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

Crack Fantasy Adventure Chapter Three, in which the party arrives at a dwarven mining outpost and zombies happen, but it’s not Lawton’s fault.

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

Author Note

Blurb

Chapter 1

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

Lawton:

I expected challenges along the way in this adventure, but I didn’t expect to come face to corpse with the work of another necromancer. It pains me, but I can’t let just anyone carry on creating potential wights and contagious zombies. Fortunately, I know exactly how to fix the problem, even if it drains me dry. Thankfully, I have a Berklak to help me recover.

Berklak:

Mead—that’s all I need. At least that’s what I think, until my little necromancer reaches for a weapon that could kill him, and I realize that I might need a little bit more in life than the drink of orcs. It’s a good thing Lawton’s ok with me setting boundaries, because I need him to be safe, whole, and energetic, even if I have to give him everything I am to make that happen.

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

Zombies.

(They all die.)

Unsolved mystery.

(Sometimes life isn’t fair and you don’t get all the answers.)

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

Halfling- half elf, half human

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

Flabbergasted. I’m utterly gobsmacked, and maybe drooling a little. You would be too if you’d just walked into the same room I have. Sure, there’s corpses, seven to be exact, but more importantly, there’s mead. Not a little mead. There’s twenty full barrels of mead. T.W.E.N.T.Y. That’s enough mead to last me a full year and a half.

If I accidentally kick a corpse on the way to the nearest barrel, I’m in no way responsible for it; any orc worth his drink would have done at least that much. I press my nose to the barrel and draw in a deep breath, scenting under the wood, beeswax, and death for the unmistakable sweet aroma of the mead within.

“It’s dwarven mead,” I groan as my mouth begins to water. “With lavender and hedgeberries.”

The shuffling of the rest of the party behind me forces me to open my eyes again and look. Lawton, my most favorite companion, for whom I think I might be able to give up this mead, is looking at me like he would never demand I choose between him and mead, and that makes my timber tremble start up without my having to touch him. It’s a little embarrassing, like that one time my mother’s secretary caught me with my dick out in the cellar (there’s a lot of mead in my parent’s cellar, and that was very sexy for my fourteen year old self).

Feeling my cheeks heat, I look away, taking a moment to get myself calmed down and my timber tremble quieted. Usually the tremble only happens when orcs feel very connected to a partner during the course of sex. I—I suppose I would probably give up all this mead for Lawton if my timber tremble is starting up with just a look. I…

I can’t say I’m too mad about that. Lawton is pretty amazing and definitely worth giving up mead for.

Not that I have to. “Would you mind storing all these for me until I can get them home?” I ask the beautiful necromancer, and immediately my tremble starts up again.

His adoring smile brightens the entire room as he gingerly steps over the corpses of the dead. His wavy blond hair is mussed from the number of times I put my hands through it this morning, and his glowing purple eyes spark with magic. “I will happily move them into the veil of the aethyr for you.”

As he steps close enough for me to grab, I pull him into my arms, leaning down to kiss him, pushing all my gratitude and adoration into it.

Armus’ voice interrupts my lovely kiss. “I’m not sure if we should let Berklak take all the mead. This represents about thirty crowns per barrel in mead if you’re selling it to a tavern, and twice that if you’re selling it per pint. That’s a lot of money to give to Berklak because he’s a mead-obsessed orc.”

I rip my face away from Lawton, scowling at the bard who thinks he’s going to sell my dwarven mead because of its monetary value. “Orcs don’t sell their mead. They buy it and they drink it, but they never sell it.”

“This is dwarven mead,” Frost points out. “That means it’s worth half again as much as xenecar mead.”

Armus snorts, whipping his tail side-to-side in mild annoyance. “It irks me that people value dwarven mead above xenecar mead, but you’re correct about that. The least we would get from this haul is a thousand crowns—that's a little more than a hundred and forty crowns per person. Are you going to give me a hundred and forty crowns so that you can claim my part of the haul?”

Everyone besides Lawton and Darian looks at me the same way, wondering if I’m going to pay them for the mead we wouldn’t even be able to loot without Lawton’s magic. Looking at their faces, I don’t think any of them are willing to let me have the mead without at least a negotiation. I might be tempted to rage about this, but they’re right, and that’s almost four month’s pay for most people. “Everyone knows you don’t take mead from orcs,” I complain, calculating how much I would have to pay out to keep the mead.

“There’s twenty fifty-five gallon barrels of it; no one is taking any mead from you,” Armus replies firmly. “Besides, if Lawton said no, you’d be stuck just leaving it here, so if anything, you owe him more for even making it accessible to you.”

Argh. He’s using my own arguments against me. “He’s my companion, and he likes me, of course he’s going to put the mead away for me.”

“How about this: Berklak can have all the mead, but he owes us…” Frost looks over at Tavia, who shrugs.

“Let’s say a hundred crowns each?” Tavia suggests. “Sixty percent of what it’s worth. You’re getting all of it for a steal, and none of us get resentful about losing out on the coin.”

Darian gives me a steady look, which I take to mean he thinks I should take a deal.

I have enough coin to cover it, but that means I’ll have to travel all the way home to retrieve it. “I don’t mind paying out, but I’ll have to get it from my home in Omgranokk. I don’t carry more than a hundred crowns with me.”

The same matching grin erupts on the faces of Armus, Tavia, and Frost all at once, and for some reason it makes me take a step back, which causes me to bump into Lawton. When I check to make sure I didn’t hurt him, he’s wearing the same grin.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I demand warily.

Tavia giggles in that high pitched squeak of hers, and Frost reaches over to pinch her side while Lawton answers me. “We are all very excited to visit Omgranokk with you and see your home.”

“Oh. Hmm.” I’m not sure what to say to that. It’s a three week journey crossing the Emerald Sea to get to the northern continent, and then another four weeks at least to get to Omgranokk. “That’s going to be a two month journey there and another two back. We’ll want to rest a while when we get there, so it may take you out of Fasgard for nearly five months. I could do it on my own in less time.”

Armus snickers. “At this point it’s no longer about the money, but about the orcs we’re going to meet along the way.”

Tavia and Frost both nod in unison, Inghram looks curious, and Darian appears pensive. Lawton smiles at me but shakes his head. “I’ll still have you.”

I breathe that promise in, letting it fill my lungs and spread through the rest of my body. “I’ll look forward to taking you home, then,” I tell them all.

“Excellent,” Armus crows, rubbing his hands together with a wicked grin. “Now, let’s see what these bodies can tell us, shall we?”

Lawton studies each body, nodding thoughtfully. “I can call one of the spirits back, but do we think the viltzen that ravaged the farm are responsible for this? Do we need to speak to these dwarves to confirm?”

For a moment we’re all silent. This is his area of expertise, but if we were going to speak to the spirits of the dead, we should have recalled one of the viltzen we killed. “I don’t think we need more information than we already have. You can make the gloop again to see if the dark magic is down this deep, if you want,” I suggest.

Lawton hums at that but shakes his head. “I think it would be more helpful to do that when we get to the dwarven mine below. Does anyone know where we are? I haven’t studied a dwarven map since I was a child.”

“Mysdille, a mining outpost, is the closest place to here. We’re about half a day’s walk south of Gladfield, I think. It’ll be another twelve days of travel to get to Drokagard Underthyr once we reach the mine,” Frost responds. “I have a cousin in Mysdille we can talk to about these poor folks, and they might have some Fire Walkers willing to take us to the city. They’re big enough that they wouldn’t have trouble carrying Berklak.”

Fire Walkers are a good idea. They’re large, flightless raptors that can run faster than a horse for hours even with a rider as big as me. They nest near the magma pools that heat the dwarven outposts and cities, and they’re intelligent. Much like many of the beasts that live this deep in the thyr, they voluntarily work with dwarves in exchange for whatever protections, services, and goods the dwarves can offer.

“Please ask. Walking isn’t terrible, but I think the problem with the magical miasma is pressing enough that hurrying our travels would be good,” Lawton agrees, and he sighs as he examines the bodies, bringing our attention back to them.

The dead dwarves look as if they weren’t even properly looted. They lay where they fell, in a tight group at the center of the room. The dwarves use the cavernous space for everything: brewing, eating, sleeping, training, etc. Everything a person could possibly want while away from home lives in this place.

“I wonder how the viltzen managed to kill them,” Inghram questions as he examines the bodies. “These dwarves are trained specifically to keep the viltz from reaching the surface and the mines. The scouting party we killed should not have been able to take them like this.”

Frost and Armus both nod in agreement, which gets Lawton moving (away from the mead, but I’m going to trust that he will put them in the veil before we move on). “That is a very good point,” Lawton says, stopping next to the nearest dwarf.

He removes the dwarf’s helmet, a heavy metal thing with guards for the nose and cheeks that leaves the eyes and mouth uncovered. Under the helmet, the dwarf is balding on top with hair on the sides as long as the beard on their face. Curiously, there is no blood on the dwarf.

In fact, none of the dwarves have blood on them. “No blood,” I point out.

“I knew there was something bothering me about this!” Inghram snaps, pointing to the group of dwarves. “No blood, no wounds. They’re just dead.”

Lawton smacks my shin. “Help me get the armor off,” he urges me as he starts pulling the gauntlets off. I get on the other side of the body and help him with the vambraces and pauldrons, and then I pull the cuirass off as well. Lawton stops me from removing the greaves and cuisses, using a knife to remove the undershirt of the poor dwarf.

Naked except for his hair, we see mottled black veins spidering over his chest. Lawton lifts the beard out of the way and we both suck in a gasp at the black bruise directly over the dwarf’s heart.

“What did that?” I question. Nothing we saw from the viltz we killed could have done this.

Lawton stares down at the wound for a long minute before turning a grim expression up to me. “I could do this,” he whispers. Standing, he glances around the room. “But I couldn’t do it without an array.”

“Are you saying a necromancer did this?” Armus asks, removing another dwarf’s shirt to expose another bruised chest with black spidering out from the heart.

“I’m saying that this is necromantic magic, but that doesn’t mean a necromancer did this. Any sorcerer with the right array and a source of necromantic magic could do this. If someone tapped into the spider zombie we’re using to guard the surface entrance and stole the magic I’m storing inside it, they could do this,” Lawton explains, frowning.

We both look, but there’s no evidence of an array.

“All the weapons are sheathed,” Darian says softly.

I should have noticed that. “So, they didn’t have time to even draw their swords. Why are they all grouped like this?” Frost asks, pointing to one of the dwarves. “That one is in sleep clothes.”

The longer I look at the massacre the less it looks like they were killed by the viltzen we encountered. “Lawton, I think maybe you might need to recall one of the spirits. Something happened here, but this doesn’t look like the work of the viltz. I came in here assuming that they were the culprits, but there’s no blood, no weapons, no arrows.”

Lawton presses his gorgeous rosy lips together and shakes his head slowly. “I can try, but if this is what I think it is, their spirits might not be available to me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tavia questions, worried. “Why wouldn’t you be able to reach their spirits?”

Lawton grimaces. “I believe someone captured their spirits. I can only recall spirits from the aethyr. Spirits captured on thyr aren’t accessible to me without the key to their prisons. Like I said, I can try, but it looks like their spirits were ripped from their bodies. This is the kind of wound I would expect to see if that’s the case.”

As a group we fall silent, staring at the bodies, the empty shells that should have still been alive. This massacre is the reason the viltz got to the surface; whoever is responsible bears the burden of the souls the viltz killed.

two

lawton

Drawing the array to call back the spirit of the deceased takes very little time, but when I call for him, the answer is an echoing emptiness. Spirits are often captured to provide magical boosts to sorcerers, and many necromancers across all of thyr occupy themselves with capturing spirits to put into gemstones to sell. I’ve never heard of a country allowing necromancers to ensnare the spirits of people, but that doesn't mean there aren’t a few who do. In Fasgard, selling spirits of any sort is illegal, and anyone found with a spirit stone may find themselves facing the executioner. I’ve only ever heard of my father pardoning one person found with a spirit stone, and they were a magical null who wouldn’t have been able to feel the spark of magic in the stone.

I destroyed that stone myself, but destroying a spirit stone requires the use of my full well of magic. I can’t imagine how much power I’ll have to expend to save the spirits of the dwarves here. Fuck, I can’t imagine the power it took to capture this many spirits all at once.

I erase the array and stand, blowing out a heavy breath. “We need to find whoever did this. We can’t let them continue ensnaring souls, and we should free the dwarves to rest in the aethyr.”

Berklak bares his teeth, glancing guiltily at me.

I tilt my head to the side to ask him why he looks like that.

He presses his lips together and touches his war hammer.

Ah, yes. His war hammer captures the spirits of the enemies it kills. “Yes, it is very similar to what happened here, except these bodies were alive until their spirits were extracted. Unfortunately that means that these bodies must be burned. They’re basically wights in waiting right now. If the spirits are freed, they’ll immediately return to their bodies, and they’ll become wights. We must cremate them.”

“Easy,” Frost says. “We burn the dead. Not much use for bones in the ground.”

“I didn’t know that,” Inghram says, surprised.

“It surprised me too,” Tavia tells him.

Glancing around, I find a cart and point to it. “Berklak can drag that. Let’s put the bodies on it, that way if these suddenly become wights, he can smash them dead again, and we can get them to the crematorium faster.”

While Berklak retrieves the cart and the others load up the bodies, I take out my paint and draw the banish-summon array on the barrels of mead. It amuses me to do this despite the somber circumstances of the room. We’re probably stealing the mead for the entire Mysdille mine; they’re going to be so upset when they find out their mead is missing. I wonder if I can use this as evidence of thievery to get a key to the thieves guild? That would tickle me pink; my father wouldn't necessarily stop me from joining the guilds of ill-repute since they are recognized guilds in Fasgard, but my sister, Haughney, would be horrified enough for the both of them.

One by one, I banish the mead barrels to the veil, and when I’m done, I turn my attention to the others, who’ve put the bodies on the cart and look to have looted the room as well. A pile of food stuffs, weapons, and other valuables sit next to the cart, so I quickly summon our wagon, pulling a little power out of the giant spider zombie to supplement how much I’ve used today already. I’m not in danger of running out, but I don’t want to get too low and need more later.

“Since it’s here, should I make us a later lunch, or do you want to snack and wait for supper in the mine?” Armus asks as Berklak and Frost put the loot in the wagon.

Frost immediately replies, “Wait for the mine. My cousin will feed us, and I’m looking forward to a dwarven meal. We’re notorious for finding any excuse to feast.”

Tavia seconds that. “It’s true. Every time I come home with Frost, the whole neighborhood gets together to feast just so they can make me feel inadequate compared to Frost. Last time, they decided to show me how much better being a dwarf is than being a halfling elf.”

“Frost’s a halfling elf,” Inghram points out, just as confused as the rest of us.

“No. I’m a dwarf,” Frost corrects with a smirk. “Both of my parents are dwarves, and they raised me as a dwarf, therefore I am a dwarf.”

Tavia giggles, using jazz-hands to present Frost. “Can’t you see how dwarven this woman is? How stately and bearded she is? Clearly a dwarf.”

“To my parents eternal shame, I have not yet learned to grow a beard,” Frost laughs. “My cousins call me Frost the Unbearded.”

Berklak chortles behind me, and his hands come to rest on my hips. “Your family sounds fun.”

Frost smiles with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “I can guarantee fun.”

Armus claps his hands together. “Well, then, shall we head on? I, for one, am looking forward to seeing more faces than you lot.”

Frost and Tavia both turn on him all at once. “You don’t like our face?” the doppelgängers ask in unison like they’ve rehearsed it.

Armus snorts at them, tail swinging back and forth slowly. “I love your face, but a man traveling with an orc has needs, and the only one getting their needs met is our esteemed necromancer.”

I grin widely at that. “It’s true. He is very good at meeting a man’s needs.”

“Rubbing salt in the wound, I see,” Armus complains, but he’s smiling so I know he’s not offended. “Next time I’m cooking, I’ll be sure to remember this.”

I immediately pout at him, widening my eyes. “Noooo. I’ll be very good!”

Armus laughs and shakes his head. “Sure you will. Fine. I don’t think anyone in all of thyr is capable of refusing that face.”

My pout transforms into a bright smile. “Oh good. Thank you. Shall we?” I offer, banishing the wagon.

Berklak snuffles my hair and gives me a hug from the back before taking up the cart. Darian’s quest trail sparks to life again, leading us through the cavern to a passage on the other side of the training area. The passage is only just big enough for the cart, so Berklak takes up the rear of our party. Tavia and Frost walk on either side of me behind Darian, Inghram, and Armus.

For a short time, the party walks in companionable silence, but soon enough Tavia elbows me. “So what do you think is causing the dark magic? Any theories?”

I frown as I consider it. “I’ve spent some time thinking about it, but it’s…I don’t know, it’s not like any dark magic I’ve ever come across. Not that I’ve come across much in the last ten years. I’ve encountered a black sorcerer once, and they weren’t nearly as powerful as I am. I dispatched them without issue.”

Inghram turns, walking backward. “There is something off about the magic. I know dark magic; I’m the son of a maelysou, and what I saw was…not quite right. There’s something about it. Why is it so gray? That’s the question, isn’t it? It’s not black like my father’s magic; it’s gray, and I’ve never seen anything like that.”

I point to him because that’s the thing. “It’s gray, but it’s dark enough that it’s clearly evil. It’s like a black sorcerer decided to try to be good, except it’s pervasive. Far too pervasive for a sorcerer. Well, for one with less power than a demigod.”

Inghram snorts and shakes his head. “I don’t know of any maelysou that would grant their mortal offspring any amount of their power without a contract. Not that I have a lot of contact with maelysou in general,” he quickly assures us.

“I don’t think any of us thought you spent your free time hanging out with evil gods,” Armus chuckles.

Inghram gives him a relieved smile “I really don’t. Benilon would consider that a breach of contract.”

“So the magic that’s covering the land is gray, like maybe some evil magical being is trying to do a good thing?”

Frost clicks her tongue at us. “You do realize that good and evil aren’t really the right designations for the aelysou and the maelysou, right?”

Berklak holds up a hand, letting the cart drop for a moment. “That’s true. Dark and light are better descriptors than good and evil.”

Inghram smiles at Berklak and Frost. “I try to tell people that sometimes, but everyone just tells me it’s because I’m a Sepferaline and I’m trying to excuse my parentage. I’m not. I mean, yes, my father does some very unkind things, but it’s his personality, not the color of his magic, that makes him evil.”

“Ugh,” I groan happily. “I love this group too much. You know I’m probably going to offer you all official positions with me as the high sorcerer and prince of Fasgard. All of my siblings have their own royal guard, and I’ve been making do with palace guards who wouldn’t actually protect me if it came down to a fight. It’s never been a problem because I can defend myself and most people are too scared to really cross me, but it would be nice to have the companionship at least.”

Yeah, I might be a bit enthusiastic after only two nights with this group, but who can blame me when they’re saying that the color of a person’s magic has nothing to do with the state of their character. I’ve been called evil since I was a child because I’m a black sorcerer, the blackest of black, a necromancer—even though only half my magic is truly black. It’s nice to be in the company of people who know better than to judge a person by the color of their magic.

“I’m all for a promotion,” Tavia snickers, grinning at Frost, who matches her smile with a quick nod.

“I wouldn’t mind sticking it to those fuckers who’ve been treating me like shit because I’m better than them with a crossbow.” Frost rolls her eyes.

Armus picks that up quickly. “What? Who’s treating you like shit? I can hex them with a song if you like?”

Frost laughs and shakes her head. “Nah, the fuckers are just the watchmen I’m training with. I enjoy watching them piss themselves every time I show them who’s the better archer. Every time my practice sword sweeps them off their feet and I pin them to the ground, I get that much more smug. I promoted to the next rank faster than anyone has in years, and my peers think I should be worse at protecting the city than them because I’m the new guy.” She snickers, adding, “A few of them are just mad because I’m clearly the better choice for the next promotion.”

She’s my number one pick along with Tavia. “I’ll talk to Aleron about you two. I genuinely should have a close guard who will do their job rather than the bad-luck picks I’ve been dealing with since I was a child.” I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice. “What about you, Armus? Interested in a palace position?”

Armus grins at me. “Fasgard’s high sorcerer’s bard? I think anyone would be honored. Schmoozing with the nobles and playing jester for the king? I’m all for it.”

My brow shoots toward my hairline at that. “I think we would have to get you permission if you wanted to play jester. The palace hasn’t had one in a few years. The last one went missing after losing a bet to Exander.”

“I will happily avoid gambling on palace grounds,” Armus chuckles. “Two copper bets are for friends anyway. Don’t gamble with someone who’d take it out of your flesh if you bet more than you’re worth.”

“Sound advice,” Inghram chimes in from ahead. “Do you really want someone like me to join you at the palace?”

“Someone like you? A paladin of Benilon? Someone who’s already sworn their loyalty? Someone willing to defend me?” I give him a deadpan frown. “Someone like that?”

Inghram gives me a cute little huff and his cheeks flush. “I meant a Sepferaline.”

“I would say the same about a Elkaline or Krasaline if they swore the same allegiance to me and proved their intention with action.” Elkey the maelysou of the underworld and Krasoi the aelysou of the veil are both known to occasionally create celestial offspring to represent them on thyr, but they’re the only gods I can think of off the top of my head that do that regularly enough that it’s a possibility I would meet one in my lifetime.

Inghram’s smile takes him from cute to utterly adorable. It’s ridiculous how lovable he is just because of his appearance. I wonder if all Sepferalines look like him or if it was a specific gift from his father. “Well, if you want me, you have me. Thank you.”

I wiggle happily at the acceptance of my party to join me when this adventure is done. With them, I’ll be more able to travel across Fasgard and to other kingdoms and lands. I’ll have a guard willing and able to protect and travel with me, and I won’t be a burden to Aleron any longer. I can’t wait to report this.

Actually, that’s probably a good idea. I tap my earring, tapping into the magic. “Just reporting in.” I don’t need him to drop anything to talk to me, and as I wait, I turn my focus on Darian, wondering how to ask him if he wants to join me at the palace. He’s so reserved that I’m not sure if he would welcome a proposition for full time employment.

Inghram sees the look on my face and doesn’t wait for me to work out how to ask for what I want from the wood elf leading us along. “Darian, are you interested in a permanent position with Law?”

Darian doesn’t turn to look at either of us, but he tilts his head slightly. “I’m a tracker,” he says softly.

Berklak chuffs behind us, and I turn, walking backward to look at him.

“What?” I ask curiously.

Berklak gives me a soft smile. “Do you have use for a full time tracker?”

Ah ok, yes. I understand Darian’s response now. I turn and skip ahead to walk next to the tall elf, looking up at his stoic expression. “I’m in charge of the magic of Fasgard, you know. Every time something needs to be invented, I’m the one the king expects to work on it. If there’s old magic somewhere, I’m the one who needs to study it or assign it to someone at the appropriate college. I’ve always had to go through Aleron to have anything I need tracked down. I could use a full time tracker, someone I can give a list to and not worry about whether they’ll run off with my coin or return with my items. Berklak trusts you and likes working with you, and that is all the recommendation I need if you’re interested in working exclusively for me. I am a necromancer, so sometimes you’ll be going into dangerous situations, but I know I can trust you with that.”

Darian’s small mouth purses into a thoughtful line before he nods, glancing at me. “I’m not opposed to working for you. I wouldn’t find it inconvenient to have a room in the barracks and a soldier’s salary.”

I grin at his understated method of negotiation. “I’m certain I can arrange that.”

Darian nods once and his attention returns to the path ahead.

Aleron takes the lull in conversation on my end to let me know he’s ready for my report. “Law, I’m listening.”

I give him a brief report of what we’ve found and where we’re heading before telling him, “Can you and Hildred work together to find the pay for this group of adventurers to become a permanent entourage for me? Frost, Tavia, and Inghram will be my close guard. I want Armus as a servant and bodyguard, but he also wants to fill the position of court jester on occasion, and Darian will be my assistant.”

“The budget is already there for it. We will prepare the contracts and arrange for training, but the position of court jester has to be approved by King Valerian. I’m sure Hildred and the king will interview him if he’s serious about that.” He stops suddenly, I’m sure to make a note, then says with audible satisfaction. “I’m surprisingly relieved that your group is working out so well.”

“It turns out that most people in Fasgard aren’t as hostile toward necromancy as the people at the palace are,” I inform him without hiding the disappointment in my voice. “It would be nice if the people in the palace weren’t as hostile as they are.”

“Hopefully having a partial guard will help with that,” Aleron responds firmly. “I didn’t know you were looking for an assistant.”

“I wasn’t, but that’s the closest title I can think of for what I’ll be using him for.” I think my budget as High Sorcerer actually has enough for two assistants and three apprentices, but it’s illegal for me to teach necromancy, so I’ve never considered filling the positions. Maybe I should.

“I’ll let Hildred know,” he informs me quickly. “King Valerian ordered me to report immediately when you check in, so I need to do that. Keep me updated. The king is—” he pauses for a long moment “—unusually invested in your quest.”

“Please give him my greetings and let him know that I will resolve the mystery and protect the people of Fasgard from the miasma blanketing the kingdom.”

“I will. Take care,” he says, and we both pull the linestone magic back. I spin to see everyone as I announce, “Hildred and Aleron will have all the necessary contracts and trainings for you all when we return. You won’t be officially my guard until we return, but your positions are guaranteed.”

The four demonstrative party members express their happiness at that information, and Darian quietly agrees with their sentiments even though he says nothing. I figure if he didn’t want to be my assistant, he would have declined the opportunity.

Berklak smiles at me from the back, and all the good feelings in my stomach flutter around like moon moths during the full moon. I might not have a full complement of guards like my siblings, but I know any one of these six people will be loyal to me. I won’t have to worry about anyone giving my siblings access to me without permission, and that may be the most valuable thing meeting Berklak has given me.

three

berklak

Frost’s tension has been rising for an hour, and at this point she’s come to a full stop in front of an open stone gate, reaching out to stop Darian from walking through it. She doesn’t need to touch him, though; he halts without a word of warning.

“Something’s wrong,” Frost murmurs quietly, pushing ahead of everyone. “There are always guards on this gate, and it stays closed unless someone is passing through.”

Lawton closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them, his eyes spark with magic. “There are thirty six living creatures within a hundred meters of here,” he informs us.

Frost hisses. “This is a big mining outpost. There should be at least two hundred in town and the same in the mines.”

“Let’s go find out what is happening here,” Tavia suggests, pulling her bow forward.

I drop the cart of the poor dead and ready my weapon along with everyone else, then take my place next to Lawton. Darian and Frost take point, Armus starts singing a low melody and allowing his magic to infuse us, and Inghram moves to the back. Tavia takes up position on the other side of Lawton, then we make our way through the gate and into a dwarven tunnel.

Every few meters a gloam torch glows, lighting the way with its magical luminescence. We walk on for about twenty meters before the tunnel opens up to a cavern alight with gloam torches everywhere. The buildings have been carved straight from the rock, and instead of the usual echoing noise that bothers my ears when I visit the underground dwarven cities, this one is unusually quiet. There are voices somewhere, but the cavern’s length and breadth, and the way the voices bounce through the space, make it impossible to know where they’re coming from. They’re muted enough that I can’t tell what language they’re speaking nor if they’re male or female, dwarven or viltz.

“BAM’GAGK!” Frost bellows as loud as she can.

The voices echo back silence and Frost repeats the dwarven war greeting.

Immediately after the second call, the reply for peace and allies comes clear as a bell, “MAK’DOORE!”

Frost responds. “FROST THE UNBEARDED!”

She turns toward us, putting her weapon away. “We wait for them to find us.”

Tavia lowers her bow, looking around. “What the fuck happened here?” she questions in her mousey little voice.

Frost shakes her head. “I can’t begin to guess.”

Armus peers around as well. “Dwarven mines are never abandoned. If a vein dries up, they dig deeper.”

That’s the truth. Sometimes it leads to moving an outpost to a different cavern, but old outposts become trading centers. Nothing is wasted with dwarves.

I bend to Lawton’s ear. “I’m going to go grab the cart again.”

Lawton reaches out and brushes Tavia’s arm. “Let’s go get the cart.”

Grinning at my little necromancer, we let the rest know we’ll be back in a moment with the cart, and the three of us head back down the tunnel.

“You didn’t have to come,” I inform Lawton. “I trust Tavia and Frost to keep you safe long enough for me to get the cart.”

“You can trust us to keep him safe no matter how far you wander,” Tavia says, leveling serious eyes at me. “He’s ours now; we’re not going to let fuck all happen to him.”

Lawton sighs dreamily and rests his head on her shoulder for a moment. “I know, thank you. I’m coming because those are wights waiting to happen and I don’t want them out of sight until they’re being closed into the ovens.”

“Makes sense,” I grunt as we come upon the undisturbed wagon and I pick it up again.

Lawton and Tavia walk arm in arm back to the rest of our group, and when we arrive, the sound of running steps draws our attention to the main road. As a group we move toward the runner. Quickly, we see a heavily muscled dwarf with a thick ginger beard and long curly hair. They’re empty handed, and when they see Frost, their countenance lights up with joy. They don’t stop running until they jump-tackle Frost, taking the bulky, muscular woman straight to the ground with a grunt.

Tavia immediately grabs the back of the dwarf and pulls them off Frost, pushing them away. “What the fuck?” she demands, clenching her fists, ready for a fight.

The dwarf gives her a confused expression. “Oo de fook r yoo?” the dwarf demands, and it takes me a minute to decipher the words through their thick brogue.

“I’m the fucker that’s gonna make you bleed if you attack my girl again,” Tavia replies without missing a beat.

Frost jumps back to her feet, slinging an arm around Tavia. “This is my cousin Kamora the Ironstrike. She’s just happy to see me,” she explains with a grin at her cousin. “This is Tavia Lark, the woman my parents think is no good for me because she’s a halfling.”

Kamora snorts. “Uh dwerf taint eh dwerf witout spishin.”

Frost laughs and smacks her cousin’s shoulder. “Stop being an ass.”

Kamora grins broadly. “Who’s an ass? I speak the language of my people with my people,” she says, quelling the thickest part of her accent.

Frost chuffs and waves at the rest of us. “My party: Law, Armus, Inghram, Darian, and Berklak.”

“Berklak?” Kamora exclaims, surprised. “Oh! I had a bard in through ‘ere a few months ago with a song dedicated to you. His name was Pimvias Longsword.”

A happy smile blossoms on my face. “I’m happy to hear he’s doing well. I sponsored him to Bard’s College about twenty years ago.”

Lawton looks up at me with a curious smile on his lips. “Do you sponsor all your companions to the college?” he asks.

Darian snorts softly. “He sponsored me to the Feud of Assassins,” he murmurs in an unusual display of verbal initiative.

Lawton’s eyes widen as he looks between Darian and me. “He was your companion too?”

“Yes, that’s how I know Darian. We traveled together for a quest about three years ago,” I explain. “I paid him to track down a contract that I took from the Feud, and later he asked for sponsorship. I was happy to; he’s an exceptional tracker and an expert assassin.”

Kamora steps up to me, looking me up and down. “You in the market for a new companion?”

Lawton steps between her and me. “He absolutely is not.”

Kamora clicks her tongue. “Tch. Damn. Maybe next time you come through here, you come without a companion,” she suggests.

I chuckle and shake my head. “You are quite handsome and would be a very fun companion, but I’m among the orcs that don’t seek female companionship.” Few orcs do—maybe one in twenty are willing to bed a female.

Kamora shrugs. “Can’t hurt to ask. If you find one that likes female companionship, you send them my way.”

“We will,” Lawton interjects and waves his hand around. “What happened here? Where is everyone?”

Kamora grimaces. “We had a cave-in down in the deepest shaft we were mining and it’s cut off nearly everyone. We’ve lost a few, but we’re slowly getting them dug out. We’ve got all hands digging, but we’re here mining corundum, and it’s slow going. We hit a vein of icromidum, and no matter where we dig, it’s like the tunnel’s surrounded with it. If we weren’t dealing with nearly three hundred people trapped below, we’d be ecstatic, but it’s fucking inconvenient that we can’t get to them without specialized tools we don’t have. We’ve sent a runner to Bonmura, but it’ll take a week before they get back if Bonmura has the tools we need, longer if they have to go as far as Thrangam.”

Frost whistles through her teeth. “Fuck, that’s bad.”

It is. Icromidum is the hardest rock the dwarves can mine, and it takes special enchantments on diamond tools in order to mine it. It’s mostly used for creating enchanted items of extreme value. My war hammer’s soul trap enchantment and the feather light enchantment are both set in icromidum stones. Getting through a whole vein of it will take a long time, even with the right tools.

“How can we help?” Lawton asks seriously.

Kamora knocks her head in the direction she came from. “Follow me. I’m sure the ald’der will want to talk to you.”

“Wait. We’ve brought the dead from the Gladfield gate,” Frost interjects, pointing to the cart behind me. “They need to be cremated as soon as possible.”

Kamora makes a distressed noise and hurries over to the cart, looking over the faces of the dead. “What happened?” she demands, turning back to us with pain in her eyes now.

“We’re not sure,” Lawton replies compassionately. “Some kind of necromancy, but it was done with little evidence of the rituals required for it.”

“Magic death.” Kamora spits to the side in disgust. “C’mon, the ald’der will want to know everything.” She grabs the handles of the cart and takes over pulling it into the heart of Mysdille.

Since she’s taken over the heavy lifting, I step in close to Lawton and take his hand, bringing it to my lips as we follow her along. He’s tense and throws a worried look up at me.

“What?” I ask softly.

Lawton presses his mouth into a thin line, waiting several long moments as he looks around before replying in an almost inaudible murmur. “I told you I can sense the living; I didn’t mention I can sense the dead as well. We are surrounded by death, and there’s now only thirty five living creatures in a hundred meters.”

My eyes widen at that. “Someone died just now?”

“Thirty four. Could be animals being butchered for food,” he suggests softly, but he doesn’t look like he believes that.

“How far down is the cave in?” I ask Kamora, wondering if it’s too far down for Lawton to sense.

“They’re all trapped about three hundred meters down,” Kamora replies grimly. “The cave-in is about fifty meters long. We tried clearing it out, but the loose rock above fills in any gap we make and the ald’der declared it’s too dangerous to keep trying that way. We tried attracting any boring voles in the vicinity, but there doesn’t seem to be any in the area, and a plague swept through all the ones we had last week and killed them all.”

Lawton’s pretty face lights up as he smiles, and I’m a little glad Kamora isn’t looking at him, because he looks a little manic right now. “Are there bodies? Did you keep the bodies of the boring voles?”

Kamora snorts. “No. We don’t keep the dead around longer than twelve hours if we can help it. Death spreads too much disease and we’re in too enclosed a space to let that happen. We cremate everything dead that can’t be repurposed into something useful.”

“Damn,” he curses, looking around at the shadowed boundaries of the cavern.

When it’s clear he doesn’t have more to say, Frost takes up the conversation with her cousin, catching up on family things. We traverse the outpost in short order, coming into an outdoor commons with a large cookfire blazing under a huge cauldron of boiling soup or stew. There are benches with a small group of mostly dwarves seated and eating out of largish bowls.

Three taller people sit amongst the dwarves: a human in prisoner's garb, a reptilian pescer with long spikes running down their back, and a fire breathing draconian. They have around their necks prison collars, but otherwise they aren’t chained or bound in any way.

“That’s nice to see.” Lawton indicated the prisoners. “Fasgard has contracts with the dwarves to send our long term prisoners to them to work out their sentences in the mines, and it’s nice to see these three are healthy and their needs are being met. The prison clothes look durable, clean, and well-maintained. I can’t say that's true of all the dock workers in Fairview according to the one time I visited the dock to inspect a shipment of magical artifacts from Jassun.”

Jassun is a country in the north on the other side of the Emerald Sea, and it tends to have excellent relations with all countries. Everyone knows that if you need to escape your current kingdom, Jassun is the place to go; they accept all refugees and their soldiers excel at protecting anyone who crosses their borders. I went once to find someone with a contract on them. The Jassun guard who appeared the moment I found my quarry explained in no uncertain terms that the contract on that woman’s life was null and any future contract would be annulled with deadly force. I didn’t push my luck, and when I returned to the Feud, I told the arbiters there about my encounter, and they put that woman on the No list. Most of the people on the No list live in Jassun, as I found out that day.

As we enter the commons, the eyes of the people there turn toward us. One dwarf in particular stands and starts walking toward us, leaning heavily on a crutch. “Who’s this?” they demand harshly.

Kamora pulls the cart forward as she introduces us. “Ald’der, this is my cousin, Frost the Unbearded, and her adventuring party. They brought us the dead from the Gladfield gate.”

The ald’der grimaces and glances in the cart before looking at the rest of us, eyes coming to rest on Lawton and narrowing. “A fancy necromancer? This deep into the Fasgard lands?” they scoff. “Are we being graced by the son of King Valerian himself?”

Lawton presents himself with a kind smile even though the old dwarf is mocking him. “High Sorcerer Lawton, Prince of Fasgard, here before you. I see that there’s only fifteen of you here. Where is everyone else?”

The ald’der has the sense to correct their mockery with a bow. “My apologies, your highness. I didn’t mean disrespect. We’ve had more than the usual number of necromancers passing through our tunnels in recent months. What you see here is all that is left on this side of the collapse.”

Lawton cocks his head to the side. “Interesting. There’s thirty eight living creatures within a hundred meters. Earlier I sensed some of the number dying, and new creatures have replaced them in the last few minutes. Are there animals?”

The ald’der stills, staring at Lawton. “You sense the living and the dead?”

Lawton nods. “We are surrounded by the dead, Ald’der, but there are more alive around us than what we see here.”

“We’ve been calling for burrowing voles to help, but none have come to our aid. Could it be they’re here, but can’t get to us?” the ald’der questions no one in particular.

“I can go find out. I have a sense of where the dead are,” Lawton offers, squeezing my hand to let me know that he expects me to accompany him.

A small flutter of affection flushes through me at the gesture. I like being in the thoughts of my lovers, and I like that this little prince trusts me with his protection.

“Please do what you can. If there are burrowing voles trying to answer our call and can’t, we want to figure out how to stop whatever is killing them.” The ald’der glances around our group and gives Lawton a decisive nod. “Your highness.”

Lawton nods back and turns to our group. “I don’t need everyone to accompany me, but one or two wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

Tavia scoffs and Frost snorts.

Armus steps up. “I don’t think any of us are willing to allow you out of sight for that long. We’re tasked with getting you there and back safely, and we can’t do that if we let you wander off without us.”

Lawton gives our party a visibly affectionate look. “Of course, what was I thinking?”

Probably that everyone who’s ever been tasked to guard him would take every opportunity to put some distance between themselves and him.

I take a sip of mead to cool the anger that thought puts in my chest. There’s no amount of mead that will make that fact not rage-inducing, but mead does help keep the anger both contained and brief.

A golden quest trail appears leading away from the commons, but before we move, Lawton points to the cart. “Ald’der, these bodies need to be cremated as soon as possible. The person who killed them left them in a state of waiting. If they choose, these corpses may become wights. Best to destroy them before that can happen.”

The Ald’der sneers at the bodies. “Fucking sorcerers. We will get them in the ovens as soon as they’re hot.”

With that, we leave them, following Darian’s quest trail. Once we’re out of sight of the people, I look back to my druid friend. “Where are we heading now?”

Darian shakes his head and nods to Lawton.

Oh. My companion made the trail, like he did when we went to the labyrinth. “Law?” I ask again.

four

lawton

I frown at the glittering quest trail. It’s easy to set quest trails if you have the spell for it, but this one was far easier than I’m used to. “We’re heading to the nearest dead burrowing vole. I barely thought of the quest and the trail appeared, like my magic is eager to follow this side quest.”

“That’s not at all ominous,” Inghram deadpans. “This is going to be interesting.”

Just as he says that, a bat dive bombs him out of nowhere, and he barely manages to duck before it scratches his face.

“I’m pretty sure we’re too deep for bats,” Armus comments as we watch the bat flap away.

“We’re not. Deep-cave bats will roost above dwarven cities if there is sufficient space between them and the people,” Darian says with authority; I’ve seen his key ring, and it has one to the Circle of Animal Friends, so I’m not surprised he knows about bats.

“Well, that’s disheartening,” Inghram whimpers softly.

“Unless the top of this cavern is over a hundred meters up, there aren’t many bats here,” I try to assure him, patting the paladin’s vambrace. I’m not sure how high the cave goes, but I don’t sense any swarms, so there’s that.

My words settle Inghram, and for a while we walk in silence through the town, following the quest trail. The structures are mostly small and squat, fitting dwarves, but we pass a neighborhood of taller structures that look like bunkhouses. I assume those are for the prisoners, and when I duck my head into one, it’s clean, warm, and cozy with plenty of soft decor, games on shelves, and a small bookcase filled with pulp fiction popular in Smos Esten. I’m pleased to discover that the circumstances for our prisoners is rehabilitating rather than repressive.

Armus only trips once along the way with just a minor scrape to his palms, and after that Darian walks next to him and manages to keep him upright the next time a stone jumps up to trip him. About ten minutes later, the quest trail spins in a circle in a wide spot in the path and dives down through the ground.

So, the vole is buried beneath us. That’s easy enough to fix. I hum softly, pulling up my magic as I dig into my backpack. I pull out my staff and hand it to Berklak, then reach back in for a large glass bottle of gray chalk powder. I give that to Berklak as well, then I grab and hand Inghram a leather pouch full of glass vials of my most common ingredients. Next I pull out my paint and paintbrush and push them at Darian. I think that’s all I need, so I swing my backpack behind me and secure it in place again.

I grab the staff from my orc and pace out the diameter of the array I’m about to draw in the packed dirt of the road. “Berklak, I want you to fill the lines I draw with the chalk powder. Thick lines, don’t worry about running out—the container itself is from my supply, and I have a full barrel of chalk powder that feeds it.”

“Am I the only one who thinks it’s weird that the path is dirt?” Inghram asks as I dig my staff in.

I pause, cocking my head to the side as I look at the dirt. “No. I would expect stone too,” I realize.

“The burrowing voles dig out caverns for us, turning stone, minerals, and metals into dirt and dust,” Frost explains. “We pack it down and build on it, hence the dirt paths.”

“I’ve never thought to ask about that,” Berklak admits, intrigued. “I’ve only ever been to established dwarven cities, and the ones I’ve been to put pavers down on their roads.”

Frost explains the relationship dwarves have with the burrowing voles as I draw my array and Berklak follows, filling in the chalk. I’m interested in her culture, but drawing the lines of the array takes all of my concentration, and I miss most of what she says. I get the gist, which is that the voles are as intelligent as wyverns and have a long established relationship with the dwarves. They help the dwarves dig their tunnels and the dwarves protect their nesting grounds. The symbiosis is charming, and maybe in my elder years I’ll be able to spend some time studying it. I love learning about things like that—the relationships between the living interest me as much as the relationships between the living and the dead do.

When we finish the array, I give the staff back to Berklak and close my eyes, chanting under my breath in Cilweitethi, the language of my ancestors. Magic builds around us, then the center of the array begins to shake. The top dust dances for a few seconds before it collapses into a sinkhole. Out of the hole the hairy snout of a sharp, toothy vole emerges. The head takes up the entirety of the eight foot array, and the tip of the snout shoots out of the ground five feet, but that’s more than I need of the creature. Death clings to the creature, and I take the pouch from Inghram, opening it and grabbing three different glass vials, opening them one by one and throwing the contents on the vole. First quartz dust to protect from evil, then quarmaline to extinguish any evil magic lingering, and finally obsidian to open the way for the creature’s spirit to fully inhabit the zombie without turning evil.

“Hey, sweetie,” I whisper to the creature in Dwarvish when it feels like the soul is willing to communicate with me. “Tell us what killed you, my love.”

I don’t speak vole, but the creature starts chittering like it’s alive, and Darian steps up, listening intently. When the chatter stops, he murmurs to me. “There’s a line, and when the vole crossed it, lightning surrounded him and killed him. He was trying to come to the aid of the dwarves trapped below.”

I blow out a breath to give myself a minute so I don’t get too angry about senseless animal deaths. “Well, sweetie, you can help now, if you wish. I can send you to the dwarves for a time.”

The vole chitters for a long minute before Darian says, “He wants you to send his colony to help as well.”

“Happily. I will send everyone I can. I will need to destroy whatever barrier is killing your colony first.” And hopefully get a line on the person responsible for this.

The chitter goes on for a few seconds, then Darian responds, “There are lightning stones buried at the cardinal points of the cavern.”

“Thank you for the information. Let me send you along, and then I will destroy the stones.” Dammit. I can hope the lightning stones hold the magical signature of the sorcerer that created them, but even if I track them down, the likelihood is that it’s just some merchant selling tools to people they shouldn’t.

I grab the paint from Armus and draw just a few symbols onto the snout of the creature. As soon as I finish the last one and infuse my magic into it, the vole disappears into the hole again. I swing my backpack forward again and start putting away my accoutrements. “Ok, lightning stones aren’t easy to destroy, but Berklak’s war hammer can probably do it. We just have to insulate you against the electric shock. You’re going to need an electrical resistance potion. I don’t have one on hand, but I do have the ingredients to brew one.”

“I have one,” Inghram offers, pulling off his travel pack and pulling out a potion bottle with a dark purple mist inside. “I keep elemental resistance potions in case of angry dragons or their smaller relatives.”

“Have you seen dragons?” I blurt, surprised.

Inghram rolls his eyes. “Occasionally my father sends one to challenge me. He hasn’t done that in about five years, but that might be because I kept killing them. It’s ridiculous how well my magic works against dragons.”

“You’ve seen actual dragons? Not just wyverns? Dragons?” Armus demands, as shocked as I am.

Inghram nods slowly, looking at us like we’re crazy. “Of course. I’ve killed at least five of the idiot beasts since I contracted with Benilon.”

Berklak gapes at him. “Most of the rest of the world don’t believe dragons exist anymore,” he says, in as much shock as the rest of us.

It’s Inghram’s turn to gawp. “What? But they’re everywhere. We passed three before we entered the cavern. There were two in the middle of copulating in the fields of the farm. How did you miss that?”

Darian places a hand on Inghram’s head, leaning in. “We didn’t see any dragons. Are you sure they’re real?”

Inghram pulls off a gauntlet and shows us a burned hand. “This is from the first dragon I fought and killed. A red fire-breather. It melted the sword in my hand.”

“Are you saying that dragons are invisible to everyone but you?” Frost asks slowly, her smokey voice utterly astonished.

Inghram shrugs. “I wasn’t saying that, but if you can’t see the dragons that are literally everywhere, then yes?”

“But how have we not figured this out?” I demand. “Dragons eat livestock and leave massive shits that farmers used to use for fertilizer. Dragon shit is so good for crops that we’ve had to double our farming space since their disappearance.”

“I think we would have seen them when we were wearing your gloop if they were actually there,” Armus points out.

“I didn’t see them until the sun rose,” Inghram points out. “They’re very good at hiding in the dark.”

“This is difficult to believe, but I’m sure we can figure out why the dragons are all invisible to everyone but Inghram after we fix the dwarves’ problem,” Berklak points out, and he shakes his head at Inghram.

“We will investigate this,” I assure them all firmly. This very definitely falls under the purview of the high sorcerer of Fasgard to investigate.

I set the quest trail, and Berklak takes the resist shock potion from Inghram. “How long will this last?” he asks.

“It’s for an hour,” Inghram answers with a creaky shrug; if we have to sneak anywhere, we’ll have to leave him behind or help him out of his armor.

“Hopefully that’s long enough,” I grumble. “We are not letting you attack lightning stones without decent protection.”

Berklak leans down and presses his nose into my hair. “I love a protective companion,” he rumbles happily.

“As if I would let you be harmed,” I mumble back, happy for no reason at all except his nearness and affection fill me up with a sense of perfection.

We walk side by side, cuddled together until the quest trail leads us to a spot on the cave wall at the edge of the outpost that has obviously been dug out recently. I pull my staff out and use it to shift through the loose dirt until I find a lightning stone the size of Berklak’s head. Painted on it are runes that direct the magic to not attack people.

That’s a relief. Thankfully Berklak hasn’t consumed the potion yet. I halt him before he uncorks it. “It won’t attack people; you can return that.”

Berklak hands Inghram the potion back, and the paladin returns it to his travel pack.

I stand back and wave Berklak forward. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to—”

“Wait,” Armus interrupts, pushing toward the stone. “These are gravium.” His hushed awe stays all of us, and we shuffle closer to examine them.

I didn’t immediately notice because I was reading the runes rather than looking at the stone, but he’s right, they’re gravium, the impossible stone, as some call it. The secret of how to mine this stone has been lost to the ages; the trees of the orcs might know, but if they did, so would everyone else. It’s the most valuable stone in all of thyr because it’s so fragile to physical assault. It crumbles to dust in the hand if too much pressure is put on it. Its value lies in the fact that once it’s imbued with magic, it is impossible to destroy. Impossible.

“Well, that changes things,” Inghram sighs regretfully.

“Shall we put them in my backpack instead?” I grimace at the thought, because I don’t have any void-cloth on me to make the magic of the stones inert inside my backpack.

“I’m not sure it’s safe to touch,” Armus mutters as he stares at the stone.

It’s beautiful. Gravium consists of swirls of glittery, silvery mineral among all shades of green crystal. This one was somehow polished, cut into a beautiful orb, and planted here in the dirt. The runes painted on it in white limit the magic within, and I’m sure as soon as anyone touches them they’ll smear and turn the stone into a deadly weapon against anything that gets close enough to zap. Like all of us.

“Let me see if I can secure the runes so they don’t rub off. As long as I can protect the paint, we’ll be safe until I can get the lightning stone under some void cloth.”

Someone got it here, but unless they decided to stay in Mysdille and keep the void cloth that they used to carry the stone, we will have to wait until we get to the dwarven city to secure them. I hope the person who buried the stones is still here. I want to ensure that this doesn’t happen again, but given that the runes drawn on it to limit the magic are done in High Elvish—the most common language used for magic users—and absolutely anyone, including nulls, can manipulate magic with runes, there’s no telling who painted these stones. The most interesting question is who was invested enough in Mysdille to leave the most valuable lightning stone I’ve ever seen in the dirt? This stone is worth at least thirty thousand crowns. Burying it is…

Well, if all four stones are the same and we can sell them for their actual value, the seven of us will be independently wealthy after this. My father might decide to pay us off rather than allow us to sell them. I’ll likely request to keep them. I expect my friends here will become landowners very soon after we arrive back to Fairview.

“We should be able to find some void cloth in Drokagard. It’s not a common sale, but the merchants usually keep some on hand in case one of the miners finds something,” Frost tells us.

“Alright then, that settles it,” I decide, pulling my backpack off my shoulders and opening it. I reach in and pull out my grimoire and a charcoal pencil. “I don’t have a preservation spell,” I explain as I open up a blank page. “Perhaps while I’m developing one, you would be kind enough to go unbury the rest. Maybe ask if the ald’der has some void cloth on hand?” It’s going to take me a short time to figure this out. I knew I needed a preservation spell ages ago, but I’d planned to ask at the college—oh that might work. I might be able to just roll the stones into the bowl where I keep my helping hands. It has a stasis spell on it that will probably work to preserve the runes—

Darian stops that thought in its tracks. “I know the preservation spell the trees at the Omgranokk citadel use to preserve the histories. It’s permanent. These stones will do nothing but what the runes describe for the rest of their existence.”

Berklak’s eyes widen at Darian. “How do you know the magic of the trees?” he demands quietly.

The quietude of his question unnerves the rest of us, except Darian, who turns guileless eyes on him. “I asked the trees to teach me.”

Berklak snaps back like Darian slapped him. “The most sacred trees of the orc, the ones who guard history with such zealous fervor that they have refused to allow kings and nobles into their sacred halls on the suspicion that they might trip and fall and maybe disturb some of the artifacts—these trees shared their preservation magic with you? Orcs don’t even know their secrets.”

Darian stares silently at Berklak for a short time before huffing out an exasperated breath. “Orcs don’t have innate magic. You rely on the trees for the little passive magic you do need, and they happily provide you with it because your dependence on them feeds them in return. They wouldn’t share their spells with you because you wouldn’t be able to use them. They wouldn’t share their secrets with the unworthy because they have you to protect them from the wrath of those who don’t deserve to know their spells. When I found myself in Omgranokk after our time together, I visited the temple citadel, and I asked the trees to teach me so that I could be a better druid, so that I could care for my grove better, and they taught me how to take care of my grove and how to work with the magic in the trees. They trust me to disseminate, or not, the knowledge they’ve shared with me, and I think Law needs the preservation spell.”

With every word that passes across Darian’s lips, Berklak relaxes again, and by the end of his friend’s speech, Berklak’s lips lift with a small, surprised, and affectionate smile. “I’m surprised, but if I ever question my judgment when it comes to the character of people, remind me that I decided to make you my friend before you ever spoke a single word to me.”

Darian slow blinks at him and reaches out to touch his shoulder before turning back to me. “I will write it for you, but you mustn’t share it with anyone until you visit the trees in Omgranokk. They’re patient and will wait for you to come to them, but don’t push their patience to its limit.”

I nod vigorously and hand him my grimoire and the pencil. “I’ll visit when we go together with Berklak.”

Darian gives me a single dip of his chin then starts writing in my grimoire. He’s the only person other than me to write in it. It will be interesting to learn what language he works in. While he writes, I check in with Berklak. He doesn’t look upset like he did before Darian’s explanation, but he appears pensive as he stares at the lightning stone.

“What’re you thinking, my dear?” I ask softly, pressing in close and craning my neck to look up at him.

He bites his upper lip and lets it go. “Someone buried these stones here to keep the boring voles away from the outpost, and then a collapse trapped the miners in a place in the stone where they have to get specialized equipment to unbury them. This screams of sabotage, but why? I’m wondering why anyone would want to kill an entire outpost of dwarven wardens and their prisoners. Was this a prison break? Or something else?”

“Very good questions, and we will investigate as soon as we’ve stopped the murder of the boring voles and helped reach the people trapped below,” I promise. If this is the work of a necromancer, the slow death doesn’t make sense. If it's not, I can’t imagine who’s so determined to get a prisoner out of the mines that they would risk killing everyone.

“And why were so many people down there at the same time?” Frost interjects grimly. “Every mine has at least a hundred prisoners and fifty wardens. Why were they all down there except for the few we saw? We work in two shifts, half a day each shift. We don’t all go down into the mine at once. Why were most of the workers down there?”

“That is strange,” Tavia agrees as Darian finishes scratching into my grimoire and hands it back to me.

The others pass around questions and theories as I read the preservation spell. It’s written in Orcish, which shouldn’t surprise me but does. I suspect Darian kept the language it was developed in out of respect, and thankfully my studies consisted of three languages of the north, and my father insisted I learn Orcish. I can’t imagine his motivation for making me learn the language of the orcs but not forcing any of the siblings to do the same, but if he thought for a moment I might learn the secrets of the trees, that might be enough explanation. I’ll have to figure out how to thank him for his foresight.

The spell is simple and requires ironbark, which I keep in abundance, so I reach into my backpack and pull out the pot I keep it in. I retrieve a small piece of the metallic shaving and hold it over the stone as I study the spell. I want to try modifying it so that it’s not a permanent preservation, which I think I can do by switching out the words that describe the lifetime of the roots of the trees of life. Instead of their roots, I formulate a stanza that fits into the spell that describes the passing of one season to the next, and I whisper the altered spell in the language of the trees. The ironbark melts out of my hand, dripping onto the stone and covering it in a translucent sheen of protective magic that traps the runes against the stone. As soon as the magic lets me know the spell is complete, I reach out to pick up the stone, nearly jumping out of my skin when the others all suddenly protest loudly.

I pull back and quickly turn to them. “What?”

Armus reaches out but balls his hand into a fist. “Berklak should pick it up just in case, you id—” he explains, cutting himself off and shaking his head.

Berklak nods, reaching out to take the lightning stone. “It’s too risky for you to handle them. I will put these into your backpack.”

“I won’t be able to retrieve them if you do it,” I point out.

“Exactly. You can put them in after you’ve covered them with void cloth.” He slips the stone into my backpack, and then it’s gone for anyone who isn’t Berklak.

“This is a security measure,” Tavia starts.

“And we’re not compromising on it,” Frost finishes.

Armus and Inghram both nod in agreement, and that’s it for me. I take other people’s security measures with all due respect, so if my bodyguards say I’m not to touch the lightning stones, then I won’t.

“Understood. I will let Berklak handle the stones until I can cover them in void cloth,” I promise as my heart flutters at how caring toward me these friends are, and I can’t help the smile that cracks my face open. “Were you going to call me an idiot?” I ask Armus as I lean against Berklak because he’s right here and wonderful and I love touching him.

Armus grimaces. “I apologize, your highness.”

I click my teeth at him. “Don’t start with that again. It feels like a term of endearment, not an insult.”

Armus laughs softly. “It might be. I think I’ve only ever called my sister an idiot.”

“Well, then, I refuse to be offended,” I clap and grab my backpack. “Let’s get rid of the other stones, shall we?”

five

berklak

The ald’der rushes over to us as soon as we return from retrieving the lightning stones. Fortunately nothing went wrong while we did that. Their face is covered by a beautiful bushy beard, so when they approach, I look at their eyes to figure out if they’re happy or upset with the zombie Lawton sent to help them. What I see there is relief, but there’s something else, an undercurrent of anger.

“Thank you, whatever you did. We have a host of boring voles now digging out the tunnel. They’ll have the people trapped down there out in a few hours,” the ald’der tells us, bowing to Lawton. “It would be our honor to host a feast to celebrate this evening.”

Frost steps up next to Lawton, and I take up his other side, because yeah, there’s something off with the ald’der. Lawton shifts back a little which puts both me and Frost slightly ahead of him, where we should be.

“I’m glad we’ve helped, and we would be honored to feast with you. But tell me, Ald’der, who is the person who decides which prisoners and wardens are on what shifts? Who sent so many people into the mine all at once?” he questions, keeping his tone gentle but firm.

The ald’der squints at him. “I know it’s unusual that we have everyone on one shift, but I made that change months ago. We’ve been all one shift since the beginning of spring.”

Lawton furrows his brow. “Why did you switch to all one shift? How did the tunnel collapse and who would want to sabotage your rescue efforts?”

The ald’der’s bushy brows twitch upwards. “Sabotage?”

“There was a deadly trap keeping the boring voles from coming when you called for them. That was not done accidentally,” Lawton explains.

That undercurrent of anger surges to the surface, but the ald’der immediately buries it again. I’m glad I haven’t returned my war hammer to its harness. I don’t have to reach for it, which would be an obvious sign of aggression, and I’m trying to be subtle about the sense of imminent threat I have crawling up the back of my neck. I haven’t survived this long as an adventuring orc by ignoring my instincts.

“I switched because it made sense. Everyone was happier on the same shift. We’re wardens of prisoners, but we’re not trying to make them worse people when their time in the Underthyr is up. We want them to go back to their home countries better people than they are when they come to us. We want happy prisoners, and they wanted the same shift. We’re not so large an outpost that it’s impossible to do that.” The ald’der’s eyes tell a different version of the happenings than their voice. Steady voice, eyes searching for an escape—they’re hiding something or outright lying.

“Ald’der, if you don’t mind my asking, are you a female, and are you married?” Lawton asks soothingly.

The ald’der gapes at him and swallows hard. “I—I am. Why?”

“Are you upset with your spouse? Are you married to a male?”

Oh. Oof. He thinks this is another problem like the one with his father’s wife and the women who’ve been attempting murder in Fairview.

The ald’der huffs and crosses her arms. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Ald’der!” another dwarf calls, running up to us. This one also looks angry.

In fact, as I look around the small community space, most of the dwarves look angry with few exceptions. Even the non-dwarves look like they’re struggling to keep their heads. “Is everyone up here female?” I ask, looking around. The human could pass as male, but I think they’re female. Only pescers can tell the difference between male and females of their own kind because the difference is in their scent, and the draconian is obviously female.

“Well, yes, all the men were trapped below,” the ald’der replies harshly. “Again I ask, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Are there any women below?” Lawton presses.

The ald’der glares at us. “Of course there are. About a third of the people below are female.”

Lawton blows out a breath and shakes his head. “Why is the gender disparity so heavily in favor of men, Ald’der? I was under the impression that dwarves didn’t usually operate mines like this.”

The dwarf that came up snorts, angrily punching her open hand. “The women lost their wits at the beginning of summer. They attacked the men and wouldn’t stop. We had to execute the ones that didn’t die trying to kill the men.”

The ald’der nods, visibly growing angrier. “It’s the law, your highness. If the prisoners riot, deadly force is used to protect the wardens. We lost a hundred female prisoners. We’ve told the council, but they can’t conjure up female prisoners.”

“I see,” Lawton hums thoughtfully.

“ALD’DER!!”

The voice hollering is full of panic and is soon followed by another running dwarf coming from the mining tunnel where the collapse happened. “There’s screaming, Ald’der. From below. Something’s happening!”

The ald’der’s response turns my ears greener than usual and makes me wonder how dwarves have better expletives than orcs. I’m pretty sure she could make my father blush, and he’s a hundred years older than me.

“There’s nothing we can do about whatever is happening down there,” the ald’der growls, stomping toward the tunnels.

Lawton follows with the rest of us guarding him. I still feel like any moment we’re going to be attacked, and I’m not about to ignore that feeling, even if nothing comes of it. “I can send my raskar through to find out what is happening,” Lawton offers, pulling his pet zombie out of his pocket.

The ald’der side-eyes him. “You’re not elher.”

Lawton shrugs. “I’m a necromancer and my raskar is a bonded zombie. I used the elher bond potential to create one between us.”

The dwarf grunts. “Fucking necromancers,” she grumbles.

The rest of the descent passes in silence, though the burden of threat increases as the air warms with every passing meter. I exchange a glance with Frost and Tavia, who both nod to acknowledge that they also feel the threat.

When we get to the tunnel collapse, the screams from the other side are muted, but easily recognizable. The collapse has been cleared about fifteen feet by a swarm of large boring voles that are steadily eating through the debris. Above, another swarm works on the loosened rock to keep it from falling on the voles working below.

Lawton releases his raskar into the debris of the tunnel collapse and we watch the critter disappear into the maze. If there’s a way through to the other side, that little creature will find it and report back to Lawton what is happening.

My stomach tightens and I shift my hold on my war hammer into a ready position, adjusting my stance. Over my shoulder, I lock eyes with Darian, who draws his bow and puts his back to mine. It eases some of the anxiety. Frost readies her daggers and Tavia knocks an arrow while Armus pulls out his flute and starts playing a tune that crawls over the boring voles and puts them into a synchronous rhythm that speeds up their efforts.

For an hour we listen to the screams, advancing with the voles as they turn rock into dirt, then suddenly a boom rocks the cavern and the screaming cuts off. A shudder of fear rolls through me, and I’m not one to give fear much thought. I turn my head to suck down some mead, keeping an eye on the dwarves around us as I chug down a significant portion of my small barrel. I’ll have to refill it when this nonsense is over.

Lawton’s raskar returns shortly after the screaming stops, and Lawton stares at the thing as it shares all it’s seen with him, then he offers the zombie an ear worm and watches it eat the thing as he gives us a grim warning. “Prepare for zombies. The ones lost in the initial collapse rose and started killing and turning the others. Louiselle says there are survivors that have collapsed another part of the tunnel, but there’s two hundred zombies between us and them. I want everyone who’s fighting in a line behind the voles. I’m going to pull guardians from the aethyr for every fighter. You and your guardian will fight together, but I have to tie the guardian to you in order to give them corporeality.”

The ald’der turns to one of the dwarves that joined us down here. “Get everyone who’s fit to fight.”

The dwarf legs it back up the tunnel and the ald’der turns to Lawton. “How did the dead rise?”

Lawton shakes his head. “I can sense magic, and I can sense the necromantic magic on the other side, but I can’t distinguish the difference between a necromancer and their zombies. They’re all carrying the same magic.” He lets out a growl and his usually happy face scowls at the space in front of him.

While we wait, Lawton starts drawing an array made up of two intersecting circles. Once the array is drawn, he motions to me. “Step into the circle.” He points to the one furthest from him. “Careful.”

I step over the lines of the array and stand in the circle. Lawton’s magic fills the array as he chants his spell, singing in low tones. The pressure inside the circle increases with every word, and then as soon as the last note ends, the pressure pops, and in the other circle is the shimmer of a guardian spirit.

In Orcish, the spirit calls to me with a laugh, “Hello, brother! I’ve come to aid you!”

“Take his hand, and carefully step out of the circle,” Lawton instructs us.

I hold out my hand and the spirit slaps his into mine, and it feels just like greeting my kin. Careful not to scuff the array, I step out of the circle, and Frost immediately replaces me.

I take up my place next to Lawton, and the spirit mirrors me. “Call me Tavter,” the spirit tells me. “I’ve seen some of your adventures. I watched when you destroyed the wight army at King’s Crossing. I’m excited to fight with you.”

“Thank you for coming to my aid, Tavter,” I say, genuinely pleased to have an admirer at my side, even if he’s dead. “I didn’t realize you could see the lives of the living from the aethyr.”

“Ah, once you’re there, you can look into the world if you choose. The great battles are usually viewed by groups together. You had quite an audience for King’s Crossing. Many of us were annoyed by the necromancer that raised that army. We were delighted to see you annihilate the bodies so the spirits could be returned to us.”

The army of wights was about a hundred strong, and I did defeat them alone, but I’m glad I don’t have to face two hundred zombies alone, even if zombies are less powerful than wights. They’re contagious, unlike wights, and that’s the danger of them. Only a necromancer can stop a person from becoming a zombie from just one bite, whereas wights have to be raised by a necromancer and can’t turn anyone else into one of their number.

Tavter talks to me as I watch Lawton bring each person in our party a spirit guardian. Everyone gets a spirit of their own species except Frost, who gets a grumpy dwarf spirit. Tavia and Frost both giggle about that, tickled that even the dead dwarves refuse to acknowledge that she’s a halfling.

Lawton leans against me once everyone has their own spirit guardians, weary from the expense of magic. I wrap my arms around him and he laughs at the women’s amusement. “I kind of love that the dwarves have claimed her so thoroughly they’re in deliberate denial of her species. He doesn’t even want to be here, but he says the choice was him or some elf spirit that thought she could claim Frost’s ancestry, and he wasn’t going to let a stranger put some claim on a dwarf.”

“We don’t deny her species; we acknowledge our adoption and refuse to make her feel like less than what she is, which is a dwarf,” Frost’s cousin interjects softly. “Frost will never feel unwelcome among her people. Dwarves are a people with many species counted among us. We adopt all species of orphans and every orphan we adopt becomes a dwarf. We might be a little grumpy about outsiders, but the ones raised among us are ours.”

“Culturally dwarf is as good as biologically dwarf,” Lawton hums happily.” I love that.”

Kamora grunts and nods. “Eh dwerf tis eh dwerf tis eh dwerf.”

Lawton sways and leans more heavily against me.

“You overexerted yourself,” I accuse softly.

He sighs. “I’ll be fine when the voles are done. I’ll take back my magic from the one I raised and it will give me what I need to make it through this battle. I’ll be playing healer, though. I won’t be able to put up defenses.”

“Acceptable,” I assure him. “Keep us from turning and we’ll end the zombie outbreak.”

Lawton nods, closing his eyes for a moment. “Perfect.”

I lean my war hammer up against my hip and lift the sweet necromancer into my arms, hugging him close so he can relax until he can refresh with the magic holding the voles together. If I could offer him my own magic, I would. I don’t have any, but I want to give him what little I have. It’s nothing, but it would help him. He could access the energy he needs and maybe he wouldn’t have to expend so much it wipes him out like this again.

I want to give him everything. Some desperate part of me wants to be everything for my little companion, but I know that’s impossible. I can’t very well be the food that feeds him, unless he can survive on cum, which I doubt. I don’t know anyone who can survive on only cum. Even elhers require actual meat, and they’re the most voracious lovers I’ve ever known.

Lawton goes limp in my arms with a sigh, and I hold him close, pressing my lips to his hair and inhaling deeply. If I could, I would give you all my excess, little lover. You deserve everything good.

Protective of my necromancer, I keep an eye on all the dwarves that joined us. Notably absent are the human, pescer, and draconian, but arming prisoners isn’t the best idea, so it’s good they stayed behind. The spirit guardians keep their people occupied with interesting stories, and for a while the strangeness of what Lawton has given us feels normal. Even the dwarves, who hate magic, talk to their dwarven spirit guardians, who also hate magic, but have given in to Lawton’s call out of a sense of community.

After about ten minutes, a yawn cracks my jaw just as Lawton wakes up from his power nap. His eyes glow bright purple for just a moment before he smiles brightly. “Hello, handsome.”

“Hello, sexy,” I reply, relieved to see him feeling so much better.

“Thank you for holding me,” he says, squirming to get down.

I set him on his feet, happy when he looks around with the same spark of energy that he usually has. “That was a quick recovery,” I comment happily.

Lawton gives me a confused look. “How long did I nap?”

“Ten minutes maybe.”

He looks startled. “Huh. I feel like I’ve been out for hours.” He glances around and shrugs. “Good thing I wasn’t, though. It looks like the voles are nearly through.”

I follow his gaze to the voles who’ve carved out the tunnel over the last few hours, and yes, one of them breaks through the other side of the collapse. As soon as that one is through, it scurries away, retreating back down the tunnel.

One by one, each vole breaks through, then the voles above abandon their tunneling as well, and soon, we’re in a line facing the backsides of hundreds of zombies. They’re all trying to get through the other collapse, and as soon as I see the advantage, I let the rage that lives within me turn everything red. My focus narrows and I charge, bringing my war hammer down on the first zombie. It crumbles under my onslaught, dying with one strike.

“WEAK!” I scream at them all, getting their attention so I can…

Kill. Them. All.

six

lawton

I don’t have time to seriously worry about why I feel like my magic is completely refilled after a ten minute nap because Berklak starts the battle with a war cry that sends mixed signals through my body and tells my dick that it’s go time. It’s definitely not that kind of go time, but I take the signal and run with it in the appropriate direction. Zombies are ridiculously easy to kill and as stupid as—well, as stupid as brainless zombies. They’re driven by nothing more than the instinct to reproduce, but so as long as no one gets bit and hides it, we can end this outbreak here and now.

Over the din of the battle, I project my voice, using a little amplification spell. “If you get bit, holler for me so I can heal you!”

I don’t even need to touch them since zombies are well within my domain. All I have to do is pull the magic out of them before they turn. I can do that with the zombies as well, but with the full-fledged zombies we’re fighting, it would take an array.

Hmm. There’s an idea. It’s a rather simple array, just a funnel to take the power inside them and move it into me.

Looking around, I find my protectors have me surrounded while Berklak takes on the brunt of the force we’re fighting. Feeling as safe as I can be in the midst of a battle, I duck down and start drawing the array in the dirt. It takes me longer to make it because I draw it bigger than I normally would, but normally I’m defeating zombie spiders that I created, soooo…

Listen, sometimes necromancers get bored, and sometimes we might find ourselves in labyrinths, and sometimes we create mock battles in order to keep from going stir crazy. I’m not saying I do this, I’m just saying it happens sometimes.

Anyway, as soon as it’s drawn, I pull another piece of ironbark out and speak the preservation spell over it. It works wonders, so I holler at Tavia and Frost, who’re working together to keep the zombie horde away from me. “If you shove them into my array I can take the magic out of them!”

The first zombie into the array is thrown there by Armus, who somehow ends up on his back and tosses the zombie on him into my array with his feet. The array immediately pulls the magic out of the zombie and I grab the corpse to move it out of the way.

“I got this,” one of the spirit guardians announces, pulling the body out of my array. “Go heal my person,” he says.

I immediately see one of the dwarves decapitate a zombie that got her arm.

I snap at the wound, pulling the contagious magic out of it. The wound doesn’t heal immediately, but it does stop bleeding, and that’s good enough for now.

Another zombie flies into my array and collapses, and I hear my name. I pull the magic out of the next zombie bite, and the next, and one by one, zombies are thrown into my array and the magic from them funnels into me and straight to the zombie spider guarding the surface entrance above us.

A scream rends the air, and I’m moving toward it before I even really process what it is.

“Woah!” several voices say one after another as I push through the front line, ducking zombies.

“GO!” someone shouts.

“Stay on him!”

“What the fuck?!”

The scream pulls my attention away from the chaos behind me even as I run deeper into the horde. The zombies are batted away as they move toward me, and it takes me a second to see the shimmer of the spirits following me and running ahead of me while they keep the horde off me. What the fuck? I brought them forth to protect the others, why are they—?

I roll my eyes at my new bodyguards, but I accept that I have broken protocol and it's easier for the spirits to follow me than it is for my companions to keep pace.

The scream diverts my attention again, and this time I break through the horde to find a woman with glowing purple eyes being eaten by a land octopus, also known as a polymorph. Fuck.

She screams again upon seeing me, reaching for me through the arms of the polymorph. I scroll through the list of spells I can use on a polymorph and land on my vampiric transfer just as three of the polymorph’s arms fling toward me. I speak the spell as I fight to stay free, but the polymorph captures me without any struggle at all, dammit. I’m not weak, but it looks like it’s having better luck than me at the moment.

I finish the damn spell as the polymorph squishes me against the other necromancer, which is actually perfect. The spell starts transferring the life energy of the polymorph into the necromancer, healing the wounds the thing has inflicted on her.

I know that I’m healing the person responsible for the zombie horde, and I realize that if I bring her before my father, she will be executed. I’m probably just delaying her death somehow and giving myself a disadvantage, but if she’s a victim like I think my father’s wife is a victim, then it would be unjust of me to kill her when she likely wouldn’t do this if the magic corrupting Fasgard wasn’t affecting her. She deserves a chance to be good without the influence of dark magic, and while the dwarves hate magic, they hate it all equally, so being a necromancer isn’t more of a problem than being a hedge witch, which means they’ll give her equitable justice if she’s the victim of magical influence.

Two of the arms holding me fall off, severed by an attack from a spirit, and I manage to escape the polymorph’s hold, grabbing the woman’s wrist and the polymorph’s arm to continue the transfer. She writhes in its hold and with my help finally manages to escape. Three spirits attack the polymorph, hacking it to bits as the other necromancer and I back up.

I immediately cast a hold spell on her and then manifest a disc under her feet that floats up and makes it easy to move her.

She can do nothing, and with the spirits killing the polymorph, escaping to relative safety is easy. As I find a place to settle her, a roar shakes the cavern, and I turn to find my barbarian orc mashing zombies into pulpy messes with his war hammer, raging at anything that gets in his way. Behind him a trail of death lays wasted. He finishes the polymorph off, robbing the spirits of their victory, and then all that’s left is the woman behind me. I step between the raging orc and her, putting up a minor ward just in case he tries to go through me, but upon seeing me, he stutters to a stop, dropping his weapon and grabbing for me.

He bounces off the ward once before I let it go, then I’m in his arms, sucking on his tongue, assuring him of my health and safety as he comes down from his battle rage. Fuck me, he’s the sexiest thing in all of thyr, even when he’s covered in blood and viscera.

It’s not like the flesh of the dead bothers me; covering himself in gore is definitely more of a turn on than anything gross.

Of course, I lose my grip on the necromancer as soon as I start kissing Berklak, but from her indignant screech, someone else captures her just fine.

I revel in Berklak’s talented tongue for just a little while longer before finally pulling back and looking into his beautiful dichromatic eyes. “I need to make sure no one else got bit.”

Which should have been a priority because timing matters, but all I need is line of sight.

Berklak helps me back to my feet, and I start pulling the contagious magic out of the seven people with bites, filtering it through me and back to the spider, which is now full of more magic than I can comfortably hold. Perfect. I wanted that, and I’d emptied the old girl while I was calling for the spirit guardians.

As soon as everyone is clear of the magic, I start making rounds to heal anyone who needs it. Tavia and Frost both grin through bloodied lips, but when I approach, it’s only Tavia who’s injured. I fix the split lip and the bite on her arm and wink at them on my way to the next person. All the dwarves refuse healing except the one whose hand is dangling by a thread. She explains she nearly lost it to Armus’ sword and gives the xenecar a disgusted look.

He glowers back at her. “Don’t put your hand in the arc of an ally’s swing.”

Knowing how clumsy he is, and that he takes responsibility for his clumsiness, I’m inclined to think the accident is her fault. I don’t say that, though. No sense in antagonizing our hosts.

After her hand is properly reattached and healed, I find Inghram sitting in a pool of his own blood with thorns growing out of his face. His face crumples in pain as Darian helps him out of his armor and clothes. Down to his small clothes, he’s covered in the thorns and weeping blood faster than is healthy.

I kneel beside him. “Should I heal you?” I ask, and he whimpers.

“Believe it or not, this is a healing spell,” he gasps, panting between each word.

I shake my head at that. “This isn’t healing.”

He gives me a wretched smile. “Welcome to the life of an apostate Sepferaline.” He pants for a moment then nods to his body. “If someone would be so kind as to break the thorns off, I’ll heal up just fine.”

Darian makes a low sound in his throat, then reaches into his purse, pulling out pruning shears. “This is cruel,” he mutters, snapping off a thorn.

Immediately the skin closes over.

Inghram laughs, spitting blood onto his lips. “Some make wishes motivated by cruelty. My father can be as spiteful as any maelysou.”

Darian growls, eyes flashing with anger as he quickly and efficiently cuts off all the thorns, even the two that sprouted beneath Inghram’s small clothes. We turn Inghram over and he takes care of the back, and when all the thorns are gone, Inghram sighs in relief, completely healed.

“My thanks, Darian,” he says, allowing the druid to pull him to his feet. “Next time I’ll just suffer the concussion.”

I look around to find his helmet meters away back where the battle started, dented in on one side. “Were the zombies armed?” I hadn’t noticed any weapons among them.

“Some had pick axes,” Inghram explains. “I’ll have to take it to a smith.”

I nod, then my attention is brought back to the other necromancer by another indignant screech. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Stay right where you are and no one will!” the ald’der retorts.

I jog over to the woman, examining her as I do. Her eyes are still glowing like she’s using magic, but my magic sense isn’t detecting active magic. It’s more like she’s agitated and her magic is reacting to it by gathering and preparing for anything. I stop before her, looking up at the tall human.

She glares at me with pure hatred and spits on me. “Don’t fucking touch me!” she reiterates.

“Someone grab my backpack,” I call out, grabbing Berklak’s wrist and pulling him in close. I can certainly protect myself from her, but I need Berklak next to me. I don’t know why…my instincts are telling me I need him close, which is weird, but I’m not going to dismiss weird because it’s unusual.

“What’s your name?” I question as I pull my magic in close and start forming it into a spell.

She sneers at me, and I speak the charm chant. My magic wraps around her. She puts up a paltry resistance, then falls under my spell, smiling dopily at me. “You’re so pretty.”

I smile back. “Thank you. You are pretty as well. What’s your name, sweetie?”

She giggles behind her hand. “I’m Meris Hoofer. What’s your name?”

“Prince Lawton Fairkin of Fasgard. Where are you from, Meris?”

“I came from Ender.” She looks around confused for a moment. “You know, I was meant to tell the guard something.”

“You can tell me, I’m the prince, after all.”

She smiles, relieved. “Oh good. Yes. I was meant to tell the guard that the magic had rotted. The forest turned on us. We’ve lived in balance with the forest, and now the magic has gone off and the forest is full of hatred.”

“The Ender Forest has turned on the residents of Ender?” I ask, shocked. That forest has lived in balance with Enderfolk for thousands of years.

“It’s not the forest. It’s the magic,” she insists, then leans toward me with a silly smile. “I think that’s what’s happened to me too, you know? I’m so angry all the time. I thought Hajile wanted to marry, but he sent me away. I know he needed me to go, but I’m so angry. Why am I so angry?” she asks, suddenly crumpling. “I hate magic,” she says, as black tears fall from her eyes.

I reach out and stop. “May I gather a tear, Meris?” I ask before touching her.

She wipes her face and holds out her hand to me. I lean over her hand, frowning at the black sludge falling from her eyes.

“Just a moment. I need a vial,” I tell her as Tavia jogs up with my backpack.

I reach in and grab an empty glass vial. Unstopping it, I whisper a spell to form the tears into a ball that I move into the vial. I stopper it and release the spell. The sludge immediately loses its form.

“Sweetie, did you bury the lightning stones in the cavern to keep the voles out?” I ask gently as I pocket the vial.

Meris looks lost for a moment, shaking her head. “I don’t have any lightning stones. I don’t think I could even buy them. Aren’t they restricted?”

“They are, but I didn’t know if you happen to have a key to the Mercenary’s Company or some other guild with access to buy them.”

“Oh no, sir. I’ve never made my way to Wayfarer’s Rest.” She sighs. “I wish I’d gone there instead.”

“Where were you going? Do you remember how you came to be here?” Maybe she has some answers for us since she seems to be a woman out of place.

“I was heading to King’s Crossing to report the rotten magic, but at Iche Outpost there was viltz. The soldiers kept them from entering the village, but I was on the outside. They brought me down here, but when they attacked the dwarves, I escaped. I killed people, I think, with my magic. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I panicked and then I was so very angry, and I think I hurt a lot of people.”

Ah fuck. This is the necromancer that stole all those souls? Dammit, if she panicked and her magic flared, that could explain what we encountered. Young sorcerers without any training can often do things that require arrays for everyone else. Magic can be capricious, which is why sorcerers must be trained to control the magic instead of allowing the magic to control them.

Unfortunately for this young woman, she won’t have the opportunity to do that. “Meris, I’m going to bind your magic so that you don’t do anything else in your anger. I’m going to make sure you can’t magically hurt anyone else.”

Meris sniffles and wipes more of the black tears off her face. “Sure. I’ve never used it before. I won’t miss it. Am I going to be executed?” she asks, pleading with me with her eyes.

“We aren’t in Fasgard. We’re in Drokagard Underthyr, and the dwarves have their own laws; it’ll be up to the ald’der what to do with you, but I will speak on your behalf.”

Her smile shows her absolute relief at hearing that. “Oh, thank you, Prince Lawton. Thank you.”

I nod once and turn to the ald’der. “I know exactly what rotten magic she’s speaking of. I believe you are all being affected by it, but we can speak about that in a bit. I’m going to permanently bind her magic. She won’t be any more dangerous than the rest of us, even less so as the Enderfolk are typically peaceful.”

The ald’der grimaces but nods once. “I’ll call back the voles to help with this collapse,” she grits out, then stomps away.

I turn to Meris. “I have to touch your hands to bind your magic, my dear. Is that ok?”

By way of answer, she offers me her hands.

I take them in mine and swirl my magic around her, tuning it to the magic within her. As necromancers, our magics can oscillate together, and I seduce hers into tuning itself to the same vibration as mine, then I draw both magics into me, sending the excess down the line to the spider. When I’ve pulled all her magic out, I use mine to create a dense fog to refill her well. Usually this will only plug the well of a sorcerer so that it doesn’t refill with magic for no more than a week before the spell fades, but in an act of inspiration, I pull out another piece of ironbark and speak the spell of the trees over the fog. The ironbark turns to mist that enters into Meris’ nose, and then it surrounds the fog within her and forms the perfect preservation barrier around it.

Meris will never feel the lack of magic even though she’ll never regain access to it. I feel sorry for her, but in order to protect her, this is the best thing I can do for her.

Her purple eyes lose their glow and settle into a color that will be mistaken for blue except in direct sunlight. I smile at her as I step back into Berklak’s arms. “All done, sweetie. I think you’ll be able to return home very soon.”

She sighs, relieved. “Thank you, Prince Lawton.”

“You’re welcome, Meris.”

seven

berklak

Normally I love feasts, but this one has a distinct lack of mead. I would feel sorry about that, except the idea of sharing the mead I looted fairly makes me more uncomfortable than feasting without it, so I bear the discomfort. Lawton hasn’t given me much attention since the feast started; he spent the first part talking to the ald’der about Meris and what should be done with her (she’s going to spend a few months working the mines and then they’ll escort her home). After that he started wandering. I’ve followed him all over the place, watching as he flits from table to table, speaking with anyone willing to talk to him. He’s asking a lot of questions, and I get the impression that he’s trying to figure out who’s responsible for the lightning stones.

So far, my suspicion is on the ald’der, who is very angry even if she’s hiding it. Her husband greeted us and introduced himself, but I haven’t seen the two of them speaking to each other besides more than a few murmured words. It’s like they don’t even like each other, and why would two dwarves stay married if they don’t? That makes no sense. People live long lives, and most people have multiple spouses throughout their lives. Orcs aren’t the type to discard spouses, and neither are the elhers, but dwarves, humans, and pescers all tend to form bonds that fade over time and will have three or four spouses over the course of their lives. It’s expected that when spouses decide it’s time, that they announce their intention to unmarry, and then they separate their lives and move on. Those two seem like they should be well past the announcement by now.

I wonder if Lawton’s the type to unmarry a spouse. Usually the royals just add to their households rather than unmarry their spouses or dismiss their concubines. Bringing in new people keeps everyone happy, according to some of the nobles I’ve taken as companions. However, Lawton doesn’t have a household. Because he’s a necromancer, he was never given the same accommodations as his siblings.

A fist comes flying in Lawton’s direction, and I catch it before it can make contact, stepping into the face of the draconian daring to assault my prince. “In my book, assaulting the high sorcerer of Fasgard will get you beaten, but laying hands on my lover gets you dead,” I growl, crushing the draconian’s hand in my fist. His dense bones are harder to break than most other people, but I manage to snap a few.

The draconian whimpers and starts talking so fast and in such a thick brogue that I don’t quite understand what they’re saying, except perhaps somewhere in there was an apology.

Lawton places a hand on the forearm of the hand I’m using to crush his bones. “Thank you, Berklak. I think he’s just stupid-drunk and needs to sleep. He’s one of the wardens and took exception to my asking if he and his wife are fighting.”

Dwarves only marry dwarves, so he must be a dwarf like Frost is. It explains the accent coming from a draconian, although not what he’s been drinking to get this drunk.

“Where’d you get the drink?” I demand, releasing his hand.

Instead of telling me, he points to a table where someone set up a bunch of wine bottles while I wasn’t looking. It’s not mead, but it’ll do for a thirsty orc.

Taking Lawton’s hand, I pull him toward the wine table. “It’s not exactly my drink of choice, but my barrel’s empty and I need to refill it, but I don’t want to do that while everyone is looking, you know? They’ll want me to share,” I grumble, shuddering at the thought.

Lawton giggles beside me and starts pulling me away from the wine table. “Come with me. I’ll save you from the wine.”

Whatever he has planned, I follow eagerly.

Lawton leads me on a winding trail through the outpost, looking left and right every so often until he finds an empty space behind a few buildings that could be residences where a sturdy dwarven table sits with just a few mining tools on it. We clear the table, Lawton speaks a few syllables in Cilweitethi, and a barrel of mead appears on the table ready to be tapped. I whimper happily, pulling out my hammer and tap to immediately get to work on it. As soon as it’s ready, I pull out a tankard from my travel pack and fill it, gulping down the contents like the thirsty orc I am, immediately refilling it.

“Thank you, love. I was desperate and you saved me,” I tell him, reeling him in for a spicy kiss that promises him orgasmic rewards for being my hero tonight.

Lawton giggles as he draws back, looking up at me with the same adoration I’m feeling for him right now. “You’re welcome. How is it?”

“Lavender and hedgeberries make for a very sweet mead, putting it in a barrel ages it a bit and gives it the sharp bite that orcs love, and dwarven mead is particularly good. This is quality—” I take a deep breath and swallow back the difficulty of what I’m about to say as I hold up the tankard. “D-do you want a sip?”

Lawton doesn’t even hesitate. He tips a swallow into his mouth and hums softly as he lets it rest there to get a good taste of it. It’s unsurprisingly cold, since it’s spent so much time in the veil, and when he does swallow, he smiles up at me. “That is surprisingly sweet and quite delicious. Thank you for letting me have some.”

I’m pretty sure the only reason I offer him another swallow is because I’m stupidly in love with him. I don’t know how it happened, but I can’t say I’m surprised. He’s so damn easy to like, beautiful in how he interacts with a world he’s been convinced hates him, and so endearing that after only a few days our party decided to keep him. Obviously I never stood a chance, especially when I’ve been connecting with him every day, sharing pleasure and all the wonderful feelings that come with the kind of compatibility we share.

Lawton takes the sip I offer him and gazes up at me with mischief in his eyes. “Can I try sucking your cock this time?”

His words pull my timber tremble straight out of me. “You can do anything you want to me, love.”

His smile brightens the dim light of the cavern around us, and I pull him to me again, bending to kiss his delectably rosy lips. His eyes glow with magic when he pulls back. “Do you need the barrel still? I want you to sit on the table so I can taste you.”

Oh yes, that would make the height difference easier to manage. “I want to refill my barrel. Do you mind cleaning it out so I don’t have to go find a well?”

Lawton snaps his fingers with a smug little smirk, and I pull my empty barrel off my shoulder, removing the plug so I can refill it from the larger barrel. While it fills, I pull Lawton back into my arms, lifting him until he wraps his legs around my waist. “Did you figure out who buried the lightning stones?” I ask as I massage the globes resting in my hands.

Lawton’s nose scrunches up. “I’m tempted to force the truth. I don’t have a spell for it, so I’d have to use raw magic and just take control of the person to force them to tell me the truth, but it would be more efficient than wading through the prevarications happening with these people. The wardens and the prisoners alike seem to be of the same mind that whatever happened doesn’t need to be investigated, but someone sabotaged the rescue efforts, and that person might continue to be a danger to everyone.” He sighs and presses his face into the crook of my neck, mumbling, “Whatever is happening to the women in Fasgard, it seems to be worse down here, and I don’t know if it’s proximity to the viltz, or if there’s something down here, or if it’s just a coincidence.”

“I think it’s best to head south, since it seems that not only is there a blanket of trouble like you’ve described, but magic seems to have been affected by the corruption,” I suggest, squeezing him in a comforting gesture.

He hums agreeably. “That does seem the most reasonable next step. Should we head to the surface or take a southerly route in the tunnels?”

“Let’s head to Drokagard. We may find ourselves more information, and the dwarves have a lift to the surface from there that only takes a few hours to reach the top.” I settle him back on his feet and reach to close the tap just as my small barrel reaches maximum capacity.

After plugging my barrel, I gesture to the large one. “You can send it back,” I tell my lover, moving my barrel out of the way.

Lawton chants something simple, and the larger barrel disappears back to the veil. I sit on the low table, setting my mead barrel next to me and grabbing my tankard for a sip. Lawton eyes me for a moment before stepping between my legs and reaching for the belt that keeps my pteruges in place. The leather skirt falls to the side, and he attacks my trousers’ ties. The proximity of his hands to my cock has me swelling in anticipation of his touch. I move my travel pack off my shoulders and grab the vials that I’ll need for him in a bit.

He reaches into my trousers and moans as his hand wraps around my hardening length. I blow out a happy breath, shivering at his touch. He drops to his knees, and his face appears rapturous as he strokes my shaft, staring at it with unmistakable adulation. His tongue darts out, capturing a bead of precum as it emerges from my eager slit. The brief warmth of his tongue followed by the cool wetness at the tip has me shivering again, and my timber tremble starts anew with vigorous force.

Lawton squeals softly and shimmies forward, mouthing my vibrating cock. The noises he makes as he finally sucks the head into his mouth have me panting with need in no time at all. He’s resplendent as he explores my cock, stroking me as he bobs on the tip, pushing me further and further back into his mouth and eventually to his throat. His noises increase in volume as he sucks me down and pulls off, over and over with increasing speed. His hands wander all over me, touching every part he can reach, ramping up our pleasure with every stroke, squeeze, scratch of his fingernails, and pinch of my nipples. He suddenly pushes my cock all the way down his throat, and it must be magic, because he stills there like he doesn’t need to breathe. His body tenses, and without warning, stars explode across my vision, shocking me as he swallows around my cock, and I pulse, shooting jets of cum into him.

As soon as my vision clears, I pull this perfect man up, stripping him out of his trousers and his cum soaked little clothes. I swallow his cock, enticing it back to fullness after he spontaneously orgasmed while sucking me off. I’ve never come from receiving oral, because I’ve never had a partner so aroused by it that they orgasmed from giving.

“Fuck, you’re a miracle,” I growl, stroking up his body, pushing his jacket off and working to remove both our shirts. I get his off, but mine I only manage to unbutton before I’m back to licking my way from his cock to his neck. I scrape my tusks on his skin, stimulating his nipples as I uncork the potion bottle that helps him relax for me.

Lawton opens his mouth, gazing at me through glassy, blown out eyes as he accepts the few drops I offer him. Setting that aside, I oil my fingers and probe his entrance, licking into his mouth as he takes two of my fingers without issue. A few more drops of the potion and I could stretch him with my cock, but I like playing with my partners, giving them a good fingering before they take my rod.

“More,” he whimpers, jerking away from my kiss to make his demand and then returning with fervor.

I push a third finger into him, tapping on the Gate to Aethyr within his warm, soft channel. He cries out with each small press on that tight little bump, beading sweat and stirring up the scent of sex between us.

“Berklak, Berklak, Berklak—” he chants, writhing on my fingers until frustration pushes him to grab the lapels of my vest, lifting his back off the table as he glares directly into my eyes. “Fuck me now.”

I lick up his neck to his ear and whisper, “As you command, my prince.”

Pulling my fingers out, I pour oil over my cock and press into his hole, holding him steady as I enter him until my hips meet his cheeks. He spreads his legs wide, plants his feet, grabs my arms, and leverages himself on my cock, setting a quick rhythm before I’ve given his body a chance to acclimate to my size. My lover’s impatience moves him, but if he wants to control the pace, he’s in the wrong position for that.

He growls in frustration when I break his grasp and pull out, but he immediately changes his tune when I switch our positions, lying on the table and letting him straddle me. He wastes no time sitting on my pole, but his short legs spread too wide around my frame to give him enough movement.

“Get your feet under you,” I urge, taking his hands to give him a way to brace himself as he does.

With his feet planted and our fingers linked, his smile finally returns as he bounces on my vibrating cock. The timber tremble seems to know exactly what my lover needs if the look on his face tells me anything. I get lost in him, full of pleasure and expectation, trembling with a heart full of love for this man. For endless time our connection builds, strengthens, and eventually solidifies in a way I’ve never experienced. At that moment, when absolutely nothing could ever sever the bond between us, our orgasm explodes. My vision fills with Lawton’s fervid euphoria as he paints me with his cum and I fill him with mine. We both cry out, losing control of our voices and finding ecstasy together.

Lawton collapses onto my chest, mixing our scents into an enticing aroma that keeps my cock from flagging even a little. As hard as I am, I could turn him over and pound into him, but his limp limbs tell me it would be more painful than pleasurable right now. I don’t want to hurt him, no matter the demands of my libido.

“Why is it always so damn good?” he questions sleepily.

“If you discover the answer, bottle it and sell it; you’ll be richer than the king in no time,” I tease, running fingers up and down his rapidly cooling back.

He huffs a laugh, settling in and squirming to keep my cock as deep in his ass as he can comfortably get it. “If I discovered the secret to amazing sex, I don’t think I would be as generous with it as that, since I’m pretty sure it has everything to do with you and me and nothing to do with anything I could sell. We’re compatible in an extraordinary way, and I wouldn’t give that up for all the riches in thyr.” He yawns sleepily before finishing his thought. “You’re far more of a treasure than gold and jewels.”

“I feel the same about you,” I assure him as his breath evens out and sleep claims him.

He worked hard all day, and it’s surely a compliment that he’s relaxed enough to sleep stuffed with my cock. No one’s going to hear me complain, that’s for damn sure. Tensing my abs, I lift my head enough to finish off the last of my tankard of mead before relaxing back on the table and closing my eyes. If I rock my cock in and out of him a few times, that’s just to remind my sleeping lover that he’s not alone, even in his dreams.

eight

lawton

My eyes twitch as I survey the people in line for a miner’s breakfast. The prisoners are easy to tell apart from the wardens even though everyone is wearing the same types of clothing: prisoners have collars that force them to freeze if they choose violence, I've learned. They instituted the collars after the violence that killed so many of the female prisoners earlier in the year. Dwarves hate magic so much that they only use it when necessary, so they had the collars on hand, but they hadn’t ever had to use them until the riot.

If I wasn’t so irritated with every last person in this mining town, I would appreciate that the prisoners are treated fairly and given the same resources as the wardens. Unfortunately, I’ve been stymied in my investigation around every turn, and I’m wondering how much of a political mess I’ll get in if I just force everyone to give me real answers instead of prevaricate like it’s not important that there were lightning stones buried in the dirt in the cavern.

Frost steps up to me, cutting off my view of the community tables. “You may have to let this go,” she murmurs to me in her raspy voice. “No one is talking, and everyone is more tense with you asking questions.”

“Why aren’t they more concerned about it?” I hiss, wishing I could make them care about their own well-being.

Frost reaches out and rests her warm hand on my shoulder, looking me in the eye. Her freckles catch my attention for a moment, and I tilt my head to the side, realizing that she has as many freckles as her wife, but she’s lived her life in a mine just like this one. “Dwarves are suspicious by nature. Every dwarf in here who didn’t plant the lightning stones thinks one of the strangers that comes through here did it or possibly that you did. They can’t prove who the stones belonged to, so they’re letting it go. The only person in here who knows you didn’t do it, if there is such a person, is the one who planted them. And no one is suspecting a dwarf because we don’t use magic except in extreme cases of medical intervention or on our mining equipment.”

I huff and sigh and slump my shoulders, pouting at her. “This is ridiculous.”

Frost nods solemnly. “I agree, but we should move on. We can tell the guard in Drokagard that something fishy is happening here, and they can decide what to do with that information. Besides, they’ll need to send replacement wardens for the ones lost.” She presents me with a sealed roll of parchment. “The ald’der asked me to deliver this to the secretary of the dwarven king. I saw it before she sealed it—it’s a record of the wardens and prisoners who were lost and an account of the battle. It does mention the sabotage, albeit briefly.”

I scrunch up my face at the scroll. “This is very disappointing.”

She chuckles and squeezes my shoulder. “C’mon, Law, maybe we’ll find out more in Drokagard. Who knows what awaits us there. Besides my actual family. Just a word of warning, they will insist on hosting you, but they will be very grumpy about it because they hate when I bring home stragglers, as they say.”

Tavia slides in next to Frost with a wicked grin. “I’m the straggler she brings home most, and they’re forever grumbling about it.”

Frost gives her an affectionate smile. “They can grumble until the end of time.”

Tavia snickers and pecks a quick kiss to her cheek. “Probably will too.” She turns her attention back to me. “You ready to head out?”

I sigh. “Yes, but I’d like it noted that I’m leaving under protest and that I’m savagely disappointed in the ald’der for not pursuing the matter to its conclusion.”

Tavia gives me a sympathetic nod. “I will file your protest with the appropriate secretary as soon as I find them.”

“Is that the secretary to the dwarven king? Because we’ve got that covered already,” I whine, pointing at the scroll in Frost’s hand.

“I’m pretty sure it’s the secretary of useless things,” Tavia retorts with a teasing grin. “They may be one and the same.”

Frost snorts a laugh and I giggle into my hand, then Berklak joins us, pointing toward the southern tunnel. “Inghram and Armus are waiting. Darian is scouting ahead. The dwarves have loaded us with several meals,” he says, holding up a hot box big enough to carry all that food. “They heard Frost likes g’vishies and made a batch just to send with us. Also, I think they were looking for an excuse to get rid of the magic box. They mentioned a stranger left it with them about three weeks ago.”

Frost moans and wiggles excitedly. “Fucking love g’vishies. We’re eating those this evening.”

“I’ve never heard of this,” I confess, looking between the two curiously as we make our way toward the tunnel leading south.

“They’re savory pastries dipped in hedgeberry gravy and are best enjoyed with a bottle of dwarven hedgeberry spirits warmed up. This meal is intended to make sure dwarven parents get a good night’s sleep the night before a holiday,” Frost explains excitedly.

Tavia giggles. “Frost enjoys a good night’s sleep no matter what time of year it is.”

Frost snorts and pinches Tavia’s arm. “I think it’s a waste to only serve the best recipe dwarves have twice a year. I can’t cook for shit, but I learned how to make g’vishies at my parent’s side, and if that is the only thing I ever learn how to cook, I will consider my life full.”

“Simple pleasures make for a full and happy life,” Berklak intones sagely.

I nod in agreement, and the walk to where Inghram and Armus await us passes with Frost telling us a story about her first memory of eating g’vishies with her parents. Unsurprisingly, seven year old Frost indulged more than most dwarven children and ended up tipsy instead of sleepy. Also unsurprising: Frost is the type to get hyper when drunk. Her poor parents…

At the gate guarding the southern tunnel, we catch Armus dip-kissing Inghram even with Inghram’s full paladin armor adding four stone to his weight. They’re surrounded by five Fire Walkers, and I’m grateful that someone remembered to ask about them. “I don’t think I expected that,” Tavia whispers as Armus sets Inghram back on his feet and helps him balance.

Ridiculously, Armus’ attempts to keep Inghram upright cause him to lose his own balance. Inghram reaches out to catch Armus, but that kiss must’ve caused him to swoon or something, because he misses Armus by a mile, and the bard ends up ass over tea kettle on the ground with a broken banjo.

Inghram scrambles to help him and manages to pull Armus back to his feet with an adorable blush. Armus brushes off his clothes and casts a spell of mending over the broken banjo, fixing it as good as new by the time we reach the two.

“That was quite the feat of acrobatic clumsiness,” Tavia teases Armus as we gather around them.

Armus huffs annoyed. “It’s because my tail is unbalanced,” he explains, bringing the gold-tipped tail forward to show us. He removes the plating, revealing a misshapen end. Normally xenecar have tails with defensive weapons on them—either clubs, or sharp boney blades, or spikes; it depends on the subtype of xenecar. Armus’ is missing the bone structure for defense, which explains the golden spade he usually wears on the tip.

“I lost the tip before I escaped Crousiwal. Gold is too dense, but it’s the best approximation because it’s soft and it’s the only metal that doesn’t give me a rash, and unfortunately, I would be so much worse if I didn’t have it. Xenecar’s rely on their tails for balance, and not having a perfect replacement for what I lost means I get to be the clumsy bard. It’s a good thing I’m sexy as fuck, otherwise I’d be the most useless bard too.” He shoots us a cocky little grin and a wink.

“We’d keep you around for the food,” Berklak assures him, patting the bard’s shoulder and immediately causing the unbalanced man to nearly faceplant again.

Fortunately, Armus gets his golden spade secured and catches himself with it, using both Inghram and Berklak to stabilize before huffing a laugh. “Shall we get a move on before I accidentally stab myself or some innocent bystander?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll heal anyone you hurt, including yourself,” I promise, then look over to Berklak. “Are you planning on carrying that box, or should I recall the wagon so you can leave it in there?”

“It’s hardly any trouble to carry it, but if you think it will still be hot when we stop for the night, I’ll put it in the wagon,” he responds with affection in his voice that makes me bubble with happiness.

“I assume the magic of the box will remain in effect when I recall it later. None of the magic items I’ve stored in the veil have ever suffered for being there.” I don’t wait for him to reply before I recall the wagon, and since this is the main road in and out of Mysdille, there’s plenty of space for it.

Berklak puts our dinner onto the wagon, and I banish it back to the veil of the aethyr. Once that’s done, Armus and Inghram introduce us to the Fire Walkers that have agreed to carry us to Drokagard. They’re huge, half again as tall as Berklak, with massive beaks that they use to rip carrion up. The birds walk on two sturdy legs, and instead of wings, they have long arms with claws that they can use for defense or for separating meat from bone. They’re completely featherless except for the top of their heads, where they have a poof of feathers that they are meticulous about keeping clean and groomed. The feathers are an array of bright colors that stand out against their nearly black leathery skin.

The one with the bright purple feathers takes two steps over to me and kneels, putting us eye to eye. In Dwarvish I greet them. “Hello, beautiful. I’m Prince Lawton, the fourth child of King Valerian and High Sorcerer of Fasgard. Thank you for agreeing to take me and my companions to Drokagard.”

The Fire Walker speaks a long combination of bird and reptile noises in return, but without Darian I have no hope of knowing what they’re saying.

“She says she’s delighted to get out to stretch her legs, and she wants to thank you for taking care of the lightning stones that were trapping her flock in Mysdille. She says the dwarves should have taken care of the problem when she mentioned it in the spring, but every time she said anything the dwarves would promise to take care of it and then forget.”

The bird speaks another long string of noises, and Armus translates. “She gave up on the dwarves fixing it, but none of the visitors could understand her. She’s very grateful that we fixed the problem.”

“Do you know who put the stones in the dirt?” I ask, reaching out to pet her long neck.

After another short string of chirps, Armus says, “She only knows it was a female dwarf that visited for a few days last spring before the riot.”

“Thank you, sweetie. I’m glad we got the lightning stone problem resolved and that you were aware enough not to try to cross the boundary of the stones.”

The bird rubs her beak on both my temples and chirrups. “Mount up, friends. It’s time to run,” Armus translates.

Excitedly, I climb onto the saddle the Fire Walker is wearing, and once we’re all settled, the Fire Walkers take us through the gate to the big tunnel that will eventually take us to Drokagard, the main dwarven city in this part of the Underthyr. Running faster than a horse, it takes us no time to meet up with Darian only a few miles down the tunnel, and he lets us know that at least for the next five miles the tunnels are clear. With Inghram in the rear and the women and Berklak surrounding me, Darian takes up his place at the front with Armus, who immediately begins chatting to the taciturn druid, regaling him and us all with interesting stories of his wild adventures earning his key to the Kitchen.

The journey to Drokagard would take us twelve days to walk, but with the Fire Walkers, we’ll get there in four. I don’t think any of us mind the time it’ll take—somehow Berklak’s managed to bring together a group of people who genuinely like each other, even Darian, who listens to Armus with interest even if he never smiles. I’m going to have to ask about that.

nine

berklak

Dwarves, as insulated and suspicious of strangers as they are, are excellent hosts and take care of the people in their care as they would their very own family. Thus, after a full day of travel, we come upon a door, behind which we hear festive dwarven music and above which is a sign that reads, “Hammerblood Inn” in Dwarvish, and scratched below that into the stone of the door are translations of the sign in different hands in various other languages, as if some travelers came through and decided to mark the door so that anyone who can’t read Dwarvish would know in their own language what lies within.

“We could get some privacy for the night,” Tavia suggests with a look in her eye that makes me think that if we pass on the inn, she’ll have some choice words and maybe a dagger or two for us.

Lawton nods vigorously. “Yes. Privacy, maybe a real bath? Do you think this inn will have that?”

“Let’s ask,” Inghram insists, heading straight for the door. Right behind him Armus and Darian follow, then me and Lawton pass through with the girls on our heels.

The Fire Walkers loiter for only a few seconds before three dwarves appear from a hidden door across the tunnel and start chattering to them in Dwarvish. The Fire Walkers let the dwarves take them across the way into a cavern that I assume holds the stable where they’ll be treated as guests as well.

As we enter, the reason for the raucous atmosphere becomes apparent: a small band of traveling bards have taken over the stage space and are performing old dwarven rock music to a mixed crowd full of people drinking what appears to be quality dwarven mead and hedgeberry spirits. Shots in small stone cups and tankards line the occupied tables with small barrels and bottles set at intervals so everyone can serve themselves.

As we enter, two dwarves intercept us. “It’s three gold per person for the night with dinner and breakfast served and unlimited drinks. If you puke, it’s three copper for the clean up. You pay for any other services to the servant providers. Baths are included in the rooms—laundry, massage, companions, et cetera all available.”

That’s expensive for an inn, but the unlimited drinks make it worth it. I could easily drink three gold worth of mead in a night and not even get drunk. I pull out my coin purse, but Lawton stays my hand. “I hired you all, so the gold is on me. You can pay for whatever else you require,” he tells us, pulling out his own coin purse and counting out the gold to cover the group’s expenses.

I’ll tell him in a quieter place that we can just take group expenses out of the loot we find. No one is going to begrudge him that, even if the king is financing this adventure.

Once the dwarves have our money, they lead us to a table. After sitting, a couple of servants bring us bowls of hot stew, plates of fresh bread, and cups to fill from the barrels and bottles before us. They ask us how many rooms and beds we need and bring us four keys, one for me and Lawton, one for the women, one for Armus and Inghram, who blushes when Armus invites him to share a bed for the night, and one for Darian.

As much as Frost was looking forward to her g’vishies, we decide to keep them until tomorrow and promise to eat that meal for a midday lunch in the tunnels. Grabbing a loaf, I break it in half and hand one side to Lawton, then fill up a tankard of ale for him and pour him a shot, then do the same for myself before everyone starts in on their food.

Dwarven foods are ridiculously delicious. They have some of the best spices in all of thyr, rivaled only by the picky elhers, who are unquestionably exacting about their food. Dwarves are less exacting, and they more or less season to taste. They just have very good taste. Some of the best meals I’ve ever had were thrown together by dwarves who didn’t even like me.

The dwarf assigned to host me when I visited Dramnarark Underthyr fed me like a noble for four days, complaining the entire time about big, brutish, gluttonous orcs and how we always demand nothing but the best from the poorest people as if everyone in the Underthyr can afford to feed hordes of invaders. I was visiting the mining libraries to deliver histories from High Qilatone in exchange for records of dwarven mining techniques and maps of their mines. I was basically a visiting emissary, there alone, and he was assigned to me because he requested it. He made for an excellent and enthusiastic companion, even if he complained the whole time about it. I found his grumpiness endearing rather than a burden, and my current party laughs as I tell them about my adventure with that dwarf.

As the evening passes and the alcohol flows, the musicians get better with every song, and eventually Armus gets on stage, singing a rock ballad to the dwarves of Dramnarark who raised him. I knew he had lived in the Underthyr below the northern continent, but as soon as he mentions that he was raised by dwarves, the attitude toward him from the patron changes. While xenecar are often discriminated against because of their maelysou ancestor, like Frost, the dwarves here consider him a dwarf too. Immediately upon the ending of his last note, a swarm of drunken dwarves invite him to join them, praising him for his magnificent performance of their traditional music. They’re loudly proud that a dwarf has become such a successful bard and tip him generously for the song, claiming he’s much better than the bards on stage.

Frost stares at him thoughtfully for several long moments before returning her attention to the table and explaining. “I didn’t realize he was also a dwarf. I knew he’d spent time in the Underthyr, but he didn’t say he was brought up by our people. He should have mentioned it.”

“Why?” Inghram asks curiously. “Does it matter?”

Frost shrugs, but Tavia answers. “Yes, it matters. Dwarves are very protective of their own; Frost would have spent more energy looking after him if she’d known he was a dwarf too.”

Frost’s face scrunches up a bit as she pours herself another shot. “It’s a bit ridiculous, but it’s true. No offense to anyone who isn’t a dwarf, but it’s ingrained in me to keep our people safe when we’re topside.”

“Armus doesn’t consider himself a dwarf,” Darian says just over the din of the crowd. “He told us that he’s a refugee from Crousiwal because that is how he defines himself.”

Frost presses her lips into a thin line, but Tavia leans her head on her wife’s shoulder and reminds her, “And we allow people to define themselves. If he doesn’t consider himself a dwarf, we respect that no matter his history.”

Suddenly a tall dwarf with dark skin and a braided beard full of colorful glass beads drops into the spot Armus vacated with a drunken smile. “Hello, strangers. I’m Cherrisome Halfarm,” she introduces herself, waving a stump of an arm at us as she drags Armus’ half-full tankard toward her and finishes it off. She slams the tankard down and waves at our barrel.

Inghram takes the tankard and refills it as she continues her spiel. “I’m co-owner of the Grudgery in Drokagard, and I’m here to invite you to come into the shop when you get to the city. We are currently offering discounts for all grudges to travelers from the top. If you mention ‘Half off with Halfarm,’ you’ll get a fifty percent discount. We hold grudges better than you can, and we will make sure anyone who’s wronged you knows they’re on our list. Our grudges can and will ruin your enemy’s life in unspeakable ways, and we will delight in their misery so you don’t have to give them any more thought and can get on with your life.”

As soon as she finishes her speech, she slams the fresh tankard back, stands up, and wobbles to the next table.

Lawton looks at me with wide, glowing eyes. “We have to go there,” he nearly whispers, voice full of awe.

Frost and Tavia both erupt into laughter, Inghram chuckles softly, and even Darian looks like he might think Lawton’s marvel at the idea of a grudgery is amusing.

I pet my beloved necromancer’s fluffy blond hair, nodding solemnly. “We will make it our first stop in the city,” I promise.

Lawton smiles at me like I might’ve hung the moon in the sky, even though he’s the reason the sun rises every morning. “Good. Now, take me to our room. We’re going to share an orgasm, then share a bath, and then share our bed.”

“I love that plan,” I agree, standing.

The drink buzzes in my head, making everything feel a bit light and happy, but when Lawton stands, he wobbles on his feet like he did after dinner with the king, except more this time. I probably shouldn’t have kept refilling his shots. He just enjoyed the sweet hedgeberry spirit so much, and I enjoyed it every time he hummed happily after taking a shot. I pick him up because I don’t want him to hurt himself on the way to our room, and I head toward the stairs, grabbing a servant on the way to tell him to prepare a bath for us.

He informs me the rooms have plumbed baths inside, and I get the other services we’ll be using paid for. With that settled, I carry my necromancer to our room. I have to set him down to unlock the door, reading the name of the room as I do: Gormul’s Rest. Lawton wobbles into the room and directly to the bed as soon as I get the door opened. He falls onto it and immediately starts working off his boots.

The furniture in here is carved out of the stone, just like the big room downstairs. The bed is big enough to fit two full size orcs and covered in a soft downy mattress that will insulate from the cold of the stone beneath. On each side of the bed, sprouting up from the stone floor, are tables with lit lanterns on them, and at the foot sits a stone chest with the lid open and resting on a hinge that looks like it aids in opening the heavy top.

On the opposite side of the room is a table with two wooden stools, a vanity carved from the wall with a mirror hung over it, and a tub big enough to fit two full grown orcs as well. I think I’ve figured out who Gormul is, or at least his species.

The tub would make an elher jealous, and I see now where the elhers found inspiration for the pools in their spas. A pipe with a handle like the tap on my mead delivers a stream of hot water into the stone tub when I open it up. At the bottom of the tub, I screw a cork plug into a hole that will drain it when we’re done.

In the time it takes a drunken Lawton to get his boots and stockings off, the tub is filled and I’ve dug the toiletries that will get us cleaner than mere water can out of my travel pack. We’ll get clean and set our laundry out, and by the time we’re ready to dress in the morning, it’ll be outside our door.

Lawton peers up at me with a drunken, happy smile. “Maybe a bath, then an orgasm, or an orgasm in the bath?”

I walk over to him, kneeling in front of him. “I like the way you think, love.”

He tilts his head to the side with curiosity burning in his beautiful face. “Do you call me ‘love’ because it’s what you call your companions?”

“Absolutely not.” What a horrifying thought. My heart wouldn’t be able to handle falling in and out of love so much. “You’re the only person I’ve ever used that term of endearment with.”

Happiness suffuses his entire body and he leans forward, spreading his hands on my cheeks. “Does that mean you love me, Berklak? Am I your real love?”

I can’t and wouldn’t lie to this face. I care too much about him to do him that disservice. “Yes, Law. It seems I’m unable to resist you. I was going to be as careful about my feelings as I have always been with my companions, but you didn’t put a time limit on our companionship, and that’s very bad for an orc’s heart.”

“Or good, if the orc wants to fall in love, and if his companion does too,” he replies with a happy little sigh. “I shouldn’t want to fall in love. I can’t have a family because it’s illegal for me to impregnate anyone. I’d have to flee to a kingdom where necromancy is legal and hide my identity for the rest of my life to have what my siblings have, but you’re just so fucking perfect, Berklak. I don’t think my heart even put up a fight against you.”

Everything inside me lights up like the colorful fireworks that the pescers in Allabace use to celebrate their holidays. Explosions rock my insides and my timber tremble erupts in full force. Joy the likes of which I have never known, comparable to finding twenty dwarven mead barrels all at once, fills me to overflowing. “You’ll never leave my heart, my love,” I swear to him. “That’s as much a promise as a warning. Orcs don’t waver in their devotion. I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me and beyond.”

Lawton smushes our mouths together, sucking on my lip until I open for him. Our tongues collide and sparks of love and lust ignite between us. Something magic bursts between us. It feels strongly like the connection that orcs have when they are intimate with a companion or partner, but those are nothing as strong as this. I feel him in every small part of me, seeping into my bones, existing so closely with me that we’re one. Two people, one existence. I don’t know what this is or how it exists, but Lawton sighs like finally everything in his life is good. His serenity in a heart that’s never known peace and the contentedness that he exudes from his soul tell me that this magical bond is exactly what we’re supposed to have growing between us, strengthening into something as indestructible as enchanted gravium.

“Oh dear,” Lawton murmurs blissfully.

“What is it?” I ask, watching him revel in this bond between us.

“I think I accidentally made you my anchor,” he whispers with an elated smile. “I’m going to be executed.”

My mind, body, and spirit wholly reject those words. “No. Never. I won’t let it happen. I fought a hundred wights on my own; I will destroy the king’s army before I allow a single hair on your head to be harmed. You’re mine, Lawton, and I’m yours. All that I am is yours, including the part of me that will destroy entire regimes to save you.”

Do I doubt I can conquer Fasgard on my own? Maybe, but I’m not the only orc in Fasgard, and with ten orcs by my side, I don’t doubt that if King Valerian threatened my necromancer I would destroy him and all his descendants to make sure Lawton was safe.

“Oh, that’s wonderrrrrfulllll,” my man groans, snuggling as close as he can get to me. “I can feel you, Berklak. You can keep me safe, and you know it. It’s undeniable. Fuck, I love you so much.”

I wrap him up safe in my arms and draw in a full breath of his perfect scent. “Of course I can keep you safe. An orc’s love, even the love of a half-orc like me, can and has conquered kingdoms and changed the world. I’ll make sure you’re safe, no matter what it takes, and don’t ask me not to, because I can do a great many things, but watching you die will never be one of them.”

“I don’t need you to save me, Berklak, but I love that you would.” He giggles and suddenly backs up to look me in the eye. “My magic isn’t dangerous—” he starts.

“But you certainly are,” I finish with a grin. “I remember.”

He laughs joyfully and starts shrugging off his travel jacket. “Let’s get in the bath. We can celebrate our new bond properly once we’re clean.”

Look at this sweet, beautiful, little man. He’s perfect. Of course I fell in love, of course we bonded, and of course we’re going to adventure together for the rest of our lives. Of course. There was never a different path for us. We were always inevitable.

Read on for a note from Jennifer and a peek at chapter 1 of Poison Hearts

author note

Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up Chapter 3! I hope you enjoyed it. It’s a tiny bit darker than the previous chapters, but we’ll lighten up again in the dwarven city of Drokagard for the next chapter. I expected to get there this time, but when you’re a pantser like me, sometimes a story doesn’t end up the way you expect.

Little interesting fact: Drokagard Underthyr is the network of mines that exist under Fasgard, and Drokagard is the city that is the hub for those mines. It is not centrally located, but it exists under King’s Crossing, and the lift up will be in that city. The dwarves sort of adhere to the borders of the kingdoms topside, although there are smaller countries in the northern continent, so I think that some of the dwarven cities and mining networks will encompass multiple kingdoms. Not that that is ever going to come up, but ya know, I’m an author, and I think about these things while world building.

There were some questions about Chilghen and Drokagard. Chilghen is where the viltz, the dark elves, dwell, and Drokagard Underthyr is the domain of the dwarves. They are geographically close, but whereas the dwarves inhabit the places deep down where it's warmer because of magma, the viltz inhabit the places where it’s freezing. And yeah, I know that in real life the deeper you get the hotter it gets, and that’s why deep mining is terribly difficult, but this is my fantasy world and I want very cold deep places, so I get to have them. Yay for fiction!

Next book we will definitely make it to the Grudgery, and we’ll get our party heading in the right direction. It will be the last leg of the traveling part of the story before we finally figure out what the heck is happening and fix it. At least, that’s what I think will happen, but obviously my characters might surprise me when I get writing. *shrugs*

Please leave a rating/review if you enjoyed this book so that Amazon thinks my books are worth suggesting to other readers. Please tell your friends, family, book clubs, and rec groups about my stories. It helps me tremendously, and I can’t thank you enough for supporting me like this.

For the love of MM,

Jennifer Cody

blurb

Orlando:

No one intentionally starts out life trying to become a hired unaliver. Weeellllll, most people don’t. I come from a legacy of unalivers, though I think I might be the first one to make a career out of it. Accidentally. I wasn’t trying to; the opportunity just sort of showed up on my pillow, and being the conscientious unaliver that I am, I decided to investigate the mysterious invitation to a secret club.

Hello The Anonymous, and hello, Shannon.

Shannon:

Listen, you can buy your goodies off my menu or you can go to Bargain Bin Barry. His stuff costs half as much and works about half the time. Mine won’t fail you at a mission critical juncture, but I’m saving up for a Frankenstein machine, so it doesn’t come cheap.

What? Don’t spit on the dreams of mad scientists; I could be the one to discover the secret of life! After this dance, obviously. When a newbie to The Anonymous tells you he dances, you don’t just sit around hoping for the music to move you, you get up and take him to the dance floor.

Hello dreams come true, and hello, Orlando.

Poison Hearts is a contemporary antihero MM romance with a blowgun vigilante who only has enough spoons to keep six blocks of his city safe and an evil genius with a plan to take over the world, if he ever gets bored enough to do it. Be ready for instalove happening over tree frogs, detailed planning, dark humor, and a menacing minion worth his weight in gold.

Poison Hearts is a part of the multi-author series The Elite. Each book can be read as a standalone and in any order. What links these books together is The Anonymous, a club beneath the gritty city where only the elite are welcome.

chapter 1

Orlando

What kind of shoes do ninjas wear?

Sneakers.

And mine have a hole in the sole since I stepped on an upturned nail in a board left lying on the outskirts of a dirt parking lot where a couple of fuckfaces were meeting to discuss doing fuckface things that would bend a bunch of people over and assfuck them with sandy Vaseline if I didn’t do anything about it.

I might have a small problem with criminals in my neighborhood doing criminal things to my neighbors. Everyone knows that my six blocks of Old Defiance are protected, but some people (re: criminals) somehow get the impression that the stories are exaggerated.

Listen, I’m not trying to save the entire world. I’m just trying to make sure that when Mrs. Henderson from next door walks down to the local bookshop, she isn’t harassed by a bunch of thugs dealing drugs on the street corner to her grandkids.

That’s all I care about. That’s all the spoons I have to hand out.

I put my mouth to my blowgun, inhale, and shoot a deadly dart into the ass of one of the fuckfaces. I immediately reload and do it again to the other fuckface. Their bodyguards I leave alone because they’re just guys trying to pay their bills and don’t deserve to die because of their bosses' poor choices. Besides, the darts feel like a mosquito bite and will take a few minutes to unalive them. Long enough for me to fold up my blowgun and sneak away in my newly holey shoes, anyway.

Retreat isn’t an issue. It’s midnight, and while this city never actually sleeps, my neighborhood shuts down at ten p.m. on weeknights, and it’s Wednesday. I have to be at work in five hours because unaliving criminals trying to set up shop in my neighborhood doesn’t pay the bills. I wish they’d do their dirty business at a reasonable time, but nooooo, criminals never take into account their enemies' work schedules (unless they’re trying to find the best time to unalive them).

As I make my strategic retreat, I send a text to the coroner who always gets called out to my kills.

Me: Two fuckfaces got darts in their asses tonight and neither of them even slapped at it.

Linus: I hate you. Stop killing people. Do you want to meet for coffee?

Me: Nah. I’ve got work in the morning. You get paid because I unalive people. Quit your bitching.

Linus: At least give me the name of the poison you use.

Me: And ruin the surprise? Never.

Linus: A hint?

Me: Lol. Goodnight. Have fun with the dead bodies.

Linus: You know I’m not actually a necrophiliac, right?

Me: So you say.

Linus: What’s your name?

Me: Lol.

I put my phone away and skip along home. I don’t live in a shabby neighborhood in a rundown apartment complex with neighbors who can barely make their bills. That’s not my neighborhood. We’re not poor, but we aren’t the upper middle class. We live paycheck-to-paycheck, but we’re doing ok. That’s my neighborhood. Mrs. Henderson lives off of her SSI and retirement fund. She’s doing ok. She can buy a new book once a month, and she deserves to be able to do that fearlessly.

I pass Linus on his way to the office as I run up the steps into our shared apartment building. We’ve never spoken a word to each other in real life, but when I learned he was the coroner that kept getting called to my murder scenes, I snuck into his apartment and rummaged around until I found his personal cell number. I bought a pay-as-you-go disposable phone from a reputable guy who makes sure that phones can’t be traced, and I’ve been harassing him ever since.

He’s my best friend, which is a sad commentary on my life, but it is what it is. When you’re responsible for unaliving at least ten people a year for the last five years, you don’t get to have besties. You get to have coroners who don’t judge you for unaliving bad people even if they would turn you in as soon as meet you.

I’m a criminal, after all. I probably deserve to go to prison, but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy fucking with him before I get caught.

I unlock the door to my apartment and saunter in, hanging up my black hoodie on the coat rack and locking the door behind me. I step out of my shoes and place them on the shoe rack, then hit the kitchen, chugging apple juice from a recycled milk jug in my fridge. I empty the jug and wash it out, grabbing four cans of concentrated apple juice from the fridge to refill my jug. It’s supposed to be three cans per one gallon, but I prefer a more concentrated flavor than that; I’m that kind of bougie.

After putting that in the fridge for tomorrow, I head to my bathroom, shower off the stink of crime, and finally return to my favorite place: my bedroom. My eye catches on a thick cream colored envelope sitting on my pillow. I’m not prone to panic, but that wasn’t there when I left the apartment this morning, and that means that someone came into my place and left it here.

Well. That’s not good.

In fact, I would hazard a guess that this is probably bad.

I immediately check the vivarium, counting the amphibians inside, relieved to discover that whoever left the envelope didn’t help themselves to my pets. What a nightmare that would have been.

The calligraphy on the outside of the letter displays my name in elegant script: Orlando Ludovici, and while it looks fancy and ominous, it’s also a trap, so I turn around, go to the kitchen, grab a pair of latex gloves and a commercial air filter mask, and put them on before gingerly picking up the envelope and taking it to my kitchen sink, in which I light a candle. After taking as many precautions as I can, I use a pair of scissors to open it up and carefully extract the cardstock inside.

It’s an invitation that reads:

You are cordially invited to The Anonymous.

We welcome you to enjoy a drink, play a game, find a job or two, and maybe even discover someone to pass the time with.

However, there are two simple rules: any form of violence, scrimmage, or heated words will not be tolerated, nor will any discussion of The Anonymous outside of its walls.

Disregard either of these rules and you forfeit your life.

If you think you can follow these guidelines, you are welcome to join us.

Your code is 7527. When you arrive at the Menagerie Hotel, present it to the concierge and you will be brought down to The Anonymous to mingle with the elite.

I stare at the words, shocked by them, surprised, maybe a little haunted. At least they didn’t invite me into their secret club with a face full of anthrax, so there’s that. I do wonder that they’re inviting me into their club, and then I have to wonder how they got it in their heads that leaving it on my pillow was a good idea. I unalive criminals for funsies and they’re inviting me into their lair—and yeah, they’re definitely criminal—trespassing is a thing; so is murder. Not that I can judge, but still, they’re introducing me to their little club with a murder threat. Either they’re stupid or I am. Who knows what I’ll do if these people know that I’m the vigilante unaliving drug lords and gangbangers in my small section of Old Defiance?

Well. I guess I’m going to have to go to the Menagerie and see if this invite is legit and then figure out who I need to unalive to keep my identity out of the hands of the cops. Yes, I’m assuming the worst case scenario—I don’t have enough money to bribe my way out of trouble.

I might be able to get one cop to look the other way with a strategic BJ, but that won’t happen if he’s with a partner, and after you’re arrested it’s even more difficult to get the law to look the other way. It takes way more money, time, and effort, and who’s got the spoons for that? Not me. My jobs take up way too much energy to spend the effort trying to get out of the penal system.

I take the mask off, blow out the candle, stuff the invite into the envelope again, and toss it onto my counter. I’ll have to wait for the weekend before I can do anything with that. Daddy’s waaaay too busy during the week for clubbing.

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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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

Spinoff of Diviner’s Game

Pass

Capture

Promote

Shah Mat

Houston Hub Shorts

Forgotten Fox

Mr. Monster Kok

A Knot with Santa

Genesis

The Kraken’s Mate

In the Sack with Krampus

The sons D’Aquino

Watching Him

The Banshee House

#Not Jason

Crack Fantasy Adventure

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Murder Sprees and Mute Decrees

The Trouble with Trying to Date a Murderer

Fox Recruits a Mute Boy

The Trouble With Trying to Save an Assassin

The Trouble with Trying to Love a Hellion

Hammer and Fist Series

Sledge and Claw (Hammer and Fist: Lextalion Book 1)

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?

Jennifer Cody writes as Cinnamon Sin

Nefarius

Nefarius Too

Matty's Monster:

Captured

Tortured 

Turned

Unleashed

Primal Prey:

Catch Me