Vol. 2, Ch. 99: Odd Wolf Out
Thundering Woods, north of Rivilat…
Two weeks of slogging it back to the frontline. Several close calls with Valosian military patrols, and more tracking hounds and flying patrols than he cared for.
Felix growled agitatedly when the coast was clear, and he gained a respite from the patrols. He slunk through an opening in the holding line, and what should have been a thinly-manned series of watchtowers and remote garrisons along a ridge passing through the woods.
He made liberal use of his [Shadow Step] to avoid detection. It was possibly one of his strongest Abilities, along with his tracking and stealth capabilities, or his powers when fighting in proximity to his pack. It wasn’t until he was well on his way to the Arcesti Hills that he let out a slow breath of relief.
The Valosians had tightened the lines; there were more watchtowers, and patrols were more frequent. That would make any incursion more difficult, and he’d seen mages casting spells to track trails and were also running tunnelers underground to look for any Varadur subterranean pathways.
They had the right idea; if they scoured outside the academy, they would find the tunnel network. One he hoped would stay intact.
Still, though…they couldn’t defend an entire boundary all at once.
His urge to kill every single human he came across was dimmed. Normally, he would have attempted it, at the urge of violence being rewarded with strength, but now, the reward wasn’t worth it.
He didn’t need to kill what he didn’t eat. Killing for pleasure gave him nothing. Sure, there was experience gain, but it seemed muted, almost nonexistent now. But would he still be able to level?
If that was impacted, he had some very big problems down the road.
There was no pleasure even in eating. His body rebelled against him every time he ate. Whether it was the stray boar, one of the feral rabbits, or a deer, it ended with him nearly retching out every single meal. And the memory returned.
The memory of the traitor. The one who’d helped them perform those horrific rituals. Briant.
His face, chewed and mangled, showed up every time Felix tried to eat. Asking him what freedom tasted like.
Every time. He’d responded to that ghostly taunt, cursing him, screaming that he’d taken unwilling victims to be turned into monsters. And he’d done it, knowing what the academy staff members were doing.
Briant should know best. His father was a war mage who had dragged Felix’s half-dead carcass during that fateful battle. Right before the ritual.
Right before his waking hell began.
The shadow wolfling rubbed at the bandages covering healing skin and fur, slowly growing back from the numerous burns. The waxy skin had turned soft, and patches of fur returned, though discolored a light grey, no longer the jet black that had survived the burning. He was scarred, now.
Inside, and out.
He glanced at the small fire he’d dug and ignited in a hollow, to avoid being spotted from a distance. He leaned against a fallen log, felled by lumberjacks some time ago; moss provided a slight cushioning from the hard surface.
And for the first time in a while, he sat down and thought.
What does freedom taste like, Briant? Bittersweet. Like the taste of those candies brought from the southern forests, from the ground seed pods. Bitterness. And a lingering aftertaste of something tantalizing, just strong enough to keep you coming back. A hint of sweetness. A promise of something better.
He didn’t know why he bothered to answer this phantom in his head. The dead couldn’t hurt him. The living could, and had.
Strangely, cooking the meats made meals more… palatable. It slightly revulsed him, cooking the meals. It tasted best when it came from a still-living source.
It was as if he was being forced to be more human again.
Damn snake. I’ll have to kill her to lift whatever curse she placed on me. He absentmindedly continued carving a small branch into an idol since he could only travel for so long before needing to rest. For two days, he’d been working on the carving, almost automatically.
At first, he was undecided on what he would make. Eventually, he let his hands guide him, whittling blindly with his sharpened claws. He didn’t know many other Varadur who even enjoyed crafting. Maybe a few of the kobolds and the fey retained some artistic desires, but…there wasn’t much room for creativity in a collective cobbled together to do one thing: to destroy humanity, and reclaim this world for their own.
He had been whittling absentmindedly for so long that he finally looked down to see how his depiction was going. His claws worked almost autonomously, tiny flakes of wood chipped and peeled away, the shape now becoming pronounced. He furrowed his brow when he realized what he was making.
A snake. Or at least, the head of one. He still had a chunk of wood left to whittle to make the rest of the body, and he was filled with revulsion.
Damn it. She's in my head, infecting my thoughts now. How could a snake such as her possess such power?
He knew from experience that lamias had magical capabilities similar to but not identical to those of caster classes. If he had to draw a parallel, he would say the wizard or the witch were the closest analogs. Lamias were among the most intelligent and deadly members of the Varadur Collective.
But she wasn't. Not yet, at any rate. What was she? Where had she come from?
Then he gasped as he remembered the name, a long-dormant name he hadn't thought of in four years.
Professor Aksen. Risha Aksen. Holy shit. Was that her familiar? No, it couldn't be. A familiar didn't have that kind of capacity to speak, not to that level, and certainly not capable of casting powerful spells.
He knew for a fact that Risha Aksen had drawn the ire of many of the Varadur, responsible for crushing defeats, and the Awakened.
His source of misery. Not that it mattered. The snake indicated she was dead. For twenty years, that witch had pulled victory from the jaws of defeat. He would have been impressed, but that conflict of knowing she was the source of his pain dimmed that thought.
He clenched his hand and looked at the fire, intending to throw the small motif out and burn it along with his desire to burn this sneaky witch. Yet, something tugged at his mind, convinced him to hold on to it.
Maybe I'll finish carving it. Then I'll burn it along with her when I find her. They always said it's proper to burn a witch. A muzzle filled with razor-sharp teeth spread into a proud smile, and he continued his work on the idol.
If kobolds could make totems for dragons, he supposed he could make one of his own: the source of all his fervor and anger.
He let his mind wander back to his efforts. Arcesti Hills wasn't that far away now, and had been abandoned before the Varadur Collective could occupy it. From what he remembered, it was a modest settlement.
His mood soured when he remembered who was likely still occupying it: goblins. Or they had been last year. He hadn’t been able to keep track of dates as accurately–damn, the Interface didn’t even come with a calendar, yet it unlocked vast magical and physical potential. If they’d been occupying the place for a year, odds were it had been vandalized to oblivion. Or knowing some of the dumber goblins, turned into a crater in the ground.
If there was one monster he still hated, even though he was one now, it was goblins. Those chaotic little gremlins were almost as dangerous to the Varadur as they were to their enemy.
Nobody would notice a few missing, considering how fast the goblin matrons popped them out. He needed to go and work out some of his rage.
He was hoping the Varadur hadn't made any significant strategic moves since he lost the connection. That was still a mystery for him to solve. Worse, he didn't know who he could trust to tell about this problem. If anybody thought he'd lost a connection, they might think he was a traitor or a spy. Being killed by them was probably the least worst outcome in that scenario.
In the worst-case scenario, they might dissect him with the hags and the other casters ripping out his fleshy bits to determine how he'd been freed, while keeping him alive for study. That was worse than death.
I need a smart Varadur who will keep their mouth shut while I try to fix this problem. Riferi, the hag? Nah, she’s getting high on her own alchemical fumes. Bomo, hobgoblin shaman? He’s decent, but he’s one step away from goblins; even being average intelligence makes him a genius among them.
He shuddered when he thought of the last person he could trust: Avarita, the priestess. No way. Not unless I’m desperate. I am getting to that point slowly. He let out a slow, calming breath. Only as a last resort. She’s as likely to help you as she is to dissect you to offer power to her infernal Divine.
He needed to fix the connection, right away, if he had any hope of regaining his position. Losing a pack of Tier one wolves hurt, but they weren’t irreplaceable. He also carried vital intelligence on the defense of Bregin and the increasing defensive line of the Valos military.
Then an invasive thought popped up. Or maybe I could sit it out. With no connection to the Collective…I could make like a hermit in the woods. No one would ever find me.
He snarled, digging his claws into the ground. The problem was, it might be too good a prospect. He’d finally have peace in this hell of his life, away from everyone.
But he was a wolf of action. He needed that conflict to feel alive. He had scores to settle.
The dense forest eventually gave way to a more gentle sprinkling of woodland meadows and then patches of massive trees. In the distance, on a low hill, he saw that settlement previously known as Arcesti Hills.
He didn't know what surprised him more: the fact that no monsters had spotted him once he saw the settlement, or that it was still intact. Though the mill seemed to be missing some fabric on one of the vanes, it needed a little repair work. Some of the buildings contained broken windows; such juvenile and pointless vandalism. Yet, he saw smoke rising from some chimneys. That meant some intelligent monsters were residing there.
Most of the structures were constructed of timber from the local groves; pine and oak planks, and other assorted woods. The smithy was still standing, composed of dull red bricks forming a large square structure with numerous chimneys lit with smoke fumes rising, with a spherical half-dome on one end–likely, the high-temperature furnace. Stranger still, it looked like they had built a small brick storage building next to it.
That wasn't there the last time he checked. Normally, the Varadur were busy tearing stuff down, not building new things. Maybe they were finally getting smarter.
He glanced at the war bow on his back and withdrew it out of caution. He’d carved more arrows during downtime, but the stock he kept in the cavern was made of solid wooden shafts, with metal arrow tips. Those were his preferred choice, and he couldn't fault humanity for making superior products to the Varadur, although there have been recent efforts to mimic them.
He bounded upward into the trees, scrambling up the trunk with ease, using his claws to dig in, and he leaped silently to a vantage point. If there was one thing he was glad for, it was that plenty of foes didn't think to look up.
He bounded with almost no sound from limb to limb above the forest floor, hiding in the canopy. These trees were sturdy and thick-rooted and could support his weight. Peering down, he noticed small forest animals scurrying about. Distantly, he heard nasally, high-pitched giggles of some humanoid creature.
Any good mood he had about this whole situation vanished when he stopped at a vantage point overlooking a small hill: goblins, down below, and as despicable as ever.
Short, knobby limbs, with skin that was more like leather than anything, they ranged in color from a light green to an almost olive tone. The squat creatures had short claws and an erratic gait, and almost manic energy about them. They were too dumb to be afraid at times and cowardly when you needed them to watch your back.
As if to prove the point, all the goblins were busy sticking a massive forest boar with jagged spears. They weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer, and one of them got its spear stuck. The boar, easily five feet at the shoulders and likely a Tier one, promptly gored the goblin with its tusks, and the creature let out a shrill scream. The boar may have been bleeding heavily, but it still had plenty of fight in it as it tossed its head and the goblin went sprawling to the ground, holding its gruesome injuries with one hand while trying to crawl away.
It never got the opportunity. The boar trampled over the goblin, with bones making wet snapping sounds and screaming like the damned, then stopped as it slowly became a smeared mess on the ground. The other goblins looked on, laughing and jeering at their fallen comrade while stabbing at the boar.
They finally brought the creature down with one spear stab to the chest, and the creature let out a squeal before collapsing on its side, riddled with numerous injuries. One green wrinkly-skinned goblin went and kicked the now-dead goblin, letting out an angry growl. “Great, Zim. You're dead now. Guess I won't be getting that money that you owed me, huh? I get your bitch now!”
Not a single one was watching the treeline, which could be fatal for them. Felix was tempted to teach them a lesson for their lack of discipline. With his arrows, he could easily pick off most of them, if not all of them. Most of them were Tier ones, and there was one, maybe a Tier two goblin warrior, the one currently kicking the now corpse of both the boar and then the now crushed goblin. Even then, he wouldn't really give the creature much credit.
There was a widespread difference between low-Tier, and high-Tier, even within the same category. Someone close to their Tier three could easily overwhelm a creature on the lower end of the Tier.
Thinking back, it was painfully obvious he had underestimated the snake. She should have only been Tier one. Yet, her power seemed closer to Tier two.
Whatever she was, she was no ordinary snake.
He dared not think of what she would probably evolve into, given enough time. Her possibilities could be anywhere from serpents of incredible size to lamias, or even something akin to a dragon.
He pressed onward to the village. He kept to the trees and then also used his [Shadow Step] to walk by, intent on finding the irresponsible twat who was leaving their patrol lines dangerously sparse. When he got up onto the wall, by the village, in a shady spot surrounded by large trees, he saw that the goblins weren't the only ones within the village.
There were also hobgoblins, and a pen of large wolf-like things--Wargs. How the goblins managed to ride the things without getting bitten in half was beyond him, as the wargs were practically feral. One of them was busy fighting another over a half-gnawed-on bone. The nearby goblins were placing bets on which warg would end up taking the bone as the prize.
He finally spotted someone of interest: a large hobgoblin standing on the second-floor landing of what likely had been the town hall, wearing a skullcap over his head. Unlike goblins, they were humanoid-sized and proportioned, and significantly less ugly, not to mention exponentially smarter. This one was actually dressed in light-studded metal armor and looked more disciplined than the rest. He peered around constantly, as if searching for threats. Hey, you're still alive, are you? Surprise, surprise.
He wasn't wary enough. Felix leaped onto the roof with all the gentleness of a landing feather, dropped down behind him, and wrapped his claws around his throat. Not tight enough to cut or choke, but to let his quarry know one thing:
He was a dead hobgoblin walking.
“Boo. You're my bitch, now.” Felix couldn’t help but relish in the line.
The hobgoblin didn't even flinch, turning to face the wolfling with yellow eyes alight with amusement. “Hi, Felix. The arachnids alerted me to your presence. We're not as dumb as you think we are.”
Indeed, Felix heard only the faintest sound akin to the pluck of a string, like a harp or other corded instrument. The sound a spiderweb might make, were it the equivalent of steel wire, tensed enough you could cut a limb off with sufficient forward momentum. He could hear the chittering above him, with the spider dangling, watching him with interest, mandibles clicking by its mouth in anticipation.
The hobgoblin pointed to the hanging predator, giving the wolfling a small nod. “So, Felix, I'm surprised to see you here. Why are you alone? Where's the rest of your pack?”
"Not even going to greet me, Warwick? Your old pal?" Felix grinned with a slasher smile. This was one hobgoblin who was elevated above the rest. One who was a veteran, a rarity among his kind. Any hobgoblin that survived long enough to have a few grey hairs had his respect.
The same could not be said of their lesser kin. Felix's longstanding theory about how they could be elevated was relatively simple: the female goblins should stop putting up with the male goblins and murder enough of them to put the rest into submission; their collective intelligence would skyrocket.
Warwick shrugged as if unbothered by his precarious position. “I would, but you seem to have your claws a little too close to my carotid artery. Sheila, don’t eviscerate him just yet.”
The spider let out a chittering protest, but his intent was understood. The spider withdrew to the trees as Felix let go. He could have taken them both if he needed to.
At least Warwick, unlike the goblins who lacked any awareness, had intelligence, a dangerous intelligence. He had an almost preternatural sense for danger, a rarity among his kind. He was probably the only hobgoblin he could respect. "Felix, why didn't you report to the Collective?”
"I was half past dead. I was also way behind enemy lines, and the wolf pack is toast. Literally. We have a new problem to deal with: The Valosians have powerful new Awakened. I saw it first-hand."
The hobgoblin took a sniff. “What, did you decide to take a walk through a furnace? You still smell burnt.”
“There was a complication taking Bregin.” Felix left out the part where there was nothing but deafening silence, where the call of the Collective had guided him and promised him retribution against his foes for years. “The hell are you doing here with these shit-for-brains? I thought the smart ones got put in useful positions.”
The hobgoblin let out a grunt. “We have a task. We’re excavating a little present for the academy that has been aging for some time now. This is coming from Priestess Saori.”
Shit. Her? That eight-legged mankiller? She's crazy, dangerous, and I would still risk my life for a night with her. Ironically, probably one of the few monsters that can figure out what's wrong with me and not kill me on sight.
Felix knew from the moment he joined the Collective that the idea of a single entity driving them was dragon shit. The truth was far more nuanced. Creatures like Saori were designated taskmasters; a hidden command chain.
Smarter, dangerous high-Tier monsters acted as directors for the lesser-Tiered monsters. Some of the Tier ones were essentially instinct-driven and of minimal intelligence. They frequently served as food sources for travelling armies of Varadur or kept the general biosphere stable. But from Tier two and above, some of them received special connections with the Collective.
He still did not know, precisely, what was at the top: the director of all Varadur. Or as he’d started to suspect, who he was. The entity would occasionally screw with the Interface of everyone nearby, enhance the Varadur with various buffs that only classers should have been capable of, and give them increased intelligence and ferocity. He suspected it was the manifestation of a Divine. Something that had seeped out of the rifts of Arivol.
He’d never asked questions, because even among the monsters, asking questions was dangerous. He’d only seen the result of this presence once, and the result was that the monsters temporarily gained a terrifying strength and endurance. Even as a hardened killer who’d eaten his own people as retribution for what they did to him, the sights he witnessed chilled even him as the afflicted tore their enemies to pieces in gory fashion.
Was I not good enough for you? Is your silence just that, silence, a punishment for failing to destroy Bregin? Am I doomed to be damned on both sides of this war?
Maybe the witch didn't curse me. Maybe I'm just broken.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of the bitter thought. Felix wasn't even sure if it was a Divine beast controlling them. He suspected it was something that used to be human: many of the divines would never have willingly let humanity be torn apart over the past twenty years. Anything capable of controlling them gave him an awareness of how small he really was in the scheme of things.
“What’s that freaky half-spider up to?” Felix asked casually. “What are you unearthing?”
“Something that was buried and left to age like wine. An Instance core.”
Felix scoffed. He remembered the beating the Varadur took then. They hadn't even gotten close, and wasted several of the Instance cores, trying to set up a staging area. “This far south? This must be what’s left of the last failed assault on the Academy five years ago. I thought they were all destroyed.”
“Not this one,” The hobgoblin grinned. “I had to send a lot of extra men. This particular instance has a specialty monster that should be great for infiltrating…given the right circumstances.”
“Gotta be something nasty if they’re using goblins for this task. You know your perimeter is shit, considering how I breezed in here. I let the spiders see me. They told no one but you.” Felix grunted and leaned against the rail, watching the hobgoblins marching in formations. At least some of them were competent.
He sensed his opening: a favor for a favor. “Hey, I got an offer for you. I got something going on with me.”
“Does this explain the lack of…connection I’m feeling with you?” Warwick frowned.
“I believe the Valosians have found a way to screw with us through the interface.” He didn't elaborate. “I need to come back with a win, or the scaly bastard heading the harassing efforts on the eastern front will devour me alive. Your men need some direction."
“Then you can assist with this. I need someone to direct the goblins. You…are good at barking orders.”
Felix let the pun slide. He applauded the balls on this guy for saying that to his face. “Any worries if a few of them don't make it home?”
“Why do you think I’m sending extras?” The way Warwick said it gave him pause.
“Why all the extra goblins, though?”
Warwick smiled. “We needed volunteers for a trial. There were some early failures, you could say. It’s going to be a nasty surprise for the Academy once it's ready, and soon.”
“If those dipshits are as careless as your perimeter line, the Valosians probably have an idea they're already there.” He leaned in, curious. “What kind of surprise is it?”
“One I think even you’ll cringe at, when you see it. But damn if it isn't effective.”
The fact that Felix felt a chill down his spine while Warwick wore a contented smile told him very bad shit was about to be seen.