me and it fills my well with however much magic I’ve stored in the creature. The giant spider can carry more magic inside it than I naturally hold, so I plan to slowly fill it up, feeding it magic along the tether, so that I have a huge storeroom of magic to access if I need it. The zombie doesn’t require much at all to keep it animate, so this is just a little perk of this adventure.

Armus snaps, Darian mutters under his breath, and a ball of magelight appears over Armus while a quest trail lights up the path ahead of us. It’s not hard to see where we’re going with the magelight since there are no turn offs and it’s a rather steep descent into a massive cavern. Still, the quest trail will help, although I’m not sure where Darian is leading us, and by the next question out of Inghram’s mouth, I’m not the only one curious.

“Where’s that leading?” Inghram asks, taking a few quick steps to catch up with our point person.

Darian is silent for a moment before answering. “It will lead us to the protectors of this passage.”

“How’d you know to set it that way?” Inghram continues.

Frost spares Darian the words when he tenses at the follow-up question. “This cavern leads to Chilghen. Dwarves protect the surface from invasion by the dark elves. It stands to reason that there will be a small contingent of dwarves guarding this cave system. Since the viltz got through to the surface, the protectors are dead, and we should take that news back to their families.”

“So, do we also get to loot those bodies?” I ask curiously. They looted the bodies of the farmers, but does that mean that we should loot every body we come across?

Tavia giggles and Berklak chuckles, and I get amused looks from the others while Frost answers. “We loot every body we come across. Even if we end up returning some of the loot to the families, it’s understood among the people that those who find treasure get to keep it, even if it’s on a dead body.”

Berklak nods sagely. “One of the reasons there are so many adventuring parties going into dungeons and crypts is because ancient peoples buried themselves with treasures. These days everyone knows that’s a good way to get grave robbed, and since stirring up the dead is a good way to create poltergeists, people don’t put anything valuable in graves. Maybe someday the history of looting will be lost and people will start burying themselves with their wealth again, but it will only lead to another cycle of adventurers daring to disturb the places of the dead in search of fame and fortune.”

I can’t help the giggle that escapes me at his resigned tone. “At least the art of adventuring won’t be lost.”

Berklak perks up at that and takes a celebratory sip from his mead barrel, smiling happily once again. “That is a very good point. It will be a tragic day when the last adventurer finishes their last quest, and I pray to the aelysou in the Omgranokk temple citadel that that day never comes.”

For a while we walk in relative silence. The cavern widens and shrinks, and at times there are tool marks indicating the passage was formed by underground dwellers. I’m not an expert on tool marks, but these were probably carved by dwarves. The viltz would have likely just exploded the rock with magic or some other nonsense that would endanger them and everyone underground.

While the dark elves are related to their surface dwelling cousins, rejecting the light of the sun and moon and the gods of their counterparts has turned them into unnatural and evil versions of the elves above. They no longer have the sensibilities that elves are known for. They would cut off their nose to spite their face if they didn’t like what they saw in the mirror; they are genuinely just that vindictive. Collapsing a cave on top of themselves just to win a fight? Not something a single one of us would put past them.

As we move deeper into the depths, the air gets steadily colder and denser, and after what feels like most of the afternoon has passed, I decide it’s about time to pull out a coat. “I didn’t think we would need coats on this journey,” I mutter as I dig through my backpack for my bundle of winter clothes. Yes, I packed for winter weather in the middle of summer. Who knows how far south we’ll end up.

“Only for another few hours. It warms up as we get closer to the magma below,” Berklak assures me as everyone comes to a stop as I pull my coat out.

“Well, I’m both sweating and shivering,” I joke, grinning at him as I pull my coat on.

Tavia nods in agreement. “I didn’t think to pack a coat. I might buy one the next time we’re somewhere I can.”

“Pshaw.” I wave off her words and dig through my bag for another coat. “I packed four different weights. You want a lighter weight jacket or a heavier one?” I’m wearing a lighter one, but my travel jacket is thick enough to keep the sun off my skin, so I didn’t need a heavy one over it.

Tavia runs her hand over her leather armor. “You got a cloak?”

I grin broadly. “I’m a fucking necromancer. Of course I have a cloak,” I laugh, pulling my white one out. “I had this one made to put everyone on edge,” I cackle as I hand the fur lined cloak to her. “A black necromancer wearing white just makes everyone tense.”

“Is that why your travel clothes are white?” Berklak asks, fingering my travel jacket’s lapel between the open panels of my coat.

“Oh yes. Sometimes I want to lean into the black magic aesthetic, but most of the time I like the juxtaposition of being a necromancer and wearing light colors. It’s an act of rebellion against the idea that all necromantic magic is evil. I don’t know how anyone could look at this face and even think the word ‘evil.’”

I frame my face in my hands and give them my most wide-eyed innocent expression.

Berklak hums approvingly. “That certainly wasn’t my first thought.”

I smile up at him and blow the towering half-orc a kiss. “That’s because you’re perfection in green skin.”

Berklak’s cheeks darken and his dichromatic eyes grow wider. They’re so pretty in any light, but the mage light overheard creates a white light that gives his green and blue eyes each an ethereal glow. “We should find a good place to rest for the night,” he announces huskily, tearing those pretty orbs away from me before the lust in him can burn too brightly. “Let’s keep an eye out for a nook or cranny.”

Armus snorts and elbows Frost. His elbow hits her stomach and he immediately exclaims, “Shit!” He rubs his elbow, grimacing up at her. “What are you keeping under your shirt?” he demands, pulling his hand away with not a small amount of blood.

Frost lifts her shirt and pulls out a dagger with a spike on the pommel. “I’m armed to the teeth, my friend.”

Armus sighs and looks over to me. “It’s just a scratch, but if you don’t mind?”

I press a finger to the wound and cast a small healing spell combined with a little wish-spell to clean him up. It works wonderfully, and he shoots me a relieved smile. “Thank you, your highness.”

I smack him lightly. “None of that. Just Lawton, or Law. I don’t mind either.”

He shoots me a happy smile and nods. “Of course, Law.”

Darian comes to a sudden halt, holding up his hand for everyone to stop as well. Collectively we silence, holding even our breath as we listen to the darkness beyond Armus’ mage light. The twinkle of the quest light pulses and fades in front of us as we wait for whatever Darian senses that brought us to a standstill.

Darian cocks his head to the side, listening with his eyes closed and his brow furrowed. Silently Berklak pulls his warhammer free, Tavia knocks an arrow, and Frost draws her short sword, pairing it with the dagger already in her hand. Armus draws his rapier, and I wonder again if it’s not fair for me to use my magic to just pull all the life beyond the circle of light into myself. I would kill anyone within a huge radius, and it would be a small struggle not to steal the life of my friends too, but it would avoid battle. Probably not fair, though. Maybe I should hold on to my most lethal magic for more hopeless situations.

Darian slides an arrow out of his quiver and notches it into his bowstring. As soon as I see him preparing for a fight, I start whispering a spell.

Inghram draws his greatsword and holds it up, chanting in a low voice. The sword starts glowing, and then his magic rushes at me. It slips into my mouth where my whispered spell is still being formed. It entwines with my magic, sharpens it, gives it a hint of fire, and when the last word of my spell falls from my lips, his magic leaves with mine, surrounding the party with a ward meant to repel evil, protect good, and drain the life of any living thing that crosses the boundary of the ward.

That’s not exactly what I intended.

“Don’t cross the ward line,” I warn everyone. “I’ve never had to resurrect an actual person before and I don’t want to have to try it today.”

“What the fuck?” Tavia and Frost both say at once with the same tone and an echo of each other’s wide-eyed disbelief; they really could be mistaken as twins.

“Blame Inghram,” I say with no hesitation about throwing him to the wights.

Inghram grimaces, glancing over his shoulder at us and giving us an adorably embarrassed look. “I’d say it wasn’t my fault, but my magic is chaotic at best. So yeah, sorry about that.”

My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “Really?” I honestly thought it was my magic being a bastard to his.

Inghram shrugs and turns his attention forward again. “Consequences of not contracting with the maelysou that sired me.”

“And I thought I had daddy issues,” I tease, patting his back to assure him that whatever happens, we will deal with it.

Inghram snorts a laugh. “Be glad your father isn’t an actual evil god.”

The twang of Darian’s bow stops our conversation. The scream that follows pulls our attention back to the enemies beyond the ward. Quickly, a band of naked viltzen storm into the aura of the mage light. Their gray skin appears sallow in the white light, but dark handprints mottle their nudity, and the sick feeling that they’re decorated in the blood of those they’ve killed turns my stomach. Most of them bear swords, though one has a staff with a magical glow at the end.

Darian’s bow snaps again in synchrony with Tavia’s, sending arrow after arrow into the line of viltzen and their spider dogs. Frost’s sword disappears from her hand, replaced by throwing daggers that leave her hand in groups of three.

A volley of arrows comes flying toward us from the darkness beyond the front line of viltzen—more than I would have expected. Arrows are neither good nor evil, and the ward only protects against magic and actual bodies. With a snap, I conjure a pool of acid that falls over the arrows, knocking most of them off course. A few get through, most missing the party, but Berklak takes one to the arm and Tavia is hit in the chest.

She screams at the incoming viltz as Frost drags her backward and takes her bow out of her hand, taking over shooting the arrows from Tavia’s quiver. I move to the woman and push her to the ground as Inghram’s divine smite cracks through the ranks of the viltz with magical lightning and Armus’ mage hand starts slapping viltz into the cave walls.

Berklak’s warhammer strikes past the border of the ward as the dark elves start getting through the acid pools. I pull the arrow out of Tavia, pushing healing magic into her. Her wound closes up without a struggle and she hops back to her feet, taking daggers off Frost’s body and throwing them with as much accuracy as her wife did.

I blink in surprise when one of the daggers lands and kills a viltzen then appears back in Tavia’s hand. “Ooh, nice. Is that a callback spell?” I ask as she sends them out again.

Tavia grins. “Useful, isn’t it? I can throw the same three daggers without losing them.”

“Brilliant.” I’m going to have to figure that spell out and see if I can use it too. Not that I end up throwing things very often.

“I have it on all my arrows, too,” Tavia says as she kills two more enemies. “My arrows return to my quiver. Frost, switch,” she adds, and she and Frost exchange weapons.

Berklak roars, swinging his warhammer through the barrier and smashing the skulls of three different viltzen. Another volley of arrows comes flying at us, but this time I see that they’re appearing from the staff the viltz mage is using. Irritated, I use my mage hand together with Armus’ hand to slap the arrows down. We get most of the arrows, but one gets me where my neck and shoulder meet. Armus screams like the xenecar he is, a primordial sound that attacks the basest instincts of prey creatures, and a cloud of daggers shoots toward our enemies, slicing through more than a couple of them.

My neck hurts like a lightning strike. “Fuck a maelysou!” I scream at the magic user, using my own blood to draw a very simple array that allows me to direct my magic into a lasso that falls over her and funnels her life force straight into fixing the wound she put in me.

I don’t have to do it this way; I’m choosing to kill her to fix my wound, and that might make me a little evil, but fuck her. She could have retreated when she realized she and her entire party were outmatched; she decided to attack when she should have fled.

I pull the arrow out and shout at her as the darkness of her life fades and the last of her life and magic fills me. I shoot the excess of her magic down the line to the spider at the top of the cavern and throw the arrow at the closest viltzen still alive. I might put a little magic into that arrow. If it rips a hole the size of Berklak’s fist through her chest, that’s just because I’m angry.

Suddenly the cavern goes quiet. Everything stills, and I frown at myself. “In point of fact, I do not like getting angry,” I announce, breaking the quiet.

My party all look at me with a variety of expressions, from curiosity to concern, but not a single one of them looks at me with fear, so even though I thought the burning rage in my chest would sit there forever, it disappears in a snap, replaced by an inordinate amount of happiness.

“I love it,” Berklak confesses, stomping over to me and sweeping me into a messy, licking kiss.

His hands find my ass cheeks, and he lifts me until I’ve wrapped my legs around his body and my arms around his neck. I groan when my mean head reminds me that we are not alone and can’t get too carried away, but the rush of the battle has definitely heightened the desire for everything his kisses promise. If we were alone, I would be demanding a good hard fuck. Unfortunately, we aren’t, so I pull away from his kiss and put my hand over his mouth to stop him.

“Wait,” I whisper softly.

Berklak grumbles his disappointment, but he sets me down again. “Fine, but the next cranny I see, I’m pushing you into it.”

My laughter is cut off when I see the wound on his arm filled with a broken arrow. I yank the arrow out and cast another healing spell, then look over at the rest of the party. “Who’s wounded?” I demand, moving around Berklak.

Darian and Inghram both are bloody, Armus shakes his head, and Frost and Tavia both give me negative answers. Darian has three bleeding scorch marks in his shirt, and Inghram shows me a cut on his adorable, round cheek. His heavy armor likely saved him from most of the damage. I cast another healing spell on them both, and then my party is healthy and whole, but we’re going to need to eat as soon as possible. Healing might be a magical process, but it always leaves the healed famished.

I mutter a spell that creates a quest light, and it flashes silver rather than the gold of Darian’s mage light. “The quest trail will take us to a safe place to camp. Gather whatever you want from the dead and let’s go,” I instruct them all, then pull the magic of the ward back into me, dispelling it so we can cross the ward line without dying.

Berklak pinches my butt and smirks down at me. “You’re sexy when you take charge,” he mutters to me, then presses his lips to my hair before setting to looting whatever they find among the dead (most likely weapons; I bet someone wants that staff).

I crouch next to the nearest naked viltzen, pressing a finger into a handprint on her stomach. It sparks with loss, confirming that they’ve painted themselves in the blood of the dead. I hate that, but at least they can’t hurt anyone else. That’s something to be glad for.

nine

berklak

The life of an adventurer can get pretty dark at times. Saving the world comes at a cost, and most often that is paid in the lives of others. Sometimes adventurers lose their own lives, and sometimes it’s people who have done nothing other than be at the wrong place at the wrong time. It can become a burden too heavy to bear if a person lets it, so I don’t. I find the joys in life, and I revel in them. I wallow in luxury when I have it, and I pursue pleasures like I may die tomorrow, because that’s the unfortunate reality for adventurers like myself—tomorrow may be our last, and that is the risk we take with every adventure and side quest.

Armus clearly knows this; he knows that when the battle is over, we pursue the things in life that bring us joy. Darian has never been the type to do that where I can see him, but even he disappears when the day is over if he can. Inghram, Frost, and Tavia need a reminder, and Lawton, my sweet little companion, just needs to learn it for the first time.

The quest trail Lawton provided ends in a small cavern with two entrances leading off it. The one we come through leads back down to the main passage, and Darian and Frost venture down to check out the other passage. As they do that, I rub Lawton’s back and tell him, “Bring the wagon so Armus can get everything he needs to cook us a decent supper, please.”

Armus claps his hands and points to us. “Yes! Let’s have a good meal tonight.”

Lawton chants a short spell, and the wagon appears near the wall, with the array of runes painted on it glowing ever so slightly. Armus’s tail writhes happily behind him as he skips to the wagon. I gather up the useful weapons we found among the dead and start organizing them into the wagon, except the staff of arcane arrows that the viltz mage used (Darian asked if he could have the staff and the party agreed to it).

Armus pulls out the stove, but we realize that we don’t have firewood. Annoyed and hopeful, I turn to the spell casters. “Anyone have the ability to make a campfire without firewood?” I’ve traveled with only one caster who thought that spell was worth learning, which is a crying shame. Everyone can spark a flame, but establishing a magical cookfire isn’t exactly seen as useful.

Armus snorts at me. “That spell is required for casters who join The Kitchen. We should never be anywhere we cannot create good food. We’re even required to know the conjure food spell in case we run out of ingredients.”

“Well that’s a huge relief. I’m so glad you wanted to come on this quest.” I pat his back and squeeze his shoulder.

He shoots me a wink and a smile. “Me too, darling.”

I chuckle at the unspoken compliment; that’s a flirty bard for you, always charming the pants off anyone they can.

Lawton steps up beside me, slipping his hand in mine. “Nope. I’m not sharing,” he says levelly.

Armus’ smile widens at Lawton, and he dips a slightly sarcastic bow. “Perish the thought, Law. I’m just naturally flirty; I would accept an invitation, but I wouldn’t try to wriggle one out of you.”

“Not that you aren’t very charming and handsome, but I’m going to be very selfish with my half-orc barbarian,” Lawton explains, pushing me to step back.

I stifle the glee that wants to erupt at my little necromancer—I was already struggling with possessive boundaries, and this display is just another shovel full of dirt over the grave of my future ability to give him up. “Careful, Law,” I murmur, stepping back the way he wants me to. “Orcs aren’t known for easily giving up the people they get attached to.”

Lawton turns and arches one of his eyebrows at me as a smirk plays at the corners of his lips. “What makes you think I don’t know all about orcs?”

I reach for him, but as soon as I do, Frost returns from the other passage carrying Darian, who’s unconscious and bleeding from multiple wounds.

Lawton dashes to them. “What happened?”

Frost sets Darian on the ground. “I think maybe it’s a hex. We found several human skeletons, a draconian, and three xenecar. He touched one and suddenly collapsed with all these wounds.”

Lawton fixes the wounds with his magic, but Darian doesn’t immediately wake up. “Alright, show me the bodies,” he demands. “Someone lay out a bedroll for Darian, please. I’ll fix the hex and he’ll wake up,” he swears darkly.

Frost and I accompany Lawton back to the room with all the skeletons, and she shows us which body was the problem, but even as she’s pointing to what appears to be a human skeleton, Lawton stops and looks around the room, studying each body.

He pulls out the raskar from his backpack and sets it on the ground. “Ooh, this is interesting,” he mutters to himself as his raskar scurries around the skeletons. Most of their clothing has decayed, but the thick leather armor is still visible on some of them, and all their precious metals and gems are scattered around them. The raskar avoids all the treasure in the room except for one pendant on a skeleton encased in rusty armor. The raskar bites the pendant once before scurrying back to Lawton.

Lawton picks up the raskar and puts it in his pocket, then marches over to the skeleton, grabbing the pendant and ripping it off the skeleton, sending the skull rolling away. He hums thoughtfully as he cleans it to get a good look at it. “It’s the pendant of Nohzer,” he tells us.

“The aelysou of luck? I didn’t think he even had paladins,” Frost grunts, surprised.

“The records in Omgranokk would know, but I never studied the lesser known deities,” I shrug, unable to recall any information on the god of luck.

Lawton looks around. “I can call the spirit, but if they’re as old as I think they are, they might be resistant to returning, and resistant spirits are not usually as helpful as you might hope. In any event, we just need to dispel the magic in here, which is not a spell I’ve learned. I can pull the magic in if it’s living or dead, but I can’t take magic out of an inanimate source like a pendant. Most of the objects in here have spirit hexes on them, but it’s neither living nor dead now. It’s as if a very powerful spirit cast a curse on this room and then, having accomplished their purpose, went into the aethyr.”

“I’ll go see if anyone knows dispel magic,” Frost offers.

Lawton nods, and I pull him in close, not sure how I feel about being in a dangerous situation with him all alone. He’s the high sorcerer of Fasgard and a prince besides; the weight of keeping him safe isn’t insignificant. “Any immediate danger?” I ask, holding him closer than absolutely necessary, except as an orc, I find it completely necessary.

He smiles up at me. “Don't touch any of the objects in here, and there won’t be an issue,” he promises, then closes his eyes, and his magic brushes over me. He breathes quietly for a few moments then opens those pretty purple, glowing eyes. “I can’t sense any living people or animate dead within a hundred meters besides our own party.”

I chuff softly, bending to lick his lips quickly. “You can sense that far out?”

“If I concentrate, yes,” he nods slowly.

Frost returns with Inghram before I can do much more, but this little room is going to be useful after supper.

Lawton steps back and sends Inghram a welcoming smile. “You can dispel magic? This room is hexed so that every object will do to anyone who touches it what happened to Darian, or possibly worse. I’m not sure. There’s an element of luck to it.”

Inghram grimaces. “Oh dear. Luck may not take my side,” he hums, looking around the room. He digs in his coin purse and pulls out a crown. “Heads I’ll cast and it will work, tails I’ll cast and there will be consequences,” he proposes, looking at us all.

Lawton nods vigorously. “Can’t hurt to try it, but maybe let me throw the coin so we know a certain maelysou won’t be interfering.”

Inghram hands Lawton the coin, Law flips it, and it lands on heads.

Inghram moves his hand in a pattern, gathering magic in the air in front of him. When he finishes the pattern, the magic explodes outward. For a moment, nothing in particular happens, but as we look around, one of the skeletons starts crumbling, and it sets off a cascade with all the skeletons. Within a few seconds, all the bones have turned to dust.

“Law, do you want to loot the room now?” Frost asks, rubbing her hands together. “We got robbed the last time we looted.”

“Yes, I very well do want to loot right now,” Lawton agrees quickly, swinging his backpack off and digging around in it until he pulls out a small flour sack. He hits it a couple times to dispel some of the flour dust and presents it with a flourish. “We can put the loot in here since it’s all small coins and gems.”

“Excellent,” Frost agrees, and the two of them get to work picking up the small piles of treasure.

I drape an arm around Inghram’s shoulders. “It’s fun watching them have fun, isn’t it?”

A bashful smile appears on Inghram’s cheeks. “It is. I’m glad I got to help this time.”

He seems a little sad and clearly has had a hard time being a Sepferaline, so I hug his shoulders and bump his head with mine. “We’re all glad you’re here. General Aleron specifically wanted a paladin, and Lawton is glad you volunteered.”

Inghram side eyes me. “I am a paladin, and I did volunteer, but I don’t think General Aleron knows exactly how chaotic my magic is.”

“I told Aleron that I would rather have a paladin that might accidentally kill me than one who would target me on principle,” Lawton calls over his shoulder as he and Frost move together gathering the coin. He giggles when she says something I don’t quite catch.

Inghram relaxes slightly. “I swear that no matter what happens I won’t ever purposefully target him.”

I know that and I tell him so, watching my little necromancer laugh as he gathers the treasure in this room amidst the bone dust. Frost’s craggy voice fills the spaces between his laughter with humorous anecdotes, and happiness fills my heart. This is exactly what we needed after a bloody battle, and later I’ll show Lawton how good orcs are at celebrating survival.

ten

lawton

Berklak didn’t find any more treasure when he went through the room after Frost and I were done with it! I’m very excited that I managed to loot a whole room and leave nothing important behind. We got three hundred fifty crowns and an assortment of precious gems that Frost and Armus agree are worth about the same.

Armus’ supper consists of a stew he makes from the food in the wagon. He’s excitedly telling us about finding a canvas bag full of spices in the wagon as he serves us each a bowl, starting with Darian, who is looking better but keeps slowly closing his eyes like he’s tired. After a double healing, I bet he’s gnawing with hunger and exhausted.

“This smells amazing,” Tavia squeaks, sniffing her bowl deeply.

Frost sits next to her and sniff tests it as well, eyes going wide. “How’d you get it to smell like that?”

Armus presents me and Berklak our bowls with a wicked smirk. “I used tarragon. No one ever thinks to use it, but it gives soups and stews a rich aroma.”

Tavia elbows Frost. “Maybe we should keep this one,” she suggests, spooning out some of the stew for a taste.

I do the same, surprised by how hungry I am; I wasn’t feeling it before the food was in my hand, but now I do. I blow on it, and the hearty stew makes me groan as I get my first taste. Fuck an aelysou, this is good. A hunk of bread drops into my bowl, and I bump Berklak to thank him. We apparently have a few days’ worth of hard bread that we need to eat, but Armus assures us that when we run out he can make campfire bread with the flour and oil in the wagon. He seems to think that one of the palace cooks packed the wagon, and I can’t be sad about that.

No matter that the kitchen staff doesn’t like me, they’ve never failed to provide delicious food, and that’s worth noting.

“I found ale!” Armus announces after he serves everyone their supper, presenting a small barrel of ale the same size as Berklak’s mead barrel. The bard brandishes a stack of cups, and Inghram jumps up to help pass out the drink.

Berklak waves his off, patting his mead barrel. “I prefer mead,” he explains, then to me says, “I’m relieved someone thought to send ale. I would have felt guilty about drinking my mead in front of everyone.”

Tavia spreads her hands in a what-the-fuck gesture at Berklak, smiling a wide teasing smile at the orc. “You could abstain instead of feeling guilty.”

Berklak shakes his head seriously. “Oh I wouldn’t feel that guilty. I don’t think I could ever feel guilty enough to not drink my mead. That’s like telling me I could stop being green. I don’t even know how that would work.”

Frost laughs, taking her cup from Inghram. “Or share.”

Berklak hugs his mead barrel, taken aback. “Who do you think you’re talking to? No self-respecting orc would ever share his mead.”

“So when your tribe gets together you all bring your own mead?” Inghram asks as he finally sits, quickly followed by Armus.

Berklak nods solemnly. “Absolutely. All orc gatherings are bring-your-own-mead events. I’ve never even heard of an orc showing up empty handed. We don’t share mead.”

I shove a spoonful of stew into my mouth and press my lips together, shaking my head at everyone who glances at me. We are not reminding him of the fact that I happen to have a small vial full of mead in my backpack that came straight from his barrel.

“I’ve always wondered about the dedication to mead that orcs have,” Inghram says, which sets Berklak to talking about the history of orcs and mead, and how the xenecar invention is the best one that has ever happened to the beverage industry.

He entertains us throughout supper, and as we finish filling our bellies, everyone compliments Armus, even Darian, who may not use his voice often but communicates just fine when it’s important.

It’s surprising how friendly everyone is. They laugh and tease, talking animatedly with each other and including me in the conversation! It doesn’t feel like we’ve only known each other for less than two days. Sure, Frost and Tavia are secretly married (they haven’t confirmed, and we’re not going to ask), and Darian and Berklak have worked together before, but the rest of us are basically strangers. We just don’t act that way, and I love it.

My heart fills with an abundance of joy as I realize that I’ve finally found a group that belongs to me. They’re mine, at least for this adventure. Maybe I can convince them after we save Fasgard to stick around. Three of them work in Fasgard with the army or the watchmen, but I bet I can get Aleron to assign them to me in some capacity. It’s something to consider if things continue as well as they’re going already.

After a couple of hours around the magical campfire, Berklak leans in, pushing his nose in close to where I was shot earlier. His low voice rumbles through me as his hands snake around my body. “We could sleep in the other room. With a bit of privacy and time, I can show you how orcs celebrate living to see another dawn after battle.”

A surge of arousal spikes through me, and my cock twitches in my trousers as I shiver at the sensation of his hot breath on my neck. We’ve all gotten comfortable in the cave, removing weapons and armor over the course of the evening. The others set out their bedrolls already, but Berklak stopped me when I reached for mine. Now I know why.

“That is an enthusiastic yes from me.” As if I would ever skip out on the opportunity to get naked with my half-orc.

Armus whistles at us, setting off hoots from the others, who’ve gotten a bit deep in their cups. “Set us a ward before you slink off with your orc lover,” he says with a teasing laugh. “I’m so jealous you found Berklak before me.”

Berklak preens next to me and helps me to my feet.

I squeeze him possessively. “Mine. I’m keeping him,” I insist, and I pull my magic into the usual array I use for warding.

I stumble over to the entrance from the main tunnel and draw in the dirt, infusing my magic into the ward that will keep all living and dead things out of these rooms. As it snaps into place, I stand, nearly running into Berklak.

He grins as he steadies me. “Done?”

“Yep!” I agree, ready to find out what he has in store for me.

Berklak scoops me up over his shoulder and saunters across the cave to the teasing jeers of our party, swaggering the whole way. I grin at my new friends, waving saucily at them as we leave them behind.

Who’s a lucky necromancer? Me. I’m a lucky necromancer.

Happy dance.

Read on for the first chapter of #NotJason

author note

Hello Reader!

Thank you for reading this second installment of I Went on an Adventure and All I Got Was This Barbarian Orc. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. These characters are so fun! In case you’re wondering about the random things that happen with no real explanation, I’m rolling dice for these characters, and sometimes they fail their rolls. I rolled to see if Darian and Frost would find trouble down the passage, and Frost didn’t, but Darian critically failed his roll, so yeah, he was injured and passed out. When Inghram’s magic failed, I rolled for that. Any time Inghram uses magic in these stories, I have to roll, and I have a list of possible consequences if he fails to roll lucky on his magic.

If you can’t tell, I’m having a lot of fun with these characters.

In the next installment, we will make it down to the dwarven city, and I’m so excited about this because there’s going to be a very special shop that they get to visit that’s going to guide them on their next steps. (Imagine me rubbing my hands together evilly.) It’s going to be fun.

Side note: Chilghen is pronounced like chillin’ as in I’m chillin’ with the boys, and I think that’s funny because it’s cold as fuck down there.

If you haven’t yet, please leave a rating and/or review. These inform the metrics that give my books visibility, and I would be ever so grateful to you for helping me with that. I appreciate every time you mention my name, my titles, and recommend my books to friends, internet strangers, groups, and book clubs. Please keep doing that. Word of mouth is the most important form of marketing an indie author like me can have. Thank you for all your support.

For the love of mm,

Jennifer Cody

reader warning:

NO ONE IN THIS BOOK IS NAMED JASON, but below is the tumblr post that inspired it.

#notjason

The frisbee slaps into my palm and I immediately throw it to my teammate before running down the field. He tosses it to another teammate who throws it at me. I get it off just as the most gorgeous man on the opposing team gets into position to intercept. He barely misses my throw and sends me a saucy wink before we both run toward the goal line. My teammates manage to get the frisbee over the goal and the referee's whistle blows time. It’s the end of the game, end of the Ultimate Frisbee tournament, and even though we just made the last goal, we still lose by one point.

The other team gathers into a celebratory huddle before both teams line up to greet each other. I fist bump or high five every hand from the opposing team, stopping for a brief moment to ogle the gorgeous guy who winked at me. His clear blue eyes track down my shirtless body as his tongue darts out like he wants a taste of this. I chuckle, slapping his fist playfully. “Keep it in your pants on the field, Grainger.” I assume the name on his jersey belongs to him.

He doesn’t have time to respond before I’ve passed him by, but I do hear the unmistakable guffaw of teasing laughter from behind me as I finish walking the line of victors and head to the benches where my team took up space for our equipment.

Ultimate Frisbee satisfies one of my life goals: have a hobby that requires socialization. I tend to side on the shallow end of the introvert pool, and I would probably dig myself deeper into comfortable isolation if I didn’t force myself to interact outside of my housemates. I like playing this sport, and I enjoy my teammates. We play in the recreational league Ultimate Frisbee competition during the summer, and the rest of the year we meet up at parks once a week and play with whoever shows up.

As I pull my sweat-soaked jersey over my head, a hand smacks my back, startling me. I turn to find the gorgeous blue-eyed flirt standing behind me with a hopeful smile on his lips. “Hey. I’m Luke Grainger,” he says, holding out his hand.

I take it, squeezing it warmly and lingering because hell to the yes, I want to hold his hand. “Sean Fullerton. Good game, Luke.”

“You too, man. You’re a beast out there.” He doesn’t pull his hand out of mine and clears his throat before soldiering on. “Do you, uh, want to go for a beer with me sometime? Soon?”

“If this is a date, yes. If this is a friendly meet-up, yes. If this is an offer for a beer and a hook-up, yes. Yeses all around.”

Luke smiles excitedly. “Date, yes. More, yes. But definitely date.”

“Let me give you my number,” I tell him, regretfully releasing his hand so I can grab my phone.

He gives me a moment to pull up a new text message, and I hand him the phone. “Send yourself a text so you have my number,” I tell him.

He grins, lighting up like Christmas came early, and sends himself a text from my phone. “Awesome. The guys are heading out for an ice cream celebration now. I will definitely text you.”

“I look forward to it.”

Oh yes, I really do.

* * *

The house I’ve called home for the last three years looms at the dead center of an old neighborhood, towering over the smaller single story houses that surround it. Three levels of renovated bedroom-bathroom units house six tenants and the landlord. Hester Gladstone Jr. inherited the house from his uncle about ten years ago, and he turned it into a share house with some unique rules he posted in the entryway so everyone coming inside can read them:

Wipe your feet and leave your shoes on the rack.

Do not interrupt Hester on drag night.

Everyone pays an equal share, so keep refreshments for guests in your own room.

The banshees come out at night; do not interrupt and voting only happens at breakfast.

Hester is not your maid. He will torch your stinky shoes and throw your laundry into the yard. Pick up after yourselves and keep the house clean.

Quiet hours are from 1 am until 8 am.

Breakfast at 6:30 on weekdays, 8:30 on weekends. Dinner at 7 pm every night.

If you miss a meal, none will be provided, so get your ass to the table if you want to eat.

House dinner on the 3rd Sunday of every month. Every housemate is required to attend unless on their deathbed. No EXCEPTIONS!

NO FUCKING REFUNDS!

Hester requires us to bond as housemates once a month. I adore all the guys living here and like that rule. He includes in our (really fucking high) rent all the utilities, internet, cable, and a home cooked meal twice a day if we want it. The only rule that gets questioned on a regular basis is the banshee rule, and that’s totally reasonable. We don’t have actual banshees living with us, but there is an ongoing competition about who can get their sex partners to scream the loudest.

Not to brag, but I’ve won the breakfast vote every time I’ve brought someone home. Ok, I’m bragging. I deserve props because Hester is the queen of the banshee whisperers. He’s a bottom who can make his tops scream like they’re coming undone and usually gets the morning vote.

We keep track of who wins month-to-month, and the person with the most wins every month doesn’t have to pay rent. Hester is very motivated to turn his partners into banshees, but he never cheats. We all know because Hester is an exhibitionist and he fucks his partners in the living room.

Speaking of the man, he’s currently holding court in the dining room. Three potential housemates sit at the table facing him as he interviews them, and since I will have to live with whoever he chooses, I join him at the table.

“Sean, meet Florence,” Hester says, only introducing a guy wearing a navy suit.

Florence stands, tossing his wavy black hair out of his cerulean eyes, and offers me a tanned hand. “Hello, Florence Luikin. Nice to meet you.”

He meets me with a firm but non-competitive handshake and it takes one peek at the shy smile on his lips before I realize why Hester decided on him. Shy smile, wicked blue eyes. He’s going to fit in.

“Sean Fullerton. Welcome to the Banshee House. Let me know when you’re moving in and I’ll try to get some time off to help.”

Florence glances at the other two potentials, both of whom look uncomfortable, although one is shifting in his seat more than the other. “Thanks. If I get the room, I’ll let you know.”

Hester raises a brow at me, asking with that one micro movement if I approve, and looking at the other potentials, I know exactly how to get them off our lawn and make them think it was their idea. I shoot Hester a wicked grin and sling my arm over Florence’s shoulders to keep him in place if he’s the type to run.

“Florence, we can figure out right now if you’re going to get the room. Hester here is a dedicated bottom and a needy exhibitionist. I’m actually surprised he’s wearing clothes right now. I’ve known him for seven years and this is the first time I’ve seen him wearing clothes for a housemate interview. He interviewed me wearing nothing but a cock cage.” I lower my voice to a whisper that everyone can hear, though the other two interviewees lean in to make sure they hear me right. “I fucked him on the sofa, signed the paperwork, and haven’t looked back. It takes a certain kind of kinky fucker to live with our landlord. So the question isn’t whether you have a kink, but whether yours fits with ours.”

The tension in Florence eases out of him and into the other two interviewees. He leans into my side and that shy smile turns a little wicked as his eyes look over Hester. “If you’re saying this home welcomes and encourages nudity, I think it’s a shame Hester decided to hide that.”

Hester grins at our new housemate and flaps a dismissive hand at the other two men in the room. “I do try to be polite in polite company.”

Florence clicks his tongue at Hester. “Tch. You shouldn’t be looking for polite company, should you?”

“Um, I don’t think…” One of the other guys gets up and makes a hasty exit, which spurs the other one to take his leave as well.

I drop my hand from Florence’s shoulders and walk those two out. When I get back to the kitchen, Florence has Hester bent over the table with two fingers in our landlord’s ass. “Honestly, it only took me a minute to get those guys out of the house,” I laugh as Florence glances up and winks at me.

“It took me three seconds to get Hester naked and discover he stashes lube everywhere,” he confesses as Hester grins up at me.

“You gonna watch me teach the newbie how to scream?” Hester asks, wagging his brows at me.

I roll my eyes, grab a chair and sit. “I’m betting on Florence today.”

Hester snorts, shaking his head as he pushes back onto Florence’s fingers. “It’s a bad bet and you know it.”

I do, but someday someone is going to surprise us both and Hester is going to be the banshee screaming out his orgasm.

Someday, but not today; Florence sounds like a howler monkey when Hester makes him come.

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about the author

Jennifer Cody writes gay romance of a variety of sub-genres, though her favorite is paranormal romance/urban fantasy. She uses her husband’s vast knowledge of all things man and mechanical to help her write, but takes literary license with her characters because they’re romantic heroes, thereby making him shake his head in disbelief almost as often as she causes his incredulous laughter.

With three kids at home, the only time she has for boredom is 5 a.m. when everyone else is still asleep, and coffee usually keeps that at bay. When she reads, she usually binges an author’s entire backlist for a few days but has a few one-click favorites she stalks. Her go-to sub-genres are gay PNR (Paranormal Romance) and UF (Urban Fantasy), but she has a soft spot for certain contemporary MM tropes (falling in love with the Manny, and small-town/rural stories).

Join Jennifer’s Facebook group, Jennifer Cody’s Cocky Cuties, for all kinds of fun shenanigans, live writes, schedule updates and more!

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I’m now on Patreon! If you want early access to all my books as I write them join me on Patreon.

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also by jennifer cody

Diviner’s Game Trilogy

Bishop to Knight One

Knight to Castle Two

Queen to King Three

DG Short Stories

(Only available on my website. Sign up for my newsletter to get these.)

Loki Adopts a Cat

The D’Aquinos Go to War

Shattered Pawns Series

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Capture

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Shah Mat

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Chapter 2

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Brick and Brass (Hammer and Fist: Lextalion Book 2)

Inferno (Hammer and Fist: Geminatus Book 1)

Gale (Hammer and Fist: Geminitaus Book 2)

The Elite

Poison Hearts

Recovery Road series

Forrest’s #Win

Gentry’s #Doms (MMM)

Jericho’s #Switch (Sign up for my newsletter to get this one)

Looking for a bit of dark erotica?

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