17th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
The Dockyards, Willip, Furyondy
The first things Aslan heard when they appeared at the docks were the screams.
The paladin was standing about twenty feet off to the one side of the entranceway to the Chartrain Shipping warehouse. The large dock doors had been torn from their hinges. A smell of wood burning, and a faint orange glow came from within, although he could see no smoke. Screams and shouts continued to issue from inside, along with what almost sounded like the beating of wings.
The hawk took off from Aslan's arm and flew inside. The paladin was just starting to follow when he realized that not all the noise was coming from inside the warehouse.
He glanced off to his left and gasped. The warehouse sat only about fifty or feet or so from one of the lakeside piers.
Halfway between the warehouse and the pier was Chic. The monster was battling a sword-wielding warrior armed in chainmail and a shield. A similarly-clad man sprawled dead or dying on the ground a few feet to their rear.
This was worse than Aslan had hoped for but given his battle plan he realized he had no reason not to expect it. Indeed, Chic might have already escaped back into the waters of the Nyr Dyv by now. The creature was certainly making an effort to do so, but his opponent was either suicidal or stubborn in his determination to prevent that.
What the man wasn't going to be, Aslan thought frantically as he drew his longbow and notched an arrow, was victorious. His sword swings were bouncing off the fiendish creature's wet brown fur. He'd already been clawed or bitten once himself, and it seemed that-
The man screamed in rage as he attacked futilely once again and with a start Aslan recognized him.
"Quthfor!" the paladin yelled. "Fall back! Get your companion out of there! You can't hurt him!"
He let loose his arrow. He was not surprised to see the steel-tipped point bounce off Chic's backside.
But at least he had both of their attentions now.
Quthfor shouted back, "Don't let him make the lake!"
It was an unnecessary warning. Aslan was well aware Chic was more powerful in his home environment and was just as determined as Quthfor had been that the monstrosity wasn't going to reach it.
And as the Journeyman began to edge his way back towards where either Mr. Not or Mr. Right- Aslan had forgotten their real names- lay motionless, Chic's red eyes seemed to glow even more brightly as they regarded the paladin. His whiskers twitched and his mouth opened, revealing his long, needle-like teeth.
I spoke the truth, Aslan, though you did not believe. Has my good friend come to see me off?
"No," Aslan replied through gritted teeth as he moved forward and to the right, turning Chic's attention away from Quthfor. He drew another arrow and notched before shouting the rest.
"Your good friend has come to see you die!"
Chic was already in motion towards him as he released the arrow. The shaft shattered as it struck the creature's shoulder. The Child of Valente's smile grew still wider as it charged. Chic's back legs were longer than his front ones, so his land-bound gait was somewhat awkward, but the creature still covered the distance between the two in an instant as Aslan dropped his bow. There wasn't even time to unsling his shield before the beast was on him.
Aslan sidestepped to the right and ducked as Chic's jaws plunged towards him. One of the teeth pierced a leather donning strap next to Aslan's shoulder and as the beast reared and snapped his head back, one of Aslan's pauldroons- the plates covering his shoulders- was ripped completely off.
A mental giggle sounded in Aslan's brain. So much work to reach the soft meat underneath. I do hope the taste is worth the effort.
The paladin did not reply, either mentally or otherwise. He kept his mind as neutral as possible while keeping his attention focused on his foe.
The jaws came at him again, but this was merely a faint. As Aslan evaded the monster's teeth, he saw too late the claw coming at him.
The neck covering stopped some of it, but two nails still slashed the paladin from his chin all the way up his face. Worse, the impact sent him reeling several steps, barely able to keep his balance. Blood dripped off Aslan's face to the ground, and his heart pounding in his chest overwhelmed all other sounds but his own cry of pain.
The paladin backpedaled several feet, his fists clenched in agony. Chic started to follow, but then glanced wistfully back over his shoulder at the water. When he looked back again at the paladin, he saw Aslan, both hands on his knees, slowly rise to face him again.
Aslan's right eye was closed, and blood splatters covered a good portion of his face. Curiously to Chic, he had made no attempt to heal himself.
"You… you should have done it, Chic," the paladin gasped.
The fiendish creature tilted its head. What- swam away? Soon enough, my good friend, soon enough.
"No," Aslan responded, before taking one last deep breath and suddenly lunging straight at Chic, one hand already reaching for his sword hilt.
"You should have read my mind, you abomination!"
Chic screamed as the cold iron blade sunk deeply into his flesh.
The Child of Valente scrabbled backwards and rearing up, and the blade slid back out, but the agony was enduring. Chic tore into Aslan's mind. The paladin's trickery was laid out there for him to see plainly, but in those few seconds, Aslan had struck again, drawing a long gash along Chic's left flank.
Chic snapped his head around and vomited a reddish ichor in a pungent stream directly into Aslan's face.
The smell was literally too fiendish to endure. The paladin gasped, suddenly unable to breathe. His left hand clawed at his throat, which was desperately trying to find some air; any air that wasn't poisoned by this ghastly smell.
The monster did not hesitate to press its advantage. He lunged at his stricken foe with both front claws out. Aslan was knocked backwards and landed flat on his back. Instantly, Chic pinned him there.
Blood- whose, he couldn't say- dripped from between those teeth and landed on the paladin's chest plate. The smell was starting to fade, but Aslan's sword arm was completely immobilized.
Chic leaned in close.
Goodbye, Aslan, my friend.
Aslan's face, considering the circumstances, grew remarkably calm.
"Actually, the name is Grock."
A left fist roughly the same color and shape of a very large rock slammed into the side of Chic's head. The beast shrieked with pain but then its head lunged down, the jaws clamping down on the ogre's right hand. With an effort that saw at least one of its own teeth being ripped out of its mouth, the fiendish creature forced Aslan to let go of the cold iron sword. Fresh blood spurted from the paladin's right wrist.
Grock grabbed Chic around the throat and the two of them rolled over and over, locked in a death grapple.
Sky and dirt spun around each other with dizzying speed. The remnants of Chic's vile fluids were still preventing the paladin from thinking clearly, but that by itself wasn't the real problem. A well thought-out battle plan was merely a plan Chic could uncover with telepathy all the easier. Aslan was going to have to not only fight like an ogre, but think like one, to win.
He tried to tuck his feet underneath him so as to be able to kick the monster off him, but Chic kept his sinuous body too close for that. He continued to bite and claw at Aslan's neck, arms and sides.
The paladin fired off a psionic blast, but Chic shrugged it off.
The fiendish creature sunk his teeth into Grock's left shoulder and held on tight. Blood welled up around the monster's mouth.
Aslan cried out in pain again.
There was no doubt about it. He was not winning this battle.
Aslan healed himself via his own paladin's grace, rather than through his Talent. His left shoulder still hurt, and for a horrible moment he thought his flesh might have healed up with Chic's jaws still embedded inside, but the giant otter-like thing raised its bloody snout to stare at him. Chic had apparently never seen magical healing so close-up before.
Both combatants were panting heavily from the strain. Aslan tried to crane his head around to see where his longsword might be, but he couldn't. He was about to polymorph into a fly in order to escape being pinned and give himself some breathing room when something caught both his and Chic's attention.
A ball of fire nearly as wide as a man came rolling out from the warehouse. It bounced along the dirt street and came to rest about ten feet from Aslan and his foe.
Chic peered at Aslan again, but the paladin's mind could offer him nothing. He honestly had no idea whether the flaming sphere came from Wainold or from something the druid was fighting in there.
But Grock acted before thinking.
The ogre wrapped both arms around Chic and lumbered to his feet. The beast squealed and thrashed about. Chic's oily skin, mixed with his blood, made it impossible for Aslan to hang on for long. He could already feel his grip loosening-
With a shout, Aslan toppled forward, keeping Chic in front of him. They landed right next to the fiery orb. Using his weight to keep the fiendish creature immobilized for as long as possible, Grock grabbed Chic around the neck with both hands and shoved the monster's face into the fire.
Chic screamed. His whiskers caught fire. His skin began to smoke. He bucked, he twisted, he roared.
Aslan's warty ogre's hands began to blister and burn. He was dimly aware of another figure approaching, but he couldn't make it out. The combined smell of burning flesh was horrible; it was squeezing his eyes shut. He couldn't hold on, he couldn't-
Chic slipped free. The beast bolted from Grock's grip and turned back towards the water. The Child of Valente paused only to sneer at the paladin from a half-melted face.
I will return, Aslan! From myself or from my master, you will suffer a thousand fold for this! Know that-
At that moment, Chic screamed, and his agony crashed directly into Aslan's mind through the telepathic link. The paladin was blown down on his back again from the mental force. He threw his arm over his eyes, but tidal waves of pain continued to crash against his brain. It was just like being psionically attacked.
Then the waves became surf, which became ripples, which became nothing.
Aslan opened his eyes.
With a grunt, Quthfor yanked Aslan's cold iron longsword out of Chic's unmoving body. The Journeyman looked so fatigued; he seemed barely able to avoid dropping the blade. He glanced at it silently, and then looked up at the ogre again.
"So," he panted, "how much do they charge for a blade like this?"
Aslan wanted to get away from this area, but it wasn't easy. Arriving guards were quickly followed by wizards, priests, Sir Charlt and then an uncounted mass of people, all shouting questions and demanding explanations that the paladin didn't have to give them. He'd finally have to nearly beg the Lord Mayor that he would return later and give him a full report.
He had healed himself fully as soon as the battle had ended, and had then managed to save Robert, aka "Mr. Right." Quthfor refused any healing for himself, as did Wainold, who snorted he could heal himself later just fine.
Inside the warehouse, Robert's brother Bertram, "Mr. Not," had serious but not life-threatening wounds, which Aslan healed anyway. But of the nine city guards who had been stationed inside with him however, Aslan had been able to save only one.
The paladin sighed and tried to shake away the sight of all those corpses lying inside the warehouse next to the shattered remains of Chic's cage. He was walking alongside the druid and the Journeymen.
"So what was that in the warehouse?" Aslan asked Wainold, in an effort to distract himself.
"Mephits," the druid replied grimly. Wainold was limping slightly, but using his staff for support, could still keep up with his armored companions. "Elemental spirits," he added tersely, seeing the uncomprehending look on Aslan's face.
"Evil?" asked Aslan.
Wainold shook his head. "Not as such, but summoned for evil purposes."
Quthfor filled in some more of the story. "I'd managed to have Bertram and Robert here hired on opposing shifts for added protection." The sellsword grimaced. "They wouldn't hire me, though. Tightwad bastards," he muttered, and then looked over to Bertram, who picked up the thread.
"I'd had the overnight shift, and I knew my brother was coming to relieve me- I'm glad Quthfor was walking with him- so I was getting ready to leave. I'd been in the far back of the warehouse, um, taking care of business in the privy. As I stared to head back towards the front, I could hear the guards arguing with someone there. I don't know who it was, but they were angry with him, hurling all sorts of vile curses at the man. Not at all their usual behavior, but I guess Chic's constant telepathic tormenting had them all on edge." He shrugged.
"Then I heard it; a chiming."
"A chiming?" repeated the paladin, frowning.
The young mercenary seemed to struggle for the words. "That's the best way I can put it. Like the sound you'd get if you struck a pair of wind chimes, or maybe it was some kind of musical instrument- I don't know."
The sellsword's expression suddenly hardened and he stopped walking.
"Then I heard the flapping of wings, and as the chiming sound continued, I heard more and more of them. Then there were shouts and screams and the sound of breaking glass. When I came around the corridor, there were at least five of those… things… there. They looked like devils, only they were made of things like fire and steam, ice and water..." Bertram shook his head. "they'd already smashed the cage. I saw Chic start attacking the bay doors, but those mephitis weren't leaving. They had started attacking those men. I joined in- I suppose keeping Chic from leaving was my highest priority, but- I wasn't going to leave them to their fate. I…"
The sellsword rubbed his eyes furiously, looking down at the street beneath him.
"You did right, son." Quthfor's voice was firm but gentle. "You don't leave your fellows-in-arms."
"For all the good it did them," Bertram muttered without looking up.
Robert laid a hand on his brother's shoulder from behind. They all stood there for a moment and then continued walking on in silence.
"Lieutenant Daxen- the one you saved," Bertram eventually continued, his eyes flicking momentarily to Aslan. "Once he's rested up a bit, I'm sure he'll be able to tell you more about the man who'd been there. He had fled out the personnel door- I never saw him."
The silence resumed. This time it was Quthfor who broke it, with a gesture towards Aslan's sheathed sword. "That's not the same sword you had the last time we met, Aslan."
The paladin smiled, embarrassed. "You're right. I lost that one to a rust monster, but the one I replaced it with was another ordinary steel sword. "When I was ready to teleport here with Wainold, I decided at the last second to make a little detour."
The druid snorted but couldn't keep a small smile of admiration off his weathered face. "I'll say. When we appeared in that weaponsmith's shop instead of at the docks, I was about ready to peck your eyes out."
Aslan nodded. "I had seen this blade hanging on the wall the last time I was there, but I hadn't been able to afford it at the time."
The paladin suddenly stopped, his eyes widening. "Ye gods! I told the smith I only needed to borrow this, and that I'd be right back with it!" He drew the sword and inspected it.
Quthfor shook his head with a wry smile. "I don't think he's going to want it back now, Aslan. Fiendish blood doesn't wash off so easily, and I hardly think he's going to accept the sword you left him as a substitute."
"I know," Aslan replied sourly, looking now at his own blood-stained body. He glanced over at Wainold. "The problem is- I still don't have the money to buy it."
The druid rolled his eyes.
"Great. You not only want my cohorts for your pointless quest, but now you want my coin as well? Tell me, Aslan; aside from the fun of being constantly attacked, is there any benefit to being associated with you at all?"
"Quest?" Quthfor interjected, his eyebrows raised. "What are you involved in, Aslan?"
The paladin regarded the mercenary leader. Quthfor's hazel eyes regarded him keenly from under his shock of curly blonde hair.
Should he tell him? Should he ask them to join? His party back in Suderham had more than enough gold to hire the Journeymen for the duration; he was sure, and yet-
Loyalty brought with money is no loyalty I'd trust. Aslan's own words echoed in his ears, and while he was sure Quthfor would never sell them out for a higher offer, he was equally sure these three sellswords would not join them if they were not paid for their efforts, and for the kind of trouble they were in, Aslan wanted more than battle prowess. He wanted devotion.
Of course, at this point he wasn't sure if he was going to get that from Unru or his associates either. Still, if he could still convince Wainold to part with his three men, that'd be more than enough. It was going to take a long time to teleport back with them all as it was. Adding three more would add too many days to their deadline.
Aslan, stopped walking again, as did the others.
"I will tell you about it when we meet again, Quthfor," the paladin said, smiling. "Know for know that we have all the manpower we need. Thank you again for coming to my aid back there. You said last time that you wished we could have stood in battle together. I hope this satisfied that desire."
Quthfor grimaced. "Next time I'll know to keep my big mouth shut." The Journeyman stuck out his hand. "All right, then. We're still staying at the Billet, should you change your mind. I look forward to seeing you again soon, Aslan."
The paladin shook Quthfor's hands, and then those of Robert and Bertram as well. "Stay well and healthy, you three."
Wainold and Aslan watched as the sellswords moved off. The druid then turned his gaze back to Aslan.
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"You tell me, paladin. Was that a trap or not? Are you going to go back to the Wizard's Guild and give that Aimee a paladin smiting, or spanking, or whatever you call it?"
Aslan threw the druid his best version of Argo's pained smile. "Very funny." He reflected. "There's no sign that this was a trap per se, but it was no coincidence either. Chic gets his promised breakout at the precise moment the Willip wizards are unable to quickly respond? Aimee knew that. All she had to do was make a big concerned show to Hogeth and fret about how no one could possibly get to the docks in time to stop Chic."
Wainold grunted. "But she didn't plan on a wild-shaping druid or a teleporting paladin being there. Still, that's hardly a basis for placing her under arrest. You said yourself that the Emerald Serpent had abandoned Chic, although we don't know if Nodyath has, as well." The druid paused. "I guess all we have to go on is your own perception."
Aslan glanced at him. Wainold noticed and scowled back.
"You know what I mean! Those abstract paladin powers of yours that are supposedly so useful! Was there an aura of evil around Aimee or not?"
Aslan started, and then a deep sense of embarrassment hit him. He could feel his face turning red from shame.
He'd been thrown so off-kilter by Aimee's appearance; he'd never even scanned her.
The druid read all this in the paladin's face. He threw up his hands in despair.
"By the Shalm, the man's a moron!" Wainold shook his head fiercely, causing his braids to whip around his weathered face, one actually wrapping around his projecting beard. The druid didn't seem to notice as he started counting off on his fingers. "I'll need to make sure Galgia is safe- black bears are favorites of hunters. I'll need to heal up first and then pick up my armor, more weapons and some other supplies as well. Here," he muttered, pulling three small pearls from his belt pouch and plunking them into Aslan's hand. "Go and pay that poor smith for that sword of his you stole, paladin." He seemed to enjoy stressing that word.
Aslan couldn't hide his confusion. "What are you talking about, Wainold? Are you saying you're going to let your men come back with me, after all?"
Wainold's laugh of derision sounded remarkably like a bark.
"My men, under your leadership? Ha! They've never failed me so badly as to deserve that kind of punishment!"
The druid took a deep breath and tightened his grip on his staff. He glared at Aslan and gave what sounded like a sigh of defeat.
"I guess I'm coming along, as well."
A bright smile spread all over Aslan's face. "I knew you were a good man, Wainold."
"Don't start that again." The druid frowned at a thought. "That lout, Unru- as soon as he knew Argo liked to call me- that name- he wouldn't stop doing it. By the Hidden Wood, I won't be responsible if I wind up clawing both of them to death, Aslan."
His expression softened momentarily. "Still, I suppose there's the chance, that in their bid to outdo each other in an effort to exasperate me, they'll wind up destroying each other."
"Don't worry, Wainold," Aslan said with as much reassurance as he could possible cram into his voice, feigned or otherwise. "Everyone knows our mission is more important than personal agendas. I'm sure we'll all get along splendidly."
Another bark.