• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"Like children fighting over who gets the biggest cookie," mused Pierce.

"Like drow fighting over who gets to be Lord or Lady of the Underdark," Rambertz added. He looked down at Pierce. "That's why you feel threatened by Chev and hate his guts, and yet he, knowing that he's better, doesn't care because he doesn't feel threatened. Because of that state of mind he can take the time to appraise you and compliment your skills."

Pierce nodded. "And back to when I die?"

Rambertz merely shrugged. "That comes down to who you worship. There is no God of Combat to my knowledge and if there is, she's disappeared. Perhaps died during the Time of Troubles." The Doctor noted how all drow tended to refer to gods as being female, something that had been bred into them from Lolth, the Spider-Queen.

Pierce pursed wet lips and stared up at the heavens. "A time when even the gods were made low and forced to walk amongst mortal men. I hope that never happens again."

"Not all gods," the druid said abruptly. "Not Lord Ao."

"Ao," Pierce said slowly. The overlord of all the gods had no followers. At least none that Pierce had ever heard of. "Why is it that no one worships him?"

Rambertz shrugged and droplets slid down his smooth obsidian body in a torrent. "He doesn't need to. He has the power to destroy any god, or all the gods at once, if he so felt like it. Why he doesn't is something we should debate in the future." The drider lurched and started to stand.

Pierce stood up quickly, almost slipping in the mud. "Why not now?"

"Because right now I should go and check on that boy you nearly killed. He should be quite asleep so I can check and make sure the stupid cleric did it right." The drider shook the rain off his huge frame and glanced down at Pierce. "They're amateurs these humans! Not a bit of healing skill amongst the lot of them!"

Szymon awoke with a start and stared around the pitchblack room. The only window was covered by canvas. "The eastwing," the half-elf said aloud. Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, he switched to infravision. He looked about but saw nothing and heard nothing. He could have sworn something cold had touched his leg. "Probably a draft," he told himself and settled back down to sleep under the layers of warm quilts.

The eastwing was the last part of the Academy to be built and due to lack of funds had been postponed for at least a year until the school was making a profit. Pierce had explained that this was the best place to keep the boy because no one else went to the eastwing. This included the showoff rich brats that the school seemed to cater to.

That opinion of the place had changed with what little Szymon had seen of the place. Older fighters came here too, both rich and poor, to trade adventuring tales and test their mettle against the best of the best. Of which Pierce was, according to the latest rumours, second best.

The half-elf shifted and groaned. Why was this bed so damn uncomfortable? He wanted to get up and walk around but knew he would only end up falling flat on his face. He invisioned the cleric visited him in the morning and finding him on the floor helpless. That would be an embarrassing start for Szymon at the Academy.

Of course, Pierce had only hinted at admitting Szymon for free so the boy would live longer, but one could hope. The people who came out of the Academy had the typical haughtiness of the wealthy but they also had the skill to match their confidence. Perhaps it was the confidence the boy sought he admitted to himself, but it certainly felt good to imagine such things.

"Ten against one?" he murmurred into the night air. "Thats cowards odds! That makes all of you cowards!" he grinned despite the pain. Daydreams faded into real dreams and he was asleep only moments later.

Chapter 8

Hiram scowled at the frying pan and flipped the egg skillfully in the air and caught it with a sizzling splat. "Fry damn you! Fry!" he threatened with a fist. He was more than