Obeah

  Obeah stood in his palace gallery, tapping his fingers on the white parapet as he overlooked the castle grounds. Frenroot trees lay in two neat rows, lining the marble pathway that stretched to the horizon. Their squat trunks barely extended past their bases before stretching out horizontally into countless branches, twigs, and leaves, which hovered parallel to the ground like the brim of a hat.

  The Frenroot tree was a curious species native to this world. One would collapse under its own weight well before reaching maturity if not pruned. But when given proper attention and guidance, it could express its true potential. It was one of the many things about the breed of which he was fond.

  A servant in the distance meticulously snipped a crooked leaf off one from atop a ladder. Each tree lay the perfect distance from the next, their outermost edges nearly touching but never overlapping. In only two months, they would begin to blossom vibrant yellows, reds, purples, whites, and oranges. He smiled in anticipation.

  First-time visitors to Obeah’s lands often expressed surprise at their richness in nature. It came from a common misunderstanding—one whose fault lay with the Airet, the source of that dreadful name. “The Scourge Barrens,” he hissed, disgust rising. Was it a flaccid attempt at revenge? A schoolyard insult on this world? He hated it as he hated them, but nothing came even close to the name they had chosen for him.

  The Tomb Fiend. He could not even bring himself to say it. It was even worse than The Scourge Barrens. His home world did not bury the dead in tombs; cremation was how they honored them. He was also not a fiend, but a Lich. It had taken him decades of experimentation, delving deep into both Life and Death Magics to achieve Lichdom, a task of which a simple-minded fiend would not be capable, even if given step-by-step instructions.

  A lowly insult lodged by a lowly species.

  Behind him, his Council waited at the meeting table. They stayed motionless as they sat ready for their master’s arrival. As they bore his Curse, he could simply extract the information from their heads, but he found it helpful to voice his thoughts and listen to others. Perhaps an old habit from his position on the High Council of Vraehatis.

  Just as he turned to join them, his knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor. It was as if an icy-cold knife had been plunged into his bowels, twisted and wiggled around. He screamed in agony as it turned white hot, then cold again. There was a crackling as every bone in his body twisted and jutted in different directions.

  “Impossible!” he managed to shriek before his lips burned off.

  His skin melted and dripped to the ground, layer by layer. Most of the hair on his head shed with it, and the little that remained sprouted from thin patches. With a trembling hand, pulled a strand in front of his eyes. It had turned as white as chalk, the fingers which held it reduced to bone.

  With a grunt of pain, he rolled over and squinted over the horizon toward Celand. The souls he had thoroughly captured and processed floated to the sky.

  “That useless worm!” he roared. Teeth fell to the ground and clattered against the stone floor.

  [Your Phylactery has been destroyed by Grant Leeman!]

  [You are now vulnerable.]

  Over the following minutes of agony as every cell in his body turned against him, he read the Notification again and again, chanting the name Grant Leeman, sending commands to his emissaries to gather all information. When the process was complete, he clambered to shaky, untrustworthy feet and limped to the grand mirror, where he confirmed what he already knew. He was hideous. His flawless skin had peeled off, exposing bone and gristle like a stripped rib. His perfect teeth had mostly fallen out, leaving large gaps between the few that remained. He ran his tongue over his gums and shuddered.

  His Council still sat at the table. After a short mental command, Obeah’s First Advisor wordlessly stood and approached him. With bony fingers, he touched the man’s chest. Obeah’s old shell crumbled to dust, and he received his new form.

  “Grant Leeman.” The voice was unfamiliar. Unpleasant. “I will not allow you the release of death. I will inhabit your body, and your soul will suffer for eternity in my new Phylactery. My Cursed will hunt you to the edge of the world if that is what it takes.” He looked in the mirror again. Bile rose in his throat. His old body was perfect in every respect, its species now long extinct. A waste of a vessel.

  “But first, the worm did not hold up her end of the bargain.” With a thought, twenty of his commanders and three-thousand soldiers stirred from dormancy. It was beyond all reason and necessity to send such a force, but Bay’kol had failed him. She and her offspring would make fine new forces. With them, he would march south, leaving nothing unafflicted. Every living being from the largest mammoth to the smallest ant would join his legion.

  For the first time in a decade, Obeah would leave his lands. He had grand plans for Grant Leeman, starting with everyone he ever loved.

  ***

  Dan

  Dan could feel the eyes on the back of his head, hear the whispers, see gaping mouths out the corner of his vision. Wasn’t every day that a man with an Epic Blacksmithing Class just showed up at your door, he supposed, and probably even less common when he wanted to Forge for you.

  The Goddess had the good sense to put him near Ospen, the capital city. It was hard to be amazed at the scale of a city (or anything, really) after his brief visit to Athemore, but the endless maze of streets, the towering structures, the sprawling parks, the bizarre cleanliness, and the fact that they built it all without Magic would make anyone gawk. Like any great city, it had a forge at its center, and like any great forge, it had competent Blacksmiths and Leatherworkers laboring at all hours.

  Now it was quiet as they watched Dan work.

  The blade glowed white as he pulled it from the coals. He ran his bare hand across the edge, making the men and women behind him suck their teeth and gasp in surprise, then with a guilty chuckle, squelched it in the vat of water. It hissed and bubbled, ribbons of steam floated to the ceiling and across. He pulled it out gently, wiping his brow.

  [Gladius of Wind]

  [Rare (Excellent)]

  [Affiliation: Wind, Air]

  [Charges: 3]

  [+2 to Dexterity, +2 to Agility]

  [Dismissible]

  [Expend one Charge to unleash a blade of Wind Magic. Blade will travel up to 50 yards, cleaving through anything in its path.]

  An apprentice’s boots scraped with each step as she approached. Her eyes glowed, her tongue ran over her lips.

  Dan handed her the blade. “Rare weapon. Ranged Wind Magic attack. Three Charges. Gives two Dexterity, two Agility.”

  It was as though he told them he’d Forged a Legendary Weapon. They whooped and cheered, slapped each other on the back, and carted the gladius off to whatever warrior could make the most use of it. There would be no shortage of volunteers, of course, and probably a fistfight or two over the thing. Eagerness was abundant, and the thirst for powerful Items even more so.

  What this world lacked was not competent soldiers. It was quality iron. It was only testament to the Airet’s ingenuity that every speartip did not crack on the first thrust, every arrowhead shatter on impact.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Legacy of Yakha was, all things considered, probably the best choice Dan could have made. The Class specialized in reinforcing the quality of materials to improve the end product’s grade. All Rare Blacksmiths, when given the right materials, could imbue weapons with Charge-based Spells and Skills. Legacy of Yakha drew inherent Magics from the metal itself.

  The better the components, the more potent the Magic.

  “Master Nerelot,” said Shen. Dan looked over his shoulder to find the old, crag-faced Airet blacksmith smiling at him. He nodded toward the door. “Not a trace of imperfection.”

  Dan gave a shrug. “Guess I got lucky.”

  “Lucky.” Shen barked a laugh, placing a hand on his round belly, mock-wiping away a tear with the other. “Nine Rare weapons in an afternoon. At this rate, we’ll be able to fight the Four Commanders off ourselves.”

  It was ten Rare weapons, but he didn’t take the obvious bait. Shen grinned, still, waiting for the correction. Meet one forge master, you’ve met them all.

  “Bring me materials, and I’ll keep Forging.”

  Shen stood up straight and gave a backwards Evenonian salute, then barked orders at his apprentices.

  Dan’s motivations were not purely altruistic, of course. His month on the road to Athemore’s Portal made him realize how much he loved smithing. Every night the desire pulled at him before bed, every morning he woke up and reached for his hammer.

  But there was more to it, now. With Legacy of Yakha, he gained Experience for every weapon he crafted, and a small percentage of the Experience and Points for anything slain with one of his Items.

  He took a breath and let the atmosphere of the forge wash over him.

  “Daniel Nerelot.”

  He’d nearly forgotten how much he loved the sounds of grinding and hammering. Then there was the sooty, rich, sometimes acrid smells, the heat from the coals, the humidity from the steam, the feeling of waxes and oils on his skin, and the smoothness of the metal itself. It was as comfortable as slipping into a warm bath on a cold night.

  “You are Daniel Nerelot, correct?”

  He turned toward the exit, resting his hands on a support beam. It was growing dark, the sky turning the color of a fresh bruise. His favorite times to smith, sunset and dawn. The crisp coolness felt good on his skin, the angle of the sun made it gleam off every blade. He’d saved the largest hunk of iron they gave him for last. Had a tinge of Wind Magic in it. Thought he’d make a warhammer out of it, take advantage of its reduced weight.

  “You are to report to Commander Birwood immediately, Daniel Nerelot.”

  He sucked in a long breath through his nose, then vented it out through his mouth. Seemed ignoring the brat wasn’t going to get him to go away.

  “Commander Birwood? Seems important.”

  “Commander Birwood is the fourth in—”

  “Don’t care.”

  The man spluttered, then floundered for his next order, half-words pouring out in spraying bursts and whiny whistles. Sounded like someone had inflated a wineskin and threw it down some stairs. Eventually, something resembling Evenonian came out, just probably not what he wanted to say. “She will be pleased about this insubordination!”

  “Why, that is good then, right? For her to be pleased about insubordination? Do send her my kind regards.”

  The messenger bleated another sound, spun on his heel, nearly crashed into an apprentice holding a shield, tried to pass him on the left but nearly crashed again when the apprentice went to her right, and finally found a way around, muttering curses.

  “Aye,” said Shen, shaking his head. He pointed at the flustered man, who was stomping out the door and into the street, still mumbling to himself. “Don’t think that’s good.”

  “Knew it was coming.” Dan cracked his neck, his eyes flicked in the direction the royal messenger boy had run. “And now I know more are coming. Sorry, Shen. Would have loved to work with you more.”

  It was true enough. But Dan had mostly gotten the gist of his Class, which was what he set out to do in the forge. His time was going to be limited, with word having a tendency of getting out and spreading quick. He’d Forged twenty-two Rare weapons now, on top of the breastplates and helmets, all with melted-down hinges, utensils, nails and horseshoes. He wanted to see what he could do with real materials.

  “A shame, truly. Where will you go now?”

  “Now?” He peered off into the distance. “Another forge, I suppose.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Dan considered his options. He'd searched for Grant, heard nothing but rumors and empty wind. The World Notification was going to get him all the wrong kinds of attention, and if what Dan suspected was true, he'd need a lot of people in his debt to prevent what was coming. Eventually, he shrugged a shoulder and faced Shen. “Leverage.”

  ***

  Ami

  “The bend of the river and not one step further.”

  Ami said the words to a tree in the empty forest, raising a finger and planting a hand on her hip, just as her mother had. She might have stuck her butt out a bit more, pushed a bit more shrillness into her voice. And the snort was completely embellished. But the woman worried more than an injured squirrel in a falcon’s nest, and for what? “There’s nothing out here!” Ami shouted in challenge, spreading her arms wide, waiting for Goblins to rush from the bushes with chipped swords and snarling mouths and gnashing teeth.

  The river’s roar drowned out her voice. She knew she shouldn’t complain. Having a mother wasn’t as ordinary as one might think nowadays, having a father too twice as rare. She glanced over her shoulder, back at town, and shuddered. That’s where the real danger was.

  Not for Ami, though. They didn’t know that she was the reincarnation of Pharaan, the legendary Airet warrior. She gathered her sword from the ground and with a bellowed challenge, she thrust, tearing through the new Master like wet paper. She pivoted and spun, dragging her weapon across another, sending him shrieking into a helpless sobbing heap in the dirt. She stomped forward with one final overhead strike, and the other Masters fled, crying for mercy and holding their britches by threads.

  Ami panted from the exertion. “And you had better not come back!” she bellowed, dropped her stick at her feet, and gathered her baskets of berries and mushrooms. She had gone well past the bend of the river, but the woods before it had already been picked clean. Her mother might give her another speech, but more food in their bellies was a fine price to pay.

  It also meant more taxes for the new Masters. Their share of everything hunted, gathered, fished and made only seemed to rise as the townsfolk toiled harder, their demands growing more extreme every day. Ami didn’t understand why, as the heap of uneaten food dragged out of the keep every morning showed they already had more than enough. Nevertheless, they ordered, and the Airet followed, as Airet did. Perhaps one day, someone would lead a revolution against them. Maybe it could be her.

  A small shrub hid behind a tree, and she swooped in with excitement. She couldn’t fight like Pharaan, but she was sure she could pick berries better. Her hand weaved around the thorned branches and plunged deep into the bush, where another cluster of winterberries hid. With a gentle tug, they came free, and she admired her discovery.

  It was said that a single winterberry at dawn could keep a grown man’s stomach full until noon, his thirst quenched until sunset. But it would make no sense for something so delicious, so nourishing, and so abundant to come without a cost; a single prick from the smallest thorn would leave a rash that’d drive the most hardened soldier mad, scratching the skin off his bones. The masters couldn’t pick them themselves, with their long fingers and all, but they could sure tax them.

  The largest and plumpest one in her bunch sat on top. She picked it off and popped it into her mouth, biting down and bursting the soft core. The sweet juice gushed in her mouth, and she exhaled a fruity breath with pleasure. “Can’t tax that,” she said with a blue-toothed smile, placing the rest in her berry basket as she skipped off.

  The river burbled and churned in her good ear, ice floes migrating south as the north started to thaw. She looked down at her haul and frowned. It wasn’t even noon, and she had collected both a basketful of berries and another of ripe mushrooms. Early spring was a forager’s dream, with a few hours of work providing enough for a family for days, and Ami would have loved to go home and help at the shop. Spring had come early this year, opening straits and shipping routes to other cities, so there was much stock still to move.

  Instead, she was stuck out, alone. Ami sat on her favorite boulder, recalling her mother’s other instructions that morning. The whispered ones. ‘Get home late, dark streets only.’

  She shook her head. Just a week before, it had been the opposite.

  Her mother sidestepped her requests for details, but Ami was sixteen summers old now. She knew about the masters’ growing interest in the townswomen. Whispers about the brutes’ leering, and ‘it only being a matter of time’ were in every dark corner, eerie warnings of what could come. The women stayed covered up and out of sight as best they could and always walked in twos and threes, for what little good it’d do them.

  She groaned and lay back, stretching her arms above her head. Matters beyond her concern. The rest of the afternoon and evening loomed before her. With nobody to keep her company but the birds and bugs of early spring, she had a long day of boredom ahead.

  Ami loved the forest. That didn’t mean she wanted to spend every waking minute in it.

  She allowed the warming sunlight to wash over her skin, droplets of water from the river hopping free and tickling her face. Her mother always had so much to say about her spending time outside the shade. A lady should be pale and fair. She carried her parasol everywhere, as if sunlight were a fire that would disfigure and scar her. Ami would rather be dark and average than hold an umbrella everywhere she went.

  “Hello,” a voice said from behind her.

  Ami jumped and spun, spilling the contents of her baskets on the ground.

  A man stood behind her boulder, gently waving with a forced smile on his face. He wore plain clothing, and his hair was a shade of black not seen on Airet from her region. He wasn’t the same race as the masters, but if he was Airet, he was from very far away.

  “I’m sorry I startled you!” he shouted, but Ami’s feet were already moving. He must have approached from her left side. She chastised herself for her carelessness. She had ignored her mother’s instructions and left her good ear toward the river. A stupid mistake.

  She shrieked as her skirt snagged on a bramble.

  “I can cure any diseases you have!”

  She ripped it free, tearing the fabric. I have to get back! I have to tell everyone more are coming!