Chapter 7: Crown of Mud

  “It doesn’t tell me how to do anything. No ingredients, no listed process, nothing,” Cole growled in frustration.

  The message still floated in the back of his mind.

  Tier I toxin ingested. One day to die.

  Craft a Purge Tonic. Craft a Mend Potion. Or die.

  That was it. No helpful little tutorial. No recipe card. No glowing arrows pointing to the right mushrooms.

  The Ethereal had handed him a bottle and a deadline.

  Faelen leaned against the broken wall frame, pale in the dim light, wrists still raw from rope. Even standing, the elf looked like a man who had been starving for days. His eyes stayed sharp though, scanning, thinking, always measuring angles and exits.

  “The Ethereal does not hold our hands,” Faelen said, “but it does generally give you the tools you need. Even if it is just the seeds. Let us look around.”

  Cole blew out a breath through his nose.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s find our seeds.”

  The pair did just that.

  Cole moved toward the left side of the ruined cottage, stepping carefully over splintered boards and collapsed beams. His ankle complained with every shift of weight. His shoulder burned hot, especially when he reached or bent. The poison added its own sick heat to his stomach, a low churn that made him intensely queasy.

  Faelen slipped outside, circling the cottage and the glade, scanning as if he expected something to spring from the flowers. Cole did not blame him. After frog monsters and a murder-suit of armor, trusting a peaceful meadow was not a good idea.

  Cole knelt beside a heap of rubble that might have been a bookshelf once. The wood had collapsed into a warped pile, half-buried in dirt. Several ruined books lay scattered, their pages swollen and stuck together, covers cracked and eaten by moisture.

  Cole’s hands shook as he sifted through them. He tried to hide it, but it was hard. Pain and poison made fine motor skills feel like a joke. Every time he bent down, a groan escaped him before he could stop it.

  “Come on,” he whispered, not sure if he was talking to himself or the Ethereal. “Give me something.”

  Under two books fused together he found a journal.

  It was wrapped in cracked leather, stained dark at the edges. The words on the cover were faded, almost scoured off.

  Alc-J-.

  And then nothing.

  Cole’s heart gave a stupid little jump.

  “Found something!” he called.

  Faelen returned a moment later, stepping into the doorway with that same controlled caution. Curiosity was written on his features, but he did not let it soften him.

  Cole held the journal out.

  Faelen did not take it. He watched Cole’s hands, then the room, then the corners of the cottage. Always checking. Always ready.

  Cole flipped it open.

  Surprisingly, Cole got lucky. Or maybe the Ethereal had decided they needed something to go off of, rather than luck. The words were legible, written in a small, neat, slightly feminine hand. The ink had faded to brown, but it was readable.

  Recipes.

  Notes.

  Little maps in the margins.

  And lists.

  Cole’s eyes snagged on a heading.

  MEND POTION (TIER I): FOR WOUNDS, SHOCK, BLOOD LOSS.

  Under it were steps, simple and blunt.

  Stream water from the meadow bank. Not the swamp.

  Marigold petals, fresh.

  Goldcap mushroom, one cap only.

  Heat, slow. Stir clockwise. Do not boil.

  Cole swallowed.

  He could do that. Maybe.

  “I’m going to work on Mend first,” Cole said. “It’s hard to function while I’m in pain, even if I am doing so.”

  Faelen bobbed his head, waving a hand. “I understand. What does it say?”

  Cole read, glancing between the journal and the glade outside.

  “It says to go behind the cottage, heading down to the more swampy area of the stream. There’s a mushroom we need there, brightly colored, it should stand out, or so the book says. Then we need to collect stream water on the bank of the stream near the meadow. After that, we collect some marigold flower from that same meadow.”

  Faelen grunted.

  “I want to look around for a weapon first,” the elf said. “Anything would help.”

  “You think we’ll be attacked?” Cole stared at him. “Isn’t being poisoned enough?”

  He could not keep the incredulous edge out of his voice. It felt unfair. It felt stupid.

  Faelen chuckled darkly.

  “The Ethereal always gives you more than you can handle,” he said. “I imagine it believes you need pressure to make diamonds. It is just better to assume you will be attacked, rather than assume you are safe.”

  Cole muttered something under his breath that was half curse and half prayer.

  They searched.

  Faelen moved quickly. He checked the edges of the glade. He looked up into branches. He listened for changes in birdsong, except there was no birdsong. The forest was uncomfortably quiet.

  Cole followed, limping, trying to keep his breathing steady.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Eventually, they found a broken-down shed tucked behind a line of trees. The wood was gray and split. The roof had collapsed, leaving a ragged hole that let in light. Inside, dirt had swallowed most of what used to be there.

  Something stuck up from the ground at an angle.

  Faelen reached for it, then paused, eyes flicking to Cole.

  Cole nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Faelen pulled.

  A shovel came free with a wet sucking sound, dirt falling from the blade in clumps. The handle was worn but surprisingly sturdy.

  Faelen’s lips curled, and his right eyebrow twitched a bit in disappointment.

  “Not the blade I would have preferred,” he said, “but it is better than nothing at all.”

  Cole stared at it.

  “A shovel,” he said, voice dry. “I’m saving the world with a shovel.”

  Faelen glanced at him, then at the cottage, then back. "You killed a tier two elite at level one with improvised tactics. Do not insult tools that work."

  Cole let out a breath that might have been a laugh.

  “Couldn’t you fight hand to hand?” Cole asked.

  Faelen’s lips pressed together.

  “Am I capable of it?” the elf said. “Yes. Would I prefer to do so? No. I am not a monk. Hand to hand is a last resort only.”

  Cole grunted.

  They made their way down to the swampy area of the stream.

  The trees grew thicker as they moved. The air turned cooler, damper. The flowers died out to mud, becoming rarer until they were just lonely dots of color in a sea of brown. The ground got soft. Cole’s boots sank slightly with each step, and he had to fight the urge to favor his ankle so hard he fell over.

  The stream itself widened here, sluggish and darker, with patches of green scum near the edges. The smell was sharper too. Rot. Wet leaves. Something faintly metallic.

  Cole held the journal open with one hand and tried to match the scribbled note to the terrain.

  In a clearing ahead, he saw it.

  The mushroom.

  Bright as a warning sign. Almost yellow-gold with a slightly green edge, just like the journal promised. It stood out against the mud.

  “Okay,” Cole said softly. “That has to be it.”

  He took a single step forward.

  The mushroom twitched.

  Cole froze.

  Faelen’s shovel came up.

  “At the ready,” Faelen said, voice low.

  The elf’s stance evened out, feet set, shoulders angled. The exhaustion and gauntness did not leave him, but there was something trained in the way he held himself. Something that said he had killed things before.

  Earth trembled.

  Mud shifted, almost blinking, and underneath were reptilian yellow eyes.

  Cole’s stomach dropped.

  The ground tore itself apart as the mushroom shot upward.

  A massive shape rose from the mud, covered in dirt and swamp muck. The mushroom sat on top of its head. Its maw opened, wide enough to swallow a dog whole, and a dark tongue snapped forward toward Cole.

  Faelen moved in a blur.

  The shovel knocked the tongue aside with a wet slap that sent droplets of mud flying.

  Cole’s heart slammed.

  He had very nearly died. His reaction speed just had not been fast enough, and he knew why. Pain. Poison. His thoughts moved a fraction too slow.

  He shook himself, refocusing.

  Survive.

  Nathan.

  The thought sharpened him like a blade.

  The tongue whirled back around, whipping toward him again.

  “Ashen Aegis!” Cole called.

  The spell formed in front of him, unseen, but felt. The tongue hit that invisible boundary and stopped.

  Cole moved, ankle on fire, shoulder screaming, but he moved anyway. He stumbled sideways, boots sucking at mud, and lifted his palm.

  “Black Halo Lance!”

  Seraphic black light flashed from his hand in a clean line. A soft black halo flickered over his head for a heartbeat, cold weight pressing behind his skull. The Lance slammed into the frog’s face.

  Mud and dirt exploded off it, revealing dark green, bumpy skin underneath.

  The frog let out a deep, offended croak. Something heavy that vibrated in Cole’s ribs.

  Faelen launched into the air.

  Cole’s eyes widened. He had not expected the elf to move like that, warrior class or not. Faelen landed on the frog’s head and brought the shovel down hard.

  It made a dull thud.

  If that had been a sword or an axe, it would have bitten deep. As it was, it did little more than distract the creature and make it thrash.

  The frog’s tongue retracted back into its mouth as quickly as a retreating snake.

  Cole saw its body clench, legs bunching under it.

  Then it launched itself into the air.

  The motion was so fast and violent it ripped mud free in sheets. The frog hung in the air for an impossible moment, shadow blotting the clearing, and a growling ribbit rolled out from its throat.

  “Move toward me!” Cole shouted.

  Faelen did not hesitate. The elf dropped and sprinted, dirt and mud splashing around his bare feet.

  The frog slammed down.

  The impact shook the swamp. Ripples of force rolled out across the ground in a shockwave pattern. Mud and water surged toward them.

  “Ashen Aegis!” Cole yelled.

  The wave hit his invisible refusal and broke.

  Even so, Cole and Faelen were knocked back, the remaining force pushing them hard. Cole hit the ground on his side, breath punching out of him. Mud splattered his face. His shoulder screamed.

  He pushed himself up, gasping.

  Faelen was already moving, shovel in both hands, sprinting toward the frog as it turned to face them.

  Its tongue lashed forward again.

  Faelen slapped it aside with the shovel, then pivoted, keeping the tool between himself and the maw. It was ugly and improvised, but it worked.

  Cole forced himself to raise his hand again.

  Pain made him want to curl up. The poison made him want to vomit. The thought of Nathan made him stand anyway.

  “Black Halo Lance!”

  The Lance struck the frog’s side.

  More dirt peeled away. More mud flaked off. Cole realized, with a cold little jolt, that the creature had been using the swamp itself as armor. It had been waiting under the mud.

  He hit it again.

  “Black Halo Lance!”

  The frog flinched, skin blackening where the Lance struck, ash flaking away with the muck.

  Cole’s Authority hummed.

  That warning sense he had felt with the knight. That tiny fraction of time where the world leaned and whispered, you are about to die.

  The frog opened its maw.

  Inside was a dark hole, moisture swirling. Green light gathered there, acidic and hungry.

  Cole did not hesitate.

  “Edict: Null Hymn!”

  The spell settled over the forming acid.

  For a split second Cole heard it. A sudden song. A hymn of erased things. Lost names. Deleted moments.

  The green light vanished.

  The frog froze mid-croak.

  It let out a confused, softer sound.

  “Ribbit?”

  Faelen’s shovel smashed into its eye.

  The ribbit turned into a strangled noise of pain that made Cole’s skin crawl. The frog rocked back, shaking its head violently.

  Cole raised his palm and fired again.

  Black Halo Lance rammed into its exposed skin, eating away at it, turning bits of it to ash that flaked away with the dirt.

  The frog roared and lashed its tongue out.

  Faelen tried to avoid it, but he was too close.

  The tongue wrapped around him.

  Then the frog yanked.

  Faelen was hauled off the ground and dragged toward the maw, legs kicking, shovel still in his hands. The creature’s mouth opened wider, saliva stringing between jagged ridges.

  Faelen shoved the shovel upward, bracing it across the mouth.

  The frog bit down.

  The shovel bent.

  Faelen’s face tightened, teeth bared, every muscle in his arms standing out against his skin. He was thin, too thin, poisoned and starving, but the strength was still there. Trained strength. Desperate strength.

  Cole did not think.

  He lifted his palm and fired.

  “Black Halo Lance!”

  The Lance slammed into the frog’s other eye.

  The screech that came out of the beast was so sharp Cole had to cover his ears with his free hand. The eye turned to ash. The frog jerked, tongue spasming.

  It released Faelen.

  Faelen hit the mud hard, rolled once, then came up with the bent shovel still in hand.

  Cole limped forward, forcing himself closer.

  The frog tried to retreat. Its legs bunched. Its body shifted, preparing another leap.

  Cole hit it again.

  “Black Halo Lance!”

  The creature’s side blackened. Ash scattered across the mud.

  Faelen ran up the frog’s body.

  Cole’s eyes widened again.

  Faelen jabbed the shovel into the empty eye socket.

  Ash flaked out.

  His muscles bulged as he shoved, holding onto a patch of thick mud with his other hand to keep from being thrown off.

  The frog howled, that same indescribable sound, and it thrashed violently. Mud sprayed. Water churned. Its tongue whipped uselessly now, flailing without aim.

  Cole rushed forward, boots sliding, ankle screaming.

  The frog’s maw opened again, wide, and Cole saw green light trying to gather in its throat.

  He could feel the poison in his own body. The ticking clock. One day. One day to die.

  He lifted his hand and aimed straight into the mouth.

  “Black Halo Lance!”

  The Lance blasted the upper roof of its mouth, black light carving into flesh and turning it to ash from the inside.

  Faelen shoved harder.

  The dull point of the shovel finally broke skin.

  It was too much.

  The frog’s thrashing became a stagger. Its body listed to one side. Its legs slipped in the mud.

  It began to topple.

  Cole backed up instinctively, breathing hard.

  Light gathered around the frog’s body.

  A pale shimmer that crawled over it.

  Cole’s stomach clenched.

  He wondered if it was going to explode.

  The light built.

  It shuddered.

  And Cole realized the Ethereal was not done applying pressure yet.

  He was about to find out what that light meant.