Chapter B3C50 - Slayer Talk

Chapter B3C50 - Slayer Talk

There were many things that Gramble didn’t understand in life. His mother, for one. The woman was a contradiction in terms. Low born, but with the confidence and arrogance of a thrice-blessed noble. Perhaps it was that attitude that enabled her to snag his father, a retired silver slayer looking to settle down and churn out potions for the rest of his days.

After yelling, kicking, screaming and begging, he had finally been able to speak to the magister, granted a mere five minutes in his presence, and the change that had overcome the man beggared belief. From the moment Poranus arrived in Cragwhistle, he’d been a nightmare. For everyone. He ran Gramble and every other slayer ragged, filling in paperwork, counting, checking, double-checking, triple-checking. Interrogations were an almost weekly occurrence, where the grizzled mage would corner members of every team, hounding them with vague, cryptic threats and asking leading questions.

Instead of that demon, the man behind the desk had been... passive?

Not that Poranus was inactive, far from it. For the entire duration of the meeting, the magister had been furiously filling out paperwork, his hands never stilling, blotches of ink on his face and sleeves evidence of the furious pace he worked at. It was as if he was filing reports for the entire mountain, by himself, without any input from anyone else. With a chill, he’d eventually realised that was exactly what was happening. The Necromancer had ensured that there would be no gap in the ceaseless reports that Poranus had sent back to the capital. The ro-klaw, vicious, beaked bastards that they were, continued to fly back and forth in a steady stream.

As he’d tried to bring up the Necromancer, tried to get a word in edgewise about him, Poranus had nearly exploded with rage, screaming, ranting and bellowing, his eyes bulging out of his head. He slammed his fist on the table and demanded Gramble stop wasting his time, threatening to throw him bodily from the room if he “didn’t get his fat ass out the door in four seconds”.

The whole meeting was incredibly unnerving, leaving the mage wide-eyed and trembling, fearing what that cursed Necromancer would do if he ever decided to mess with his mind. If the magister couldn’t resist, what chance did he have? None at all! Miserable and afraid, he’d slumped his way back to the barracks, only to find Brigette and Trenan returning at the same time.

A good man, and a good leader, Trenan would have been a natural representative for every team if he wasn’t as rigid as a rigour-mortis ridden rat with a pole wedged up its arse. If the phrase ‘by the book’ became sentient, lifted itself from the page and began walking around in human flesh, it would be Trenan’s father.

Thankfully, Brigette didn’t take slaying that seriously. Problem was, she didn’t take anything seriously. Not even Gramble’s marriage proposal. He’d mostly been joking. Mostly.

He eyed her tight fitting armour and curves, before he remembered himself and flicked his eyes up to her face. Only then did he realise she was furious.

“Uh, hey there, Hooligans. What’s going on? Trenan?”

The two didn’t acknowledge his presence, throwing open the door and stomping into the barracks without a glance in his direction. Gramble set his jaw. They might be angry, but that was no excuse to be rude.

He followed after them, irritated, and found his own team members waiting for him inside the door.

“How did it go?” Petri asked, anxiety written all over his face. “Did the magister listen to you?”

“Are we going to be able to kill this fucker?” Christoff growled.

Gramble blinked, then scowled.

“No,” he said shortly. “I was able to speak to him, but the magister has either gone mad, or it’s exactly as we were told. He didn’t listen to a word I had to say and damn near ripped my head off when I tried to tell him about the Necromancer.”

His fellow members of team Weaver were just as pleased as he was at this turn of events. Christoff seemed mightily peeved while Petri despaired. Gramble rubbed at his right temple and exhaled explosively.

“I need a drink,” he muttered to himself.

He walked forward and turned toward his room, hoping to sink into the bottle he had sitting on his shelf. Locally brewed, the stuff tasted like pickled toes, but hit like a hammerman on festival day. Perfect for a low ranked slayer. His hand was extended, reaching for his door handle, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye.

Brigette and Trenan, still looking like they’d been chewing on gallstones, had rounded up Chol and Arthur, the other two members of their team, and were now engaged in a furious, whispered conversation. Brigette in particular seemed extremely animated, shoving fingers in peoples faces and generally appeared ready to bite someone’s nose off.

“What in the empire are they doing?” Gramble wondered aloud.

In fact, where had they come from? He’d walked to the barracks from the city, and those two had come from the opposite direction, which meant they’d come from the gate. He frowned, suspicious.

Did they know something he didn’t? Something to do with the rifts?

Ever since he’d arrived, there had been the expected jockeying for position between the slayer teams, friendly competition for resources, cores, experience, the usual stuff. If those bastards were keeping secrets now, when their lives were on the line... Gramble wasn’t having it.

Anger bubbling up in his chest, he walked over to the table the Hooligans were sat around, pulled over a chair for himself, and sat down heavily.

Trenan shot him an irritated glance.

“Do you mind?” he growled. “We’re having a team meeting.”

“Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t dare intrude,” Gramble said, placing a hand on his chest, “but these are far from normal circumstances. It’s in our best interest to share information, wouldn’t you agree?”

Stony silence met him and he smiled into the void.

“For example, I just returned from my meeting with magister Poranus. I don’t mind telling you it was a disaster. If the man hasn’t been affected by mind-magick, then he’s surely gone insane.”

Trenan grunted.

“I told you that was the case two days ago.”

“You told me I’d be wasting my time, but you didn’t tell me why.”

That earned him a glare from the normally stoic team leader.

“Gramble, I want you off this fucking table, now.”

“You go for it. I wish you and team Weave the best of luck, my team will sit tight right here.”

“Coward,” Gramble spat, only to slide back in his chair as Trenan leapt to his feet, glowering.

“Say that again, you fucking hog. Say it again.”

“Trenan, cool it,” Samantha snapped, standing and putting a hand on his chest. “We don’t want a fight amongst ourselves. Not now.”

For a tense few moments, nobody spoke, until Trenan finally sat, still breathing heavily, his face tight with anger.

“If you want to die, go up the mountain and fight,” he said with finality. “I won’t push my team members to their own deaths. Weakened or not, that... man... is more than we can handle.”

He sighed.

“At least he seems amenable. Villagers have been going up to see him every day, apparently. I don’t fucking know why, but the guards at the gate told me, and I believe them. He doesn’t kill them, doesn’t even talk to them. For whatever reason, he spoke to us, and I think he would again if we went up.”

The hammerman shrugged.

“If you want to learn more about him, go and speak to him. I don’t think you’ll get yourself killed, but I could be wrong and it’s all some elaborate game he’s playing.”

Silence fell once more as each slayer considered what he’d said. None were particularly eager to speak to a Necromancer. They weren’t afraid of death, certainly feared it less than most people, but dying was the least of their concerns on this mountain.

“You aren’t going to tell them?” Brigette said finally, a bubbling heat in her voice.

Trenan set his jaw.

“No. I’m not going to tell them.”

Gramble leapt on this opportunity.

“You were keeping something from us after all!” he crowed. “Never would have expected it from honest Trenan. What is it? What did you learn?”

Brigette flicked a glance at her team leader, whose mouth remained resolutely shut. She sucked in a breath and looked up at the rest of them.

“He told us his name. Tyron Steelarm.”

This pronouncement was met with dead silence. Then a babble of mixed voices broke out at once.

“Bullshit,” Samantha breathed.

“Worthless nonsense,” Gramble slumped. He’d hoped for something better than the lies of a madman.

Slayers discussed animatedly around the room, one talking over the other as they expressed a mix of disbelief, shock, derision and fear.

“He said he killed Magnin and Beory!” Brigette shouted, pounding a fist on the table. “He confessed right in front of us!”

“Brigette!” Trenan roared, and she flinched. “He did no such thing,” he clarified to the suddenly quiet audience. “He said, and I fucking quote, ‘my parents died because of me’. Isn’t that right?”

The swordswoman set her jaw, but nodded.

“Make of that what you will, I don’t fucking care. If you think he’s legitimate, or insane, or just joking, I don’t fucking care. Go and talk to him yourselves. I’m getting a damn drink.”

So saying, he turned and stormed toward the exit, only stopping to plant a foot in Gramble’s chest, causing the mage to yelp as his chair tipped backwards and he thudded hard into the floor.

Brigette sat with her hands still clenched on the table in front of her.

“You alright, Bridge?” Chol asked quietly, putting a hand on her friend's shoulder.

“No,” the swordswoman scowled. “I’m not alright. But I will be.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Bridge,” Arthur advised her as Gramble was helped up from the ground by his teammates, cursing.

She laughed bitterly.

“I know I don’t stand a chance against that prick. I’m not that eager to die. I was mainly talking about getting pissed. I’m going to find whatever hole Trenan is crawling into and join him. You want to come?”

Arthur and Chol shared a glance. The former shrugged, the latter smiled.

“Why not? We’ll make it a team session.”