Chapter 7: Storytelling

The corridor isn't as long as I'm expecting, ending in a two way branch, one running to the right and the other slightly off to the left. I go one way and the paladin the other, without talking it out first. That at least gives me confidence she knows what she's doing aside from charging off in the lead out of some sense of urgency or whatever else drives her.

When I'm stopped by a closed door, I grit my teeth and open it, though it's already partly cracked and I can see inside enough to know I'm not walking in to my doom.

Instead, I enter a small chamber with higher ceilings than I've seen previously and a row of bunks, a fire pit and a few odds and ends rounding out the contents. And, to my relief, a doorway on the far wall, firmly closed, heavy wood braced with pitted metal. Hopefully one that leads out of here, wherever here actually is.

I turn back to alert the others only to find them on my heels. They followed me, the paladin on their tail, waving at me to keep moving. When I step aside to let them pass, she shrugs.

"The other way is blocked off by a rockslide," she says.

"Something we should worry about?" I hadn't considered stone collapsing on us to be a threat, but when I let myself think about it I shudder and immediately shut down my worry. It's not like I can do anything about it if the ceiling decides to fall on me.

I enter with the paladin, Blossom squealing as she races to and then bounces on one of the bunks. She raises enough dust with her enthusiasm I worry she might catch something from the wafting scent of stirred up hobgoblin she's created. Vosh and Graldor bypass the sleeping area to the corner, the dwarf going through the remains of what has to be the hobgoblin's things until Blossom takes note he's stealing her job and joins him.

Vosh seems acutely aware of his size and sits at the fire pit with his hands in his lap, staying out of the way while the elf checks the door on the other side of the room before closing it again and nodding to us.

"A corridor," she says. "Empty. For now."

While I'd like to just leave now, the fire is a welcome sight as is the pot of some kind of stew bubbling over the coals. The temptation isn't just mine. Without saying a word to each other, the elf, paladin and myself quickly barricade the doorway with one of the bunk frames. Adrenaline fading, weariness sets in and I'm happy to sink down the wall and sit on the floor with a bundle of mattress under me, the vaguely spoiled tasting stew I'm handed going down easier than it might under other circumstances.

"Just don't ask what's in it," Blossom says as she skips away to give Vosh a bowl that's ridiculously tiny in his grasp. I don't say a word, not wanting to know what I'm eating, tipping back my portion and slurping a healthy taste, swallowing despite the increasingly unappetizing odor. Food is food and my embed agrees, especially when the helpful little halfling passes around a flask of some kind of liquor. It's harsh as it burns its way down but I'm warm suddenly and much more relaxed. I groan softly while I extend my legs, crossing them at the ankles, and pass the flask along to the paladin who's chosen to perch next to me.

She salutes me as she swigs, winces, hands it on to Vosh. He does the same, a few drips squeezed past his lips, deep voice vibrating when he speaks.

"May the good grace of Eldora WorldMother lift your spirits and warm your soul." He drinks again, the elf bending her head to him.

"And on your house and hearth," she says, sipping from the flask he hands her. "You two," Graldor says, though with good nature despite his grumbling tone, "and

your earthy ways can just keep it." He chugs a swift swallow before passing it to Blossom again. Their griping seems to have ended with food, rest and drink.

"The call of WorldMother touches all hearts," the elf says, her voice taking on a particular tone, like she's prepared to teach him the error of his ways if need be.

"You're of a forest tribe?" The paladin next to me interrupts before the elf can continue her instruction.

"I am," she says, long ears sweeping back, giving her an alien appearance as much as anything else about her. Elves always make me uncomfortable with their elongated bones and frail appearing bodies. But there's nothing fragile about her, I know that from experience.

How? I wish I can remember. The elf goes on while I ponder my memory loss now that I have time to do so.

"Fleur Eldoak," she says. "Born of Wishrung Wood, ranger." Ah, a ranger. And not an unusual choice for an elf.

"We've been introduced to our wizard," the paladin says, "and you, troll druid." Vosh nods. "And, of course, the rogue of the hour."

"At your service," Blossom peeps, winking at Graldor for using his turn of phrase. "I'm Damaris West," the paladin says, "in the service of the crown princess."

And here I am a mere fighter thinking I should be leading. I almost snort, except they're all looking at me and I realize they're waiting for my introduction, one I hardly know how to deliver.

"I'm a bit lacking in the details," I admit. Blossom snorts, but I go on anyway. "I think my name is Webb."

"Think?" Damaris's eyes narrow, her lips pausing over the rim of the flask that's come back around the other direction to her again. "What does that mean?"

"Do any of you know how you got here?" I wait for replies as they shrug.

"The usual way," Vosh says, big hands resting between his folded legs, knuckles pressed into the rock. His skin tone is a good match, the same dull gray so his hands blend into the stone. "I was trying to break into the citadel and was captured and sent to the cell block through a magic portal."

"The same for me," Graldor says. "Caught by a spell I wasn't expecting." That fact makes him distinctly unhappy.

They all seem to agree they arrived the same way as I did. I almost ask about the delivery. The white light, the voice and the bell. Not to mention my embed. But Fleur tilts her head and observes me with her bright green eyes, unnerving me into silence.

"You have memory loss?" She sounds like she's singing the question.

"Yes," I say. "I don't know how I arrived here." Not exactly true, but I hurry on anyway. "This all feels familiar, but... I think I'm a fighter?"

Blossom taps the toe of my boot with one fingertip, points at the sword at my hip, as if I need the reminder I've killed three hobgoblins in very short order. "Safe bet, Webb."

"As for the rest..." I spread my hands in my lap. "Where are we? You mentioned a citadel?" I focus on the troll druid when he nods.

"The stronghold of the Demon King," he says.

That rings no bells whatsoever. They must see my continuing confusion because they appear at a loss to go on until the dwarf takes the plunge.

"You must be under some kind of spell," Graldor says, frowning. "I can have a look if you like?"

I shake my head, mention of the Demon King catching my attention. "Tell me more."

Vosh takes up the story after a brief look about as if the others might like to do the deed. "It's a simple tale," he says. "Not so long ago, the Cavelorn Queen, Vanarion, was struck down and lay dying at her home in Cascavel."

"No longer." Damaris twitches beside me, hands me the flask. "She's been brought here in the hope of her salvation."

I don't ask what she means by that because Vosh nods and carries on. "A minion of the Demon King was captured, and in interrogation admitted to the act of war."

"He screamed the truth," Damaris growls.

"You were there?" I turn to her, not surprised to see the grim fury on her face.

"I conducted the interrogation," she says before falling silent and taking the flask back.

We all stare at her a long moment until she goes on, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "When the demon admitted his king ordered the queen's attack, the crown princess assembled the Cavelornian army and began their march here, to the citadel. But she sent me ahead to seek the Demon King and the means to kill him for what he'd done."

"Alone," Fleur says.

"How dubious," Vosh nods.

Damaris's face crumples a moment before she seems to shake off their doubt. "Perhaps she didn't order me explicitly," she says.

I take the flask and salute her, sipping the foul liquid. "I take it the rest of you are here for similar reasons?"

"Not for the queen specifically," Graldor says, though he tips his head to Damaris. "But the means to kill the Demon King? Yes, that."

"Surely your memory isn't so far lost you don't know the Soulblade?" Fleur hugs herself, staring into the fire pit and the slowly dying coals there.

Soulblade. I nod slowly, remembering the voice. "A weapon?"

"Created by the first mage of Cavelorn," Damaris says. "And the only thing that can kill a Demon King."

"Which is why he stole it from Queen Vanarion," Blossom says, voice sad and low, "and why he struck the way he did."

"He used its magic against her," Damaris says, voice catching ever so slightly. "Snuck into the palace in the dark of night, the merest scratch enough to enslave her to the blade's power. And then he left her to die, slowly from a wound no magic but the Soulblade itself can heal. Without it to reverse its attack, the queen will die."

"If the Soulblade was made by one of her own people," I say, "how can it be turned against her?"

"No one fully understands the heart of the blade," Graldor says, sounding sad about that. "The creation of it, the power it took to embed the essence of its maker into the core of it, is lost to us. All that is known is it sat in safety in the halls of Cascavel until a year ago when the new Demon King rose and, somehow, stole it from the queen." He shifts in place. "I came thinking to sneak in from beneath the city," Graldor goes on. "An old friend of mine helped build the main structure and swore to me there was a way in." He grunts, shrugs. "He lied, I suppose. Or the building's structure has been altered since."

"Dwarves," Blossom grins. "They make great friends, don't they?" He swats at her but doesn't argue.

"I'm here for the gold," she says, as perky as ever. "And the Soulblade if I can manage it. But gold will do."

"Bratty halfling," Fleur says. "Does the safety of the queen and our world mean nothing to you?" She meets my eyes. "Graldor only told you part of what's important." If he takes offense to her statement he doesn't show it. "If the Soulblade's power is allowed to run its course and the queen dies..."

"The Demon King can use her spirit, then trapped in the heart of the sword, to unlock the power of the Soulblade for his own use." Damaris's growling tone makes her sound ferocious.

"He can call on the power of Cavelorn," Fleur says, "and command the armies of all nations, as well as those of his own kind."

"If the Demon King can find a way to command the soul of the first mage there will be nothing we can do," Damaris says. "He will open the way for his demon kin to our world and the Soulblade will be forever corrupted and our people enslaved."

"Not what Mage Borengald intended when he embedded his own soul in its length," Vosh says with sad agreement. "It was he who slew the first Demon King, dying in the process. Creating a barrier between the demons and our world with his own soul and the blade of his people."

"It's stood as a shield against their coming for a thousand years," Damaris goes on. "Only recently has the new Demon King found a way through to our world, at great cost, they say, to his own kind. But he did it, though he's only partway here. He and his people must exist in the stolen bodies of those who willingly give up themselves to host him and his minions." I can't imagine agreeing to something like that personally. "They have waited for ten centuries for the chance to return to power."

Fleur's sorrow sounds like a song. "The Soulblade's magic and the power of Borengald can free him the rest of the way if he breaks that soul's control over the sword."

"I take it he has the means to make that happen?" I shiver before clamping down on my growing anxiety.

"Harming the queen is step one," Damaris says. "Her stolen spirit might be the way to do what no one else has succeeded in doing, not even the first Demon King." I turn to speak to her, want to ask her why the Demon King didn't just kill her. Wouldn't that make more sense, rather than allowing time to do the job? There's so much more I don't

know. But my tongue cleaves to my palate when I look down and notice letters and numbers etched in her forearm. Shocked, I stare at them while she tosses the now empty flask to her feet and stands, brushing her hands off on her thighs, face tight and angry. "This has been delightful," she says, voice dropping and going harsh, her strong features more like stone than flesh. "But I'm moving on now. With or without you."

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