Witcher Warrior Scholar Spy

“They say each one

Has a vice stronger

Than a dragon

Can swing.”

Kuala wondered what was broken within her that she could cut down her fellow man without a hint of remorse. Was it the battle madness? Was it her Warrior heritage? Or was it simply her? Was she broken, a shell of a person meant to feel more connection than Kuala could fathom?

That was the thought that made her snort.

Kuala? Lacking connection? Hardly. It was through her humanity that she kept her bloodlust under control, not a lack of it. It was Shen, Arkim, and even her father, Kilkua. It was her siblings and her mother, lost as they were to her. It was Mara, Sierre, and Alkimika. Gods, even in a way, it was Babel.

Her expression soured at the thought of the previous Spy. The only good thing about the Doom returning was that Babel was no longer around to harass them. It wasn’t enough to shake her resolve, of course—because one evil man being sealed away did not justify the destruction of a kingdom—but it was a silver lining.

To this very day, she had never shaken the memory of a battered and beaten Olea, fleeing not only her father but the kingdom that allowed Babel to stretch his festering power.

After Olea had disappeared in a burst of power, Kuala demanded one thing of Sierre.

“Why did you allow her to leave?” she’d hissed as venomously as she could. “She has a role to play like the rest of us. That’s what you’ve always said before.”

Sierre, with her vibrant eyes that matched Arkim, had simply said, “She learned all I could teach her. Now, she must become more on her own.”

Kuala hadn’t understood—she still didn’t understand. Nor did she want to. Olea had abandoned them, had left them all to rot for all the other woman cared. That was what made Kuala furious, in honesty. It wasn’t that she’d forgone her role as Witcher, her duties and obligations. No. It was that Olea had fled at all. In every timeline, in every way, no matter what Kuala did, it was futile.

Olea didn’t care about them.

It was why, upon their arrival at Plumcliffe, Kuala was on edge.

Their Witcher was supposed to be there, waiting for them. But their Witcher was more than a named hero. Their Witcher was a woman of disloyalty, and Kuala didn’t trust her presence being so close to the Grotto.

As the three of them stormed into the town, Kuala took it all in. The packed dirt roads that threw up dust as they rode inward, the crude structures meant to be buildings that were made of dark wood and clay in equal measure, the people who stopped their work to stare at their incoming. Of it all, it was the people that caught Kuala’s attention most.

They looked strong. Muscles bulged in some; others had bodies so lean that they looked carved out of stone. But they all held power. Kuala could feel it.

Suddenly, the underwhelming appearance of the town made sense. Because, when she thought about it, that was the point of Plumcliffe. It was a town meant to be closest to the Grotto, to protect the rest of Quoral from the magic that spewed and formed Godlings. They didn’t need fanciful houses or fine livery. No. These were a people of strength.

Kuala tried to remember which Well was tied to Quoral, which God commanded it, what it could do—but she was no Scholar. Thus, her memory failed her.

It only took a few short minutes to cross from the outer boundary of the wall to get to the center of Plumcliffe. Despite the utilitarian buildings, Kuala was still able to spot several luxuries of civilization.

Namely, a tavern.

Kuala desperately wished they had the time to stop and for her to drink away her stress. Alas, they were on a mission.

“Where to, Spy-man?” Kuala said, pulling on the reins and bringing her horse to a stop at the edge of the town center. Beside her, both men came to a halt as well.

Shen’s eyes narrowed, and he scanned the surroundings until, after only a moment, he paused and pointed at one of the two-story structures scattered across the square. Suddenly, an ache filled her head, and she heard Shen’s voice.

“She was staying there, at the inn.” Pausing, Shen glanced at Kuala and Arkim. “She’s gone now, though.”

Kuala let out a hiss of air as she felt the burning sensation that signified Shen had said all he wanted to. “Gone? I thought you said she was waiting for us?”

She watched out of the corner of her eyes as Shen braced himself—as if he was waiting for a physical punch. One that would never come, obviously. Kuala may be battle-mad, but she was within her sanity after the bloodshed in Opine. And even had she been on the brink, Kuala had long since learned to flee into the wilderness to quench her bloodlust.

Still, Kuala gritted her teeth as Shen shook his head.

“Where’d she go then?” Arkim said lightly, unconcerned, and stretching what Kuala assumed were his sore muscles.

Within moments, a glowing, blue bird manifested and took off—heading out of town.

Arkim huffed. “While we wait, let’s rest, shall we? I could use an ale, too. And a bath. I can feel dust up my ass.”

Kuala snorted in response and dismounted her steed, nimbly throwing herself to the ground and landing with a thud. Screw it, Contraria can wait another day.

“Fine, but while you scrub yourself red, I’m drinking myself the same way.”

Shen gave his strangled laugh, and when Kuala met his eyes, they shared a smile. It was loaded, filled with stress and mirth and everything in between, but it was still a smile, and so, they both let it go.

Leading their horses to a tie-stand out front of the tavern, they wrapped their reins around the posts and fed the beasts first.

What good is it to feed the burden before the beast? Kuala mused to herself, running her hand along the side of her horse of the day. It came with a name, but she’d decided it was terrible and thus had promptly forgotten it and decided to call him Prince. The horse was beautiful, with a cream colored coat and a dark brown mane. It very much reminded Kuala of her own dark-haired beauty back home.

Well, perhaps it was a misnomer to call Mara hers when the opposite was true. But Kuala would lay down her life for the princess, would give anything to bring her back, and so, Kuala would settle to be called Mara’s dog—if any were brave enough to say it to her face.

As Shen and Kuala headed into the tavern, Arkim abandoned them to head to the inn. Honestly, were it not for Arkim’s continued complaints, Kuala would have easily forgotten about the man’s missing fingers. He hardly seemed impeded by the loss—though he often, and loudly, said otherwise.

Quirking her mouth into a grin, Kuala called after Arkim, “Don’t forget to scrub your personality, too!”

Arkim sent back a rude gesture—with his bad hand—which made it increasingly funny when he realized and had to switch hands to get the intended effect.

Shen and Kuala made their way inside, and they shared a companionable silence. Kuala ordered a mead for him and a glass of hard liquor for herself. That’s what it would take for Kuala to really get in her cups. It was the nature of her Inheritance that she was resistant to physical ailments—mundane poisons included. Thus, alcohol had to be monstrously strong to affect her.

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Such was how Arkim found them, nearly two hours later.

Shen was simply sitting there, sipping his mead—only on drink two. Meanwhile, Kuala was staging an arm-wrestling competition amongst the other patrons.

“Come at me! All at once!” She shouted, slurring slightly, as she raised her arm off the table after defeating another in a long line of men.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Arkim griped from the entrance, making his way over to Kuala. “You only have two arms.”

Kuala turned to look at him, jumped up, and wrapped her arm around his neck, easily put him into a headlock. Arkim didn’t fight back; instead, he gave the woman a flat look. She flexed her bicep.

“Shhhh, pretty boy, don’t apply logic to fun!” Kuala laughed boisterously at Arkim’s expression.

“You’re getting dirt on my clothes, Lala.” Arkim sighed.

“You’re not so fun anymore, Ark,” Kuala huffed, letting him go and shoving him away from her. The man stumbled before righting himself.

“You say that every time you drink, and here we are. Months into travelling together,” Arkim grumbled. “And yet, you’ve not cast me aside sober.”

Kuala reached out, gripping Arkim’s shoulder roughly and staring thoughtfully into his eyes. Her sea-foam eyes contrasted with her dark skin, and her braids lolled to the side. “Ark, you know why I keep you around?”

Arkim didn’t respond.

“Because you’re my favorite neat freak,” Kuala whispered, and Arkim’s cheeks went pink, but she wasn’t finished. “And I love to see the women you pull. It’s magical. How do you do it? I mean, you have the personality of a doorknob. Does your pretty face do that much work?”

At that, Arkim knocked Kuala’s arm away. “Okay, that’s it. I’m calling this. No more for you.”

Kuala looked at Arkim. Arkim looked back at her. They stared for two long seconds before both dove for the drink Kuala had been working on—barely three feet away, sitting faultlessly atop the table.

Of course, Kuala was faster, wrapping her hand around the glass then quickly bringing it to her lips and chugging. Arkim tried to rip it from her grasp, but that simply got him elbowed in the side.

Groaning, Arkim stepped back, pressing down on his ribcage and breathing through the pain as he hissed, “Fine! It’s not like we have a job to do or anything. People to save! Family to bring back!”

As Kuala brought the glass down on the table roughly, her expression soured. “You—”

Before she could finish her sentence, heat filled her veins and she found herself fully sober. Whipping around to look at Shen, Kuala narrowed her eyes.

“She’s headed to the Grotto.”

Shen was in and out of Kuala’s mind in seconds, but the look on her face shifted into a deeper frown. Grabbing the hilt of Wrezgul at her waist, she clenched her fist. She took a deep inhale, holding it longer than most could fathom, then let the air out. When she did, Kuala shook her head. Suddenly, the dark expression shifted into one of determination.

“One—don’t ever do that again,” Kuala commanded Shen, disgusted at the feeling of being forcibly brought back to reality. “Two—let’s get gone, then. We’ve lost enough time.”

“Agreed,” Arkim added. “We’re close enough to the Grotto to get there within the day.”

Kuala nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. With her mind clear, she squeezed gently.

Arkim was the only person Kuala could tolerate for extended periods—the only one who looked at her Inheritance and chose to be unafraid. Sure, Shen was similar, and they’d known each other just as long—had been just as close as Kuala and Arkim, once upon a time. But after Olea left, there was only so much grief Shen had been willing to share. He’d fallen into gambling rather than lean on his friends.

Meanwhile, Arkim had been the anchor Kuala had required. Shen wasn’t the only one reeling from that very loss, and it wasn’t as if Arkim was unfazed, but the blonde-haired man was ridiculously willing to verbalize his pain. The way he could articulate his loss made Kuala feel as if a burden had been lifted from her soul. As if she were understood.

Once, Kuala had tried to discuss her thoughts with Mara. Had tried to explain the complicated nature of her feelings—the loss, the anger, the regret. Mara had been more vicious than Babel himself when Olea’s loss became widely known.

“She is a traitor,” Mara had said, her voice quiet and her eyes narrowed. “Olea was meant to be a Hero. One of the Four. And, what? She fled because of a little discipline?”

That was the only time Kuala had spoken to the usually gentle Mara about the weight of the Witcher’s loss. Because she could never understand. The Warrior and the Witcher. Two sides of a single staff—one end sharp and the other embedded with a jewel. Might and magic.

Arkim, however, had gripped his heart and cried with Kuala. Had said, “I don’t care that she needed to leave. I care that she left without us.”

That had helped to soothe Kuala’s pain, if only for a moment, because she was seen.

Now, though, it had been months since the loss of the kingdom. Word of the Darkening had begun to spread across the mainland. Time had flown, and Kuala knew Olea couldn’t actually get into the Grotto without them. To navigate the whirlpools required a bit of everything: physical might to swim, magical might to lessen the burden, scouting to know where the whirlpools landed, and planning to avoid the shifting tides.

Kuala and the others grabbed their horses, mounting them with the skill of seasoned riders, and rushed through the town. Crossing the threshold of the far gate, they rode to the edge of the Deadwood Forest, aiming themselves at the coast. The rocky terrain had required them to pick up sturdier steeds, and so, their horses were up to the task of trotting atop the hard stone and dirt of the forest floor. There was hardly any underbrush, but Kuala still saw the traces of wildlife that a forest was meant to hold—only the animals were unlike the jungles of Contraria.

She saw a stone rolling of its own accord before it unfurled its four legs and popped up what could pass for ears and a snout. It had no eyes, but the deep slate colored stone of its head twitched at the sound of the horses passing by. Kuala’s eyes lingered on the stone mole for only a moment before she focused back on the way forward.

Leading the way, Prince was rushing at Kuala’s command. And perhaps that was why they failed to notice a stone flying out from the side of the trail—headed straight for Kuala’s head.

Between one moment and the next, Kuala snapped her hand to her hip and whipped out Wrezgul, knocking the stone away violently. Pulling Prince to a halt, Kuala scanned the horizon.

Rushing to stop as well, the two men pulled on their reins. Arkim and Shen were a dozen feet behind Kuala, flanking her, but they did not make a sound.

Kuala’s head twitched, and she flicked Wrezgul once more, deflecting another stone that came from nowhere.

“Show yourself!” she growled.

Expecting a bandit, Kuala dismounted Prince smoothly, landing with a thud on the rocky earth of the forest floor. Around her, the trees were thick. Grey bark was all she could see. The three of them hadn’t truly been following a trail—simply going in the direction of least resistance toward the coast.

Which meant there shouldn’t have been bandits. None at all. Especially when Kuala considered the fact that they were in a forest of petrified trees, with no bushes for berries, no underbrush to support edible game.

How are there—

A screech resounded through the forest, and Kuala brought Wrezgul high into the air as a dark figure flew toward her. Her eyes tracked the creature—a black-skinned humanoid with bat wings and horns—waiting for it to come closer-closer-closer. NOW!

Bringing down Wrezgul, the beast, a bakkin, came apart. Its body split in half, and the screeching stopped almost as soon as it started. The deep green blood of the bakkin splattered across Kuala’s travel clothes, sinking into her cloth shirt and causing it to cling to her. She felt the chill of the blood hit her skin and shivered at the unnatural temperature.

But Kuala knew she had no time to dwell, no time to cast and clean herself up. Because bakkin traveled in packs.

“Incoming!” She shouted to the two men behind her. “Arkim, take distance. Shen—make your new Well useful.”

Immediately, Arkim summoned a bow from his ring and pulled back the string. Wind coalesced at the center of the bow, and the shape of an arrow could be seen. Beside him, Shen let out a huff, but held out his hand and summoned a small ball of flames.

“This once, I will play the role of Witcher,” he said, his voice resounding in Kuala’s head.

As they prepared themselves, a new screech echoed through the forest, then another, and another, until they were surrounded by the screams of the bakkins. As the screeches grew closer, Kuala knew it was only a matter of time until they were overrun.

Taking a deep breath, Kuala pulled on her Inheritance. Bloodlust, menace, power, everything it provided. Her muscles bulged, her body shining in a crimson light, and she moved. Fast as lightning, she struck the nearest bakkin—a medium-sized creature that had been flying straight for Arkim. Wrezgul’s blade ate flesh, lobbing off the monster’s wing-arm hybrid. Then, Kuala kicked the creature in its chest—a loud crack resounded, causing it to collapse.

“Make space, aim for the back of the lines—I’ll handle the melee up close,” Kuala commanded.

Deferring to her, Shen and Arkim nodded, aiming for the farthest of the dozens of bakkin that began appearing between the trees. Shen released several small fireballs, aiming for the backline of the horde. As the flames hit the creatures, their flesh caught alight, the fire turning a sickly green, and sank into their flesh. Arkim similarly aimed his wind arrow, made from air married to gusts, and released the piercing magic onto the rushing bakkin.

Meanwhile, Kuala was severing limbs, ducking and stabbing abdomens, and decapitating the beasts. She took down three for every one that either of the men struck. But Arkim and Shen helped keep Kuala from becoming overwhelmed by sheer numbers. To the three of them, it was as if they were back in Contraria, running drills with Kilkua and Sierre. It was as if they were nearly whole again.

They just needed one more. And they were close to finding their fourth member. So close.

As Kuala dug her sword into the heart of the final bakkin, she couldn’t help but to think, Olea would have fought side by side. We would have destroyed these beasts in half the time.