Smoke first. A bitter scent. Then pain. A steady ache in his chest that pulsed with each breath. Finally, the shapes of the clearing swam into focus.
The ratatoskrkin were gone.
Only their corpses remained scattered across the ground, some still leaking faint curls of shadow smoke that drifted upward and dissolved into the night air.
Mirabelle stood over him.
Her palm hovered inches above his chest, fingers spread, lips moving as she chanted the final syllables of a spell. Faint threads of pale light spiraled down from her hand and sank into the bandages around his ribs.
He still hurt.
Weylan shifted slightly and glanced down.
His trousers were gone.
He lay there in his smallclothes. His wound had been neatly wrapped with clean bandages.
He immediately slapped both hands over his privates.
“Hey!” he barked. “Did you undress me?”
Mirabelle finished the spell before answering. The glow faded from her hand as she lowered it and looked down at him with calm professionalism.
“Of course I did,” she said crisply. “I had to tend the wound. I’m a trained healer.”
She gave a small dismissive wave.
“There’s no need to be shy. I’ve seen men in the temple in every possible stage of undress.”
Weylan frowned up at her.
“Can you turn around while I put my trousers back on anyway?”
Mirabelle rolled her eyes in theatrical exasperation, but she turned around.
Weylan hurriedly pulled his trousers up, careful not to disturb the bandages around his ribs. When he finished, he cleared his throat.
“Why do I still hurt?” he asked. “Didn’t you heal me?”
Mirabelle glanced around the clearing while she spoke, her expression turning serious.
“Almost everyone is hurt,” she said. “Well, everyone except me. Thanks to you.”
Her gaze flicked toward the scattered bodies of the squirrel monsters.
“We have three healers, but even that isn’t enough for a dozen wounded people. We’re stabilizing injuries and stopping the bleeding. Nothing more.”
She rubbed her temples briefly.
“I only checked you for hidden wounds, illnesses, and poison. You’re fine, by the way.”
“I hope the others are too,” she added tiredly, “because we don’t have the mana to test everyone thoroughly. I’m completely drained.”
Weylan slowly sat up.
The camp around them looked chaotic. The fighting had clearly ended only minutes ago. People were still wrapping bandages around arms and legs, and only one of the tents had been fully pitched so far.
Above them, a falcon swooped down from the dark sky.
It landed in the clearing with a heavy flap of wings. For several heartbeats the creature shuddered and twisted as bones shifted and feathers receded. Then the transformation stabilized.
A were-falcon stood there in his half-animal form.
The were-people seemed to prefer that shape whenever danger was nearby. Weylan wondered idly how they behaved back in their village.
He made a mental note to visit one day, if time allowed.
The falcon looked around in confusion. Someone quickly explained what had happened while he’d been scouting. He groaned loudly. “I missed the whole fight?” he complained. He looked genuinely offended.
Considering how chaotic the battle had felt, Weylan suspected the revenant imagined something far grander than the short clash it had actually been.
Weylan scanned the clearing again. “Where’s Selvara?”
Mirabelle turned back toward him. “Your familiar?” she asked. “She took a nasty bite.” She nodded toward the single finished tent. “Considering her size, it did a lot of damage. She’s in there. I healed most of the wounds and Darken gave her a restorative sleep potion.” Mirabelle snorted faintly. “He claims it works even if you don’t believe in it.”
Weylan immediately began to rise.
Mirabelle caught his arm.
“Don’t wake her,” she said firmly. “She’ll sleep for a few hours, but she’ll be fine by morning.”
Weylan hesitated, then slowly sat back down. “Alright.” He sighed. “Thanks.”
Mirabelle nodded once and then began updating him on everything he had missed.
Faya had never finished the ritual she had started earlier.
The attack had interrupted her. She had knocked the squirrel monster unconscious during the fight and had apparently stood there afterward, visibly torn between healing it and killing it.
Ursa had solved the dilemma. The were-bear had stomped over and calmly sliced the creature’s head off.
Faya had opened her mouth to protest, then apparently decided against it.
Weylan could picture the scene in his mind’s eye quite perfectly.
He raised his voice slightly. “Darken!”
The revenant mage looked up from where he sat cleaning and bandaging a cut on his leg. “Yes?”
“How long will the light from that tree hold?”
Darken glanced at the glowing branches of the dryad tree nearby. “Probably another hour.”
“Good.” Weylan turned back to Mirabelle. “I’ll build a campfire while you continue healing and bandaging people. Once the fire is going, I suggest one of you performs your hearth protection ritual.” He gestured toward the dark forest around them. “I’d prefer that done before the tree dims again.”
Mirabelle shook her head. “Not happening.” She folded her arms. “Like I said, I’m out of mana. Faya and Ulmenglanz will be soon as well. There won’t be anything left for protection rituals.”
Weylan looked around the clearing and sighed. “So, we’ll be solely relying on guards.”
Skandi the were-beaver happened to walk past at that moment. He overheard the last part and clapped Weylan on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” Skandi said cheerfully. “We’ll cluster the tents together and light a ring of torches around the camp.” He gestured toward the clearing. “We’ll be fine now that we know what to look for.”
Weylan exhaled slowly. “Let’s hope there aren’t any more surprises.” His gaze moved across the clearing. “Stitch? Are you alright?”
The flesh golem looked up from examining one of the squirrel corpses. “Me?” she said. “I’m fine.” She tapped the leather of her apron. “Barely scratched through the leather. Though it would be nice if you used your repair artifact to close the punctures.” She tugged slightly at one torn seam. “I’d rather not have my clothes split open during the next attack.”
Weylan walked over and retrieved his spell focus from his backpack. As he began repairing the leather, he nodded toward the corpse she had been studying. “Anything useful?”
Stitch frowned at the body. “No.” She nudged the carcass with her boot. “The bodies collapse and tear apart after death. The fur isn’t worth salvaging.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “They contain an unusual amount of mana, but it disperses after death, since they lack a dedicated mana organ or beast core to store it.”
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Light footsteps approached. Sigrun, the were-wolf huntress, strode toward them. Her eyes swept constantly across the forest and her nose twitched as she sniffed the air. “Those monsters shouldn’t even be here,” she said. She pointed toward the corpses. “Ratatoskrkin live near the northern edge of the Wildewood. I’ve never seen one before.” She paused. “Although that doesn’t mean much.” Her sharp gaze fixed on Weylan. “How did you see them?” She folded her arms. “I have excellent night vision. Even I couldn’t spot them.”
Weylan scratched the back of his head. “I have a feat that lets me see in near darkness.”
Sigrun snorted. “That shouldn’t surpass my natural senses.” She shrugged. “Well. No matter.” She turned away. “We won. I’ll check the perimeter.”
Weylan watched her slip silently into the underbrush. Then he stood and began checking on everyone else.
Once everything seemed stable, Weylan began building the campfire. Stitch helped clear a circle of turf with a shovel while he gathered stones and dry wood from the surrounding forest. Soon flames crackled warmly in the center of camp.
Weylan sat beside the Verdant Hare and gently stroked Sir Cloverton’s fur.
Malvorik’s voice immediately stirred inside his mind.
Weylan made sure he couldn’t be overheard, even by the sharp-eared were-people. But those were busy preparing dinner and finishing the camp setup. Still, he lowered his voice.
“I doubt it,” he murmured. “Maybe on the way back after the hunt. Depends on how we’re doing.” He paused. “And whether the other teams are hunting us.”
“I don’t know,” Weylan admitted. “Depends if my plan works.”
“No.” Weylan smiled faintly. “I’m afraid you’ll tell me it won’t work. Then we’d have to defend the unicorn against every other team.” He scratched Sir Cloverton’s ears. “If my plan fails, we’ll probably end up doing that anyway.”
Weylan sat up straighter. “You know?”
Malvorik’s mental voice grew thoughtful.
Weylan nodded slowly. “That explains why the others couldn’t see them.”
“I noticed.” He lifted his sword-staff slightly. “The sword-staff you gave me worked fine though.”
Weylan leaned back. “I think we’re safe for the night. Plenty of guards. Some of them even have excellent night vision.” He stared into the flames. “We could still use a counter against that invisibility trick though.”
Weylan chuckled softly. “No rest for the wicked, as they say. At least it gives me time to level up.”
“I should check my options first. That reminds me. Have you heard of the skill feat Resistance Unlock?”
Malvorik’s tone changed instantly.
“Really?”
Weylan blinked. “What?”
Weylan’s stomach sank. “My master told me to take it,” he said slowly. “So I did.”
For a moment his mind spun. Had he made a fatal error? Could his master have been so wrong? He would only get a very limited number of feats. If he’d taken a useless one, it was something he couldn’t fix. Ever.
Weylan’s mind raced. Could that be? Aldrich knew about his master… He supposedly could have gotten some signed document with the seal of Mulnirsheim. Weylan had no idea how hard it was to copy for a talented mage.
“Say, how hard would it be to copy the official seal of a city?”
“No.”
Weylan frowned deeper. “You’d need someone skilled at forging magical signatures?”
“Is that something a noble would have?”
Weylan weighed his head in thought. While Aldrich didn’t like him, they had developed some kind of professional antipathy. Such a trick seemed a bit too dishonorable for him. Maybe Lyriel? She now worked for the Harbingers.
He needed more information. “Say, why exactly is the feat considered so bad?”
“What kind of hazards are we talking about?”
“Well, I already took it. Too late to change it. So, what does the feat actually do?”
Weylan considered that. “What if someone had a trait that, let’s say, increased the chance of gaining rare skills or feats?”
There was a long pause.
Then he felt the mental equivalent of a click in the distant dungeon-heart’s mind.
“Duly noted.” He inwardly cursed. That had basically been his first idea. Causing a hazardous situation with healers nearby would have been a fast and safe way to get new resistance skills. Of course he couldn’t have nice things…
“Yes?”
“What do you mean?”
Weylan took up the hare and looked into its lazy innocent eyes. “Seems healthy to me.”
“And that’s exhausting?”
“Ineff…”
Weylan’s chest tightened. “So we’re going to lose the connection?”
Weylan sighed heavily. “Well, I was planning to ask how to build a Circle of Binding to catch the unicorn.”
“It came up in a few of the bardic tales.”
“Well? Can you help me? In the tales, even a mage apprentice could trap a magical being if he had time to prepare a clever trap.”
“What? It won’t?”
“What equipment?”
“I didn’t know.”
The mental sigh could be felt throughout the dungeon.
Weylan nodded. “Thanks.”
He stood up and joined the others setting up the camp. He remembered their planning session and how they’d split up the team’s tents. The two priestesses would share one tent, Ulmenglanz, Sir Cloverton and Stitch would share another while he partnered with Darken. He’d been shocked when he saw Stitch arriving with a giant backpack containing poles, bedrolls and canvas for several tents. The thing was bigger than her and enchanted to lighten the weight. He had actually forgotten to ask if it included two or all three of the tents. Darken didn’t carry anything that resembled a tent pole or canvas roll. And Weylan’s pack contained mostly food, the enchanted foldable cauldron and other cooking equipment. “Say Darken, where’s our tent? Is it in Stitch’s backpack? Do you need help setting it up?”
Darken shook his head. “No need. I’ll set it up myself. Watch.” He got the strange round cloth wrapped shield he’d carried on his backpack and removed the cover of cloth. He pulled out a tightly folded disc of fabric. For a moment he held it carefully in both hands.
Then he tossed it onto the ground.
With a sudden fwump, the hidden spring-steel-like enchanted wood frame sprang open. The rings snapped into shape and the fabric stretched tight, the tent rising instantly into a small dome.
Darken walked around it once, straightened a corner, and pushed a few stakes into the ground. In seconds, the shelter was ready. The shield of less than a meter in diameter had turned into a tent big enough to house three people comfortably.
Weylan just stared at him.
Darken grinned. “It’s something from my world. My friend Legolias developed a version of the pop-up tent that works here. Enchanted to resist water and cold and slowly self-repair if damaged.”
Weylan shook his head and started setting up the rest of the tents normally.