NOVEL FROG 216 - Enemy Mine
Her influence began at the bottom, right down within the glorious network of chambers and sap running beneath their feet. The Great Oak knew it - feared it - tried to resist it - but the cork of Lieze’s potential had been popped, and the incontestable tide of her necromancy proved too crushing to resist. The birthing dreams of Elvenkind had lended life, whimsy, and happiness to that old tree, but Lieze would be the first to make it fear.
Its bark withered and peeled. Its branches drooped. Its leaves withered and charred, twisting off from their twigs to fall widely upon the meadow. The lingering soul within - that engine of whimsy responsible for the Rootborne, turned thrall to the whims of one woman.
Lieze’s MP - 0 / 2,605
!MANA BURNOUT!
When all was said, thought, and dreamed, Lieze fell to one knee and struggled to recapture her vim. The millennium oak had resisted her influence with every fibre of its being, but as long as something lived, it could be brought under her command, and the sylphic forces of nature weren’t excluded from that broad qualifier.
The half-literal fruits of her labour were ripe for the picking instantly. From the trunk’s twisting patterns, yet more Rootborne emerged. Tainted by the Blackbriar’s will, they embodied something sonorous and foul within the forest’s heart, artificial faces contorted into expressions of agony.
Secret Quest ‘Faetouched’ Complete!
Description - Turn a Fae into an undead thrall
Reward - 5,000xp
Level Up!
You are now level [59]
HP + 0 MP + 55
MIND + 1
“My, my.” Baccharum chuckled and clasped his hands, “If you can’t raise them, then why not create them? Cut out the troublesome bloodshed and skip right to exerting control from the very first second.”
“Lieze!” Drayya rushed over and held the girl by her shoulder, “Are you alright?”
“Ugh…” She didn’t try to hide her displeasure, “It feels like I just dipped my head into a pail of tar…”
Mana Burnout. Not exactly the outcome she hoped for, but transforming the Great Oak into a thrall was well worth the effort. The Head Shaman’s plan to beat the Order down with legions of Rootborne seemed airtight at first, but what use were the forest’s denizens when Lieze could turn them against their herald? The catharsis of overcoming an enemy’s plan was nearly - nearly - enough to offset her splitting headache.
“Would you like a mana potion?” Drayya asked.
“Don’t bother.” Looping one arm over her shoulder, Lieze allowed herself to be pulled up, “I’ll need a day before I can think about using mana again. But at least we have a renewable source of thralls to rely on.”
“Should we make camp?”
“That depends…” She paused, “...Where exactly are we?”
A troubling feature of Akzhem was its resistance to exploration. Every meadow, glade, and clearing was impervious to common methods of mapping. Having emerged from the roots, Lieze couldn’t say with any certainty whether or not she’d and the others had ended up right where they began. More than likely, considering they traversed the tunnels for barely a half hour.
“Somewhere else.” Baccharum opposed her thoughts, “Distance and time pass strangely in the roots, controlled by the whims of the Wichts as they are. We could be just a few miles from the Black City - or further from it than we’ve ever been.”
“Not very helpful.” Lieze stumbled away from Drayya, “How would you find your way in this situation? Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve been lost in these woods.”
“It isn’t.” He nodded, “I’ll need to perform a quick ritual using some local mushrooms. Get a fire burning while I gather the reagents - though I can’t promise what I’m looking for is in the area.”
“Don’t waste your time.” She replied, “We have new allies to rely on.”
The Rootborne swarmed around them as if puppeteered by a single entity. Hundreds emerged from the Great Oak to serve Lieze’s will, vexed by necromantic sorcery but still very much the mischievous nymphs they were before. The turned Great Oak had retained its magical connection to the woods, imparting knowledge to its dark children even as its branches withered away to nothing.
“These wayward husks will find anything you desire.” Lieze said, “We can’t afford to waste time, so I’d appreciate it if you could conduct this ‘ritual’ as quickly as possible.”
The Black City had no army. Its people were scavengers, hunters, nightsmiths, weavers, politicians - but never soldiers. Akzhem had never known an invasion across all the aeons of its existence, and yet the relief of their history had been carved with bloodied hands. Those children of the night were no strangers to death and disorder.
The newest Head Shaman had reigned over the Eternal Palace for a full year and a half - quite the lengthy tenure for an Elven leader, who were known most of all for their consistent habit of abdication, both forceful and consensual. He had inherited the robes of his predecessor and forsaken his worldly name only minutes following her assassination. Prudence and opportunism, as it turned out, would become the defining virtues of his rule.
Deep within the palace, his practised hands worked the Nightsap from its basin, whorling and bubbling and foaming the nectar into works of revealing art. Within the olive-green surface, he glimpsed distant scenes of carnage across the forest; the long jaws of Onz ripping their still-living prey limb from limb, the parasitic wasps of the upper canopy ovipositing their young into the supple flesh of caterpillars, and deeper within, the corruption of Akzhem’s natural beauty.
“The Cursed One desecrates our land…” His voice was calm, but stern, suppressing anger until it formed a great ulcer in his stomach, “I can see it… a forsaken Starkin guides her hand - pushes her towards dominating the woods with her foul necromancy.”
He had seen enough. The sap held still in the air for just an instant, then it crashed into the basin, sending ripples across the surface. Newly-formed droplets fell from the branch above as hooded figures surrounding the bowl - eight in all - slammed their staffs against the ground.
“We must strike.” One said.
“We must bide our time.” Another argued.
“No.” The Head Shaman interrupted, earning silence with a single word, “This is not Akzhem’s war to fight, but my own. The city must be evacuated, and its citizens escorted to the deepest, shrouded enclaves across the Obsidian Coast. Empty our stockpiles and guarantee the safety of our kin on their way to salvation. The Cursed One’s interest begins and ends with me.”
“Absolutely not!” A hooded figure stepped forward, “Those who have a mind to flee shall be branded as cowards! If the Order goes uncontested, their foul thralls will spread over the peninsula and hunt us to extinction! The humans and Dwarves have already fallen! We are the final bulwark against the Death God’s acolytes!”
“Calm yourself, my brother.” The Head Shaman raised a bony hand, “The kin tucked within their ranks has no doubt revealed the capabilities of our assassins. If you desire my word that the Order shall perish, then I will gladly give it. But there is no need to endanger the lives of the innocent. Peace begins with an open palm, not a closed hand.”
The hooded Shaman sighed, “...You would battle the Cursed One alone? Her allies? Her swelling army of the night? Tell me how! This is as much our battle as it is yours! Every citizen would gladly take up a blade if it meant defending their ancestral home!”
“I do not doubt that.” He lowered his head, “-But I have seen enough death for one life. My predecessor ruled with that iron belief, throwing her own subjects against my coup in a desperate bid to protect her sovereignty. I killed many in the name of progress and enlightenment - too many to be forgiven for. I will not demand that sacrifice a second time.”
“Kesset…” A forbidden utterance leaked from the Shaman’s lips - a name cast into the abyss of time, never to resurface. His was a pleading, pathetic voice, “We must fight. For the world’s sake, if not for Akzhem’s. You cannot shoulder this burden alone. I will not allow it.”
The one who was named Kesset found himself beset by doubt. He had once levied blade and sorcery against his fellows, and torn clean the throats of those who were as innocent as children. Since his ascension, he had refrained from so much as raising his voice against another Elf, bowing to beggars in the streets and genuflecting before the wild Shamans of the outer enclaves in the name of peace. Now that terrible world of bloodshed and sacrifice was inviting him again.
“...No.” He answered finally, “I will not demand that of my subjects. The Cursed One shall fall by my hand alone. You have my word.”
The Wichts - undead or not - were adventurous little beasts. Like wild hogs, they unearthed the soil and procured hidden roots with surprising consistency, allowing Baccharum to locate his psychoactive reagents within just a few minutes of searching.
To Lieze, they didn’t seem much different from the bitter greens and mushrooms studding the midlands, but she knew better than to expect mundanity from Akzhem. Some of the finds had been charred by the fire, but Baccharum insisted that they were more potent for it.
“So these are…” She struggled to find the right word, “...These are drugs.”
“How reductive.” Baccharum scoffed as he crushed the mushrooms using a pestle and mortar, “Unlike the hallucinogenic flora of the midlands, these treasures are filled to bursting with the Great Oaks’ mana. Through careful preparation and ingestion, they imprint upon us a wonderful kind of clairvoyance.”
“How is it that they aren’t more popular outside of Akzhem, then?” She asked.
“I think I might be able to answer that one.” Marché, who sat on the grass nearby, made his presence known, “These reagents are rich with compounds toxic to most creatures. Across centuries of careful usage, the Elves have built up a tolerance to their undesirable effects.”
“...How undesirable?”
“Think ‘throwing up your intestines’ undesirable.” He flashed a smile, “Don’t be tempted.”
“I was never tempted to begin with!” Lieze surprised herself with the volume of her own voice, “...And this will help us locate the Black City? Or are you just looking for an excuse to abuse substances while we have some free time?”
“I’ve never met an Elv keen to do this.” Baccharum stuffed the resulting sprigs into a rolled-up leaf, “Not very good for your heart, and the euphoria is negligible. Nobody’s a fan of it, so I’ll ask you kindly never to expect this from me again.”
“Find us the Elven city, and you won’t need to worry about that.” Lieze said, “Are you done? I’d like to get moving as quickly as possible.”
“Let me just light it up…” With frustrated grunts, he conjured a flame and used it to set the flared tip aflame, “Shuffle back a little. You’ll regret it if you end up inhaling some of the smoke.”
Lieze did as she was suggested, placing some space between the two as Baccharum lifted the leaf to his mouth and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. Having grown unfamiliar to the sensation, he coughed, and tried again with more success. Lieze watched with interest as he fell into a sleepless trance over the course of a minute or so, “...Can he still hear us?”
His silence answered for him.
“I suppose there’s nothing to do but wait.” She sighed, “Marché.”
“Oh - I already know what you’re about to ask.” Patting the grass down from his robes, the rust-haired boy rose to both feet, “I’ll get the others to use this time productively, don’t you worry. I noticed a few problems with our army in the last battle, so we’ll work to rectify them.”