Unbound

Captain Doric of the Stoneheart Vanguard watched his men die.

He’d seen many die before, whether it was to Frost Giants raids or the monsters of the Rimefangs, and had thought himself inured to it—the blood, the stench. Each of their deaths had been for a greater cause, a noble victory. Now, facing down a clutch of River Trolls gone rabid, Doric could not stand it.

“They’re rising again, captain!”

The worst thing about Trolls wasn’t their bite, which was filled with enough Status Conditions to drop an Apprentice Tier, and it wasn’t their long limbs and steel claws. It was their regeneration. Limbs fell to axes and halberds, eyes were gouged out by sword and bolt, and even magic tore their powerful, fur-covered bodies to pieces. Yet without fail, the Trolls rose back to their feet while his men remained in gore-soaked piles. The only way around it was to drench their wounds in fire or acid—only then would their regeneration fail them.

Yet the damn things were getting back up.

His lieutenant hissed in surprise. Her tattoos stretched with her shock. “The fire did nothing! They’ve Evolved!”

“Analyze,” he muttered. His Skill flickered and fought against the power of the monstrosities before them. As before, it only brought up their name, but this time the name was clear.

Name: Sun Troll

Type: Giantkin

Sun Trolls were immune to fire.

“Stand your ground!” he commanded, brandishing his sword. It was wide and hooked at the end as all standard issue blades were, and it had served him well for the last twenty years. It would serve him well for a little longer. “Nolva, do you have any acid? The fire rods won’t work.”

“Nothing more than two vials, sir! The Armorer was stripped bare!”

The Sun Trolls snarled, getting their feet beneath them once more. Their faces were contorted with animalistic rage, veins popping like cables even through their thick pelts, and steel claws drew sparks from the bottom of the rocky gully they’d been herded into. Doric hadn’t much time. He turned to his warriors, all sixty that remained and raised his voice.

“Men! These Trolls have gone rabid. Worse than that, they have Evolved beyond their weakness to fire. They are beyond most citizens of our Hold. If they reach Birchstone…I cannot allow that to happen. We cannot!” A ragged cheer met his words. A bannerman pulled his flag taut, three crimson shields over white mountains. The standard of Clan Red Shield. “Look to that flag, Ironclads! Look at what it bears! Not one shield in defense, but all of them, held together! Lift your blades and let your hearts be stone! The Stoneheart Vanguard does not flinch from our duty! Today we end this! And if we die, we die as heroes!”

“Here, sir,” Nolva said over the exultant cheers. She handed him two thick vials as his Ironclads unsheathed their weapons and readied themselves. Scratched and pitted shields were strapped tighter to bruised and broken arms, armor adjusted and helmets donned.

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Accounting for the thick, alchemical glass, they contained enough to stall out the Trolls’ regenerations, if for only a few seconds. I must only time it right. Doric slotted them into his gauntlet before turning a dial. The slots pulled tight, vials locking into place. “If you would.”

“Aye, sir,” Nolva said. “Take aim! Fire!”

Doric’s Ironclads were warriors of grit and precision. Their crossbows were to hand in a half-heartbeat, bolts already loaded, and their shots flew true. Every one hit a Troll, until the stumbling creatures resembled nothing more than his wife’s pincushions. Skills burst from those that bore them for projectile combat, ice and earth and shadow adding a brutal pop to each impact. Claws and jaws of Mana dug into red-stained fur, tearing free chunks of messy flesh.

The Trolls lolled back, limbs spasming, before they snarled to their feet. Blood and foam dripped from their wide, bestial mouths. There was no reason in their eyes, nor animal cunning; just hate and rage.

The Trolls began to run at them.

“Wards!” Nolva commanded. Shields were raised, and a pulse of shimmering brown vapor enveloped the warriors. “Forward! Half-speed!”

Traditionally, Doric led his men from the front, and today was no different. He charged down the gully’s incline, Ironclads behind him, and smashed headlong into the clutch of Trolls. Claws met stone wards, High Steel shields, and powerful Journeyman Tier armor. The beasts were stronger than any one of the Ironclads, but even ten of them could not hold a candle to the might of the Vanguard.

The Trolls buckled, their mighty arms pressed back, and the Ironclads went to work.

Blood flew as swords, axes, and spears found purchase in thickened flesh. Trolls screeched, and slashed, their blows bashing Dwarves to the earth and breaking wards. Magic sizzled, popped into cascades of light as it discharged ineffectually. The Trolls pushed back.

Doric slashed through, lopping off an arm here, a leg there. His wide blade danced like a leaf on the breeze, a razor sharp feather, trailing blood. The monsters crowded him, swinging at his head and shoulders, aiming to disarm him. Doric bullied through them all, each resolute step a powerful, immovable choice. A promise: he would stand until all the earth ground to dust. He would not be moved.

The creatures healed and came back, their unflinching bodies immune to pain. Foamy spittle drooled all over his Ironclads, as madness leaked from their veins like blackened sludge. Doric pressed inward, opening space for his men behind him, until he came across their momentous leader. An enormous Troll, easily two heads taller than the others. Unphased, Doric slashed up, catching the biggest of the Trolls across the face and opened up its snout to the bone.

As his fist reached the zenith of that attack, he squeezed the release on his gauntlet. Acid sprayed outward over the clustered group of Trolls as a thin, pressurized mist. It sank into hide and hair, eyes and mouths, sizzling against open wounds. The Trolls reared back, hissing.

He shouted. “Press the attack! Now while their regeneration falters!”

Doric thrust, his blade sinking deep in the big Troll’s belly.

It seemed, for a moment, that the world held its breath. Doric pulled at his sword, but it was stuck fast. Without warning, the big Troll laughed—a bubbling, wheezing thing that froze Doric’s blood.

Status Condition: Frightened

You Have Been Frightened For Five Heartbeats!

Status Condition: Restrained

You Have Been Restrained For Five Heartbeats!

It wasn’t enough!Oh, Night, they’ve grown too much and it wasn’t enough.

The fear spread, locking his men into terror the same as Doric. The Troll’s arms ignited, filling with a golden-orange light like a mangle of infectious fury. Madness burned in its eyes. Doric could not move let alone free his blade, so when the creature’s hand closed over his own, he could do nothing but stifle a scream.

Steel claws ripped into his forearm like forge-heated daggers. The light flared around the Troll, a cataclysm only bare breaths away from unleashing. The Troll bellowed—

And choked on needles of virulent green rain.

Doric blinked. The needles became daggers, and the daggers turned to swords, each as flat as a razor…and just as sharp. Holes sliced into the Trolls, cutting through skin and fur and muscle in an instant. It splashed, overwhelming them—yet leaving Doric and his Ironclads untouched.

Acid, he realized. From the sky…magic. “Rally, men! Cut them down!”

His warriors surged forward, screams ripping from beneath battered helmets. Their weapons lopped off fingers and forearms, cut into bellies and thighs, until the ground ran red with their ichor. The acid came down, relentless, unstoppable, and precise. It stymied the monsters’ regeneration, and the Trolls screeched again. Not in madness or rage, but in fear.

They fell, hacked to quivering pieces.

From the messy pile, that biggest Troll surged forward without warning. It seized Doric by the throat before clutching him to its ruined chest. The captain screamed as the thing’s magic engaged, that mantle of maddened heat blazing like the sun itself. His armor became an inferno, the metal softening before dripping onto the Dwarf’s wide chest and belly. He tried to fight back, to push off, but the Troll was possessed of a vengeful strength.

Blows hit the Troll and it fell, but it fell atop of the captain. Doric knew, then, that he would not live to see their city.

But the Vanguard will live. The dim thought let him hold on a moment longer. And then another moment. Nolva would tell his wife and kids what happened. I…have no regrets. I am ready.

I—

The heat was gone.

Doric blinked, but his vision was awash in spots. He could see nothing for several long moments, and when his sight cleared, he did not understand.

The Troll’s head was encased in a writhing tendril of virulent green acid. It was twitching, but the thing’s bones were dissolving in there, only inches from Doric’s face.

Someone hauled the Troll’s body off of him, and the acid fell to the wet stone. It sizzled and hissed violently, but only for an instant longer. Doric’s medic knelt over him. “Stay still, Captain! We have you!”

“What…what happened? Who—?”

“Strangers, sir. They came outta nowhere.”

Doric was lying on his back, but he saw them, standing on the opposite ridge. Close to fifty people, ranging in Race from Human to Goblin. Even a…bull-man. In the center, however, was a tall Human with a strange coat and too little armor. His eyes burned. No. That was only a trick of the light.

“Get this off me, and get me my spare set,” Doric commanded, ignoring the pain of his burns. “Quickly.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Damn that acid was effective,” Felix said from the ridge. “Thanks Tzfell.”

“A pleasure to be of service, Lord Autarch.”

Felix watched the Ironclads gather themselves. Many were injured, their armor scored or broken by the Trolls metal claws. The things had been sturdy, and his Voracious Eye pegged them at a solid Tier IV. Considering most of the Ironclads below were around Journeyman, Felix was amazed at how long they’d lasted. From what Tzfell and Harn had suggested, it wasn’t their power that made them rank so high, but their relentless regeneration. Hard to kill something that wouldn’t stay hurt.

That’s why Tzfell had suggested he use acid magic. Felix had opted for Rain of Cataclysm, but had coupled it with Hand of Calamity to increase his precision and control. It had worked beautifully, allowing the Dwarves to fight back on their own.

Then that captain guy got pounced on. Felix had gone a little overboard in killing that Troll, but the Dwarf had survived, so that was all that mattered.

The Ironclads watched him right back, and from the song of their Spirits, they weren’t afraid so much as alarmed and suspicious. A few were confused and relieved. Felix had made sure to keep himself and the Claw in full sight of the Dwarven warriors, their hands folded across their belts. He didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. “Sorry. What were you saying, Laur?”

“I said, before you killed them all, that the Trolls were maddened by a foreign Will. Their Minds and Spirits were in disarray, I could see it trailing off of them like a shroud—it is likely why they were so out of control. Such terrible wounds…I would think any sane being, beast or not, would have fled.”

“Trolls ain’t sane, son. Nothing that can regrow its brain from a piece of its tooth is gonna be,” Harn said, taking off his helmet. “But yeah. Ain’t never seen ‘em act like that.”

Evie looked him up and down. “You’ve fought Trolls before, Harn? When?”

“I wasn’t always fightin’ with your sister.” Harn grunted. “Heads up. Looks like their leader’s comin’ this way.”

A squat Dwarf had walked up the short switchback trail out of the gully. He had discarded his half-melted armor in favor of a loose chainmail shirt, and his head was bare of any helmet. His nose was large and hooked, like a hatchet attached to a rock, while a wide, square cut beard fanned out over his thick chest. The man was flanked by five Ironclads wearing dark metal armor that was covered in dents and bright, silvery scratches.

“Well met, strangers. I am Doric Stoneheart, Captain of the Stoneheart Vanguard. Who might you be?”

“We’re merchants from out west,” Felix lied smoothly. “Name’s Silas Veil.”

“West? Through the mountains? That’s a hazardous trip, especially in wintertime.”

“Profitable too,” Harn added. He tapped the side of his crooked nose. “If we can make it before the thaws, then we’re guaranteed a profit.”

Harn knows everything, Pit marveled from inside Felix’s lowered hood.

“Fair enough,” Captain Doric said. “You’re headed to Birchstone?”

“Headed to the Clan Hold when we heard the trouble over here. Thought we could be of help, and luckily we’ve got a few acid attuned fighters among my guards.”

“Luck,” the captain said with a snort. He winced and put a hand to his mailed chest. Bandages wrapped up along his neckline, and the skin looked angry and puffed up. “Those were Sun Trolls. Immune to fire. The only thing that could hurt them was acid. That’s more’n luck, Mr. Veil.”

Felix winced inwardly. He was glad he hadn’t tried to use fire. In all the hubbub, he hadn’t taken the time to inspect them with his Voracious Eye and relied on Tzfell’s advice instead. “All comes down to preparation, captain. As I said, we’ve been traveling a while. We’re prepared for a fight.”

“So I see. And if you’d encountered the Titan?”

Felix frowned. “The Titan?”

“So you don’t know of her.” The captain sighed. “She’s a scourge on all the Rimefangs, Mr. Veil, though perhaps less so in other peaks. If you haven’t heard of her already, you soon will.”

“Her?” Felix asked, but he already knew. He’d earned a few nicknames, himself.

“A monster made of mithril and fire. A giant, but not a piddly raider. She’s burned half the countryside to ash in her mad hunt, and none of us can stop her. We might be Ironclads, but it’s all we can do to bring our people in from their towns and villages.” Captain Doric clenched his jaw, angry but not at Felix. “I’m thankful you came along when you did, Mr. Veil, but I don’t doubt you’ll come to regret traveling into these parts.”

Felix smiled, and tried to keep it light and easy. It was hard. He wanted to check over his shoulder for the Corrupted Unbound. “I don’t regret helping people.”

The captain laughed and combed one of his gauntlets through his tangled black beard. “Aye. Neither do we.” He raised his voice and addressed his soldiers. “What say we escort Mr. Veil and his team into Birchstone, eh?”

A vigorous cheer followed.

Felix’s smile brightened. “That would be very much appreciated, captain.”

The Dwarven warrior inclined his head. “It’s the least I can do.”

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