Chained - 9 (Patreon)

The cell’s bars are a mesh of cut stone that makes no sense, and I wrapped chains through the gaps unable to see where it comes apart. I’m looking over the ceiling to make sure I’m not about to bury them by just removing it, and Silevien speaks up again. “Don’t pull it all. You only need to move that block, Sidero.”

Looking back, I find she’s pointing towards ground level, unconcerned that she’s leaning across a chain to manage the angle. Waggling her fingers as I stare at her arm, she continues to explain rather than scream in pain. “The lowest block on the wall pulls out, and they stuffed us inside through it.”

“Doesn’t that chain hurt?”

My words come out edged harsh and angry, and she frowns at my question, as if I’m the one being stupid. “It’s metal; we’re not fey to fear its touch.”

I don’t ask the obvious question about cold and instead, pull the chains away from the bars. Their movement across flesh, at least not pulling chunks of her with them. Still, she pulls her arm back, and it lets me see her skin is entirely unmarked—still the same pure whiteness. Her features are so pixie-like that her age hadn’t registered. Thirty, she’s potentially a child as Elves go, not just a youth, and I pushed hard for a deal.

A chain butts up against the rock, and I just store the stone into Inventory and set it aside on the floor.

“How old are you before you’re considered an adult?”

Rúthel, who had been quick to contour through the narrow opening and step clear, answers the question with a question. “How is it you speak our tongue, yet you know nothing of us, Sidero?”

My insides twist strangely around razors that are still roaming through my guts. A single beckoning gesture and she spit out the answer. “Another forty years. I’ll be glad when I reach full growth and can use a proper bow. I would have put down the hobgoblins that swept us up, not merely wounded them.”

I run the math and find I effectively blackmailed maybe eight-year-olds. The razors race around in my guts, and twist further still, making me glad nothing was in writing. The scum involved with Gaius’ situation might be dead by the time they’re adults; I’ve no intention of asking kids to be assassins.

“Besides cold immunity, what else is your species gifted with?”

Slithering through the gap, Silevien almost flows upright, and rests a cautioning hand on Rúthel’s shoulder. “That’s not part of the deal.”

The tone from her has me crossing my arms in reflex. I don’t even need her scent to sense her positioning to haggle, but I’ve no interest in lying—even by omission—to the children I know they are now. “Very true, it is not.”

“Does providing information count as helping you? If so, we’ll share lots of knowledge with you and then count ourselves even,” probes Silevien, sharply. The keenness in her gaze made me wonder if she planned to be a Wizard; she’s so bright she could cut herself open with that mind.

“But it is also information I could find elsewhere,” I counter, her eagerness to haggle making it a grim game.

“But elsewhere is not here, nor will it be information from the source, but perhaps hearsay,” refutes Silevien just as fast, her voice cold as the stones. She’s like a willow tree; having bent to my negotiations before, she’s straightened so quickly with the stone out.

“If Iarien’s Soul is still present, let’s get her to that High Priest not stand here talking,” insists Rúthel, the roughness of her voice fairing ill compared to Silevien’s calm. “What God does this Priest follow, though? I don’t want to take her body to followers of something evil.”

“You didn’t ask before. I’ll trade you the name for that information,” I offer.

Rúthel nods jerkily and spits out a word when I stay silent. “Agreed.”

“They mostly follow Human Powers of Light or at least Neutral outlook,” I reply blandly.

“Cold doesn’t injury us, we can see in absolute darkness, unlike other elves, and walk on snow and ice without slipping. Now can we go?” Rúthel asks even as she’s moving to leave the pantry. She only gets as far as the doorway before the sight of Iarien’s remains halts her in mid-stride, her hands tightening at her sides.

I step around and block her line of sight. The sobbing that starts behind me understandable. The Troll cub might have only been a year old, but he half severed her head, chewing at her neck. His claws having given gouging caresses—he popped an eye, shredded her face and mauled her shoulder—worrying at her like an angry dog. The twisted look of agony hasn’t even stilled in death, making it clear it wasn’t a clean kill. Even if I couldn’t taste the anguish in the Soul, I should have cut him apart slowly.

Rage burns within the razors at her tears, and spinning, I step back past Rúthel. A kick connects solidly and sends the cub’s body into the wall. Untouched by the frost of my chains, it bounces back repeatedly until my kicks finally pulverize the remains. My teeth ache from grinding them so hard, but I avoid screaming out my rage. The heat of it is burning still inside me, and its force makes my eyes glow brighter.

I can taste the little fuck’s ugly Soul and drive my chains into it. Spikes turn into hooks as they come back out and foulness sprays about for a moment before it vanishes. Hopefully, its arrival in the Abyss spawns nothing of value.

“What did you attack with your chains?” asks Silevien, unperturbed that she didn’t avoid being splatter by his blood. Her gaze flickering across shattered remains, but her tilted head, and wide-eyed look has nothing of horror within it.

“It’s Soul,” I reply, and as they both fix me with their gazes, I continue “I didn’t want the Abyss profiting from its venom.”

The answer clearly doesn’t satisfy me, but I brush past and find their clothing shares their resistance to my chains. I can tell they’re not satisfied either but striding back out into the kitchen, I brush fingertips across Iarien’s foot. I almost store her into Inventory, but I halt in a panic, and the razors vanish. I don’t know what my Inventory is, and I might have broken her Soul’s hold on the Material Plane. Elves are fussy little princesses. The moment they taste their paradise, the bastards don’t like coming back.

A momentary touch of a chain shows her flesh is still immune to cold, even in death. Forming blades, I sever the ropes that hold her down, ensuring their loops don’t remain in place.

“It’s a blizzard outside that will last for hours. Hold a chain, so you don’t get lost; I’ll get her to a Priest.”

I don’t wait for them to answer but simply start away. A hammock of chains lifting Iarien I cradle her securely. There is strong uncertainty in her Soul’s energy, but still she’s following us whether willing or being dragged. I can taste plenty of confusion, sorrow, and desperation from her.

The overlay responds to my thoughts, and it stays centred on me as we trudge back. We barely collect anything on our way out—only some Elvish looking items they spot in passing. They recover three fancy-looking daggers with tooled sheaths and a pair of empty quivers that a Troll was using to store stones.

The hooks blur into bars and I float them in our wake.

Quinctus looks up as the slab moves away; the others are already unconscious, not even stirring when the gap allows the wind inside. He looks unsurprised by my return until he sees the body I’m carrying and the two girls that step around me to get inside. The moment they’ve passed, I put the slab back in place.

The only light within comes from the energy glowing in his eyes, but the girls really don’t have a problem seeing from the way they stepped around people.

“Why do you have a dead girl and her Soul following? Let alone, children?”

The girls look at him and sniff the air in concern before they take a step away.

“I thought you said they weren’t evil—he smells dead. Does he have a pact with you, Devil?”

Her assumption he’s with me gets a snort of amusement and contempt. “He doesn’t belong to Hell in any form. He’s duty-bound to serve his Goddess on this world until she calls him home.”

“I didn’t know humans followed a Baelnorn’s path,” mutters Silevien. Though I understand the words, I’ve no idea what she means, but she gives him a bow that seems respectful.

I’m pretty sure the dead boy isn’t following their language; even as the girl’s relaxed he’s still looking at me for answers. Not bothering with explanations, I step silently over the others packed into the space available. When I reach the back wall, I pull another section out at an angle wholesale, and I’m glad when the roof stays up. The moment I lay the body—no, I lay Iarien’s body—out on the stone, the other two are beside her, their grief thickening the air in the close confines. It’s not the distant formality of some thin blood link but sparks memories of Mortal heartbreak.

Inger’s easy to pick out, even covered in layers of blankets, but my nudges don’t get a response. Though pinching her cheek causes her eyes to snap open.

“Go away, Sidero, I’m exhausted,” Inger. grumbles.

“You’ve still plenty of your Goddess’ Mana left, don’t you? Fix a child of the Mountain, High Priestess of Skaði. You said you knew all about Mountains Elves, didn’t you?”

“What game are you playing, Sidero? I know some Mountain Elves, but no one really knows Mountain Elves. They don’t embrace a lot of contact with Humans,” Inger’s mutter quickly starts turning into a sleepy ramble.

“Well, maybe these two—or three—can shed some light for you. Or do you want to let someone die?”

Her scent spikes so hard with adrenaline that it makes my tongue buzz. A word in melting Celestial causes a glow like the northern lights to fill the chamber. The lush reds, cool greens, and blues don’t even make the others stir.

Fighting off the blankets, she nearly leaps towards the girls, and freezes when she sees Iarien’s wounds. Her gaze is incandescent with rage when she turns towards me, and I can tell it costs her to hiss at me rather than scream. “She’s already dead, fiend.”

“You’re a High Priestess; bring her back,” my tone is so causal even the system approves.

[Acting [M](1->3)]

“Did you do this to her? What Deal did you strike with them? Where did you even find them?” Inger’s question just spits out in rapid-fire.

A dismissive wave just adds fuel to the fire. “Can you bring her back or not?”

“I can cast such a Blessing, but Elven Souls don’t stay around. Unlike other species, when their Soul leaves the body, they don’t come back,” snarls Inger, the noise causing Titus to stir.

“A Troll killed her, not me. The others asked me to remove her body from the lair. And she’s not completely gone, so I thought you’d be able to do something useful. Her Soul is right beside you. Little thing is all confusion and hope now. Are you going to let her down?”

At my purred words, Inger’s face twists from rage to disgust.

“What could they have offered you to help, Sidero?”

“Oh, we came to a Deal,” I reply and let a mysterious little smile out to play.

I thought she was already furious, but she finds more rage if looks could kill; her gaze is ready for mass murder. “What sort of Deal?”

“You’re not a part of the contract. You don’t get to know the terms. I have to say, they should have asked for further details though,” the retort is actually completely truthful. Hell will never give you the details of someone’s else contract without going through channels—or a proper bribe.

Inger turns to the girls and says something, but the words mean nothing in the Elvish I’ve learned. When the girls continue to look at her in confusion, she turns back on me in a huff. “You disgust me, gaining children’s Souls. Let them out of the contract,” insists Inger.

I almost laugh in her face at the assumption, and amusement makes my voice lively, stealing its usual husky tones even to my ears. “What’s in it for me?”

“Let the children’s Souls go, and I’ll do you one favour. Ask yourself, would you prefer a favour from a High Priestess or three children’s Souls?” asks Inger.

She looks so concerned that I tap my chin to add to the drama of the moment. Her scent reeks of snugness and I’m pretty sure I know what she’s up to. Still, sometimes to get the right prey, bait the trap. “What did you have in mind that a single favour would interest me?”

“One major casting, or a moderately Blessed item,” Inger’s reply comes after a thoughtful pause, and I wonder if she too tired to remember I can smell her.

“Very well, you have a Deal,” I purr and she awkwardly clasps my hand.

“Leave. I won’t bring her back with you nearby. You might corrupt the Blessing,” orders Inger.

I give her a victorious smirk, as I nod and release her hand. “Very well, hurry and bring her back, I don’t know how long her Soul is going to hang around. The others would be heartbroken, and you’d be to blame. I look forward to talking to you about the casting I’m going to get from you. I’ll be back in a bit, so best keep watch, Quinctus.”

The moment I give my instructions, she smells triumphant. Her smug scent makes me smile as I leave and Quinctus just watches me go. Titus propped up against the wall seems far more concerned.

The wind coming off the cliff face brings me the musical chanting, and the Power of its intonations is the essence of winter. The blizzard might as well be a drizzle compared to the pressure of its energy.

I’m still undecided how I’ll play this game when it all fades away. I leave them to their re-union as I consider the image of the two girls, huddled around the body of their friend. The pain it brings up must be intense because I cum so much I’ve got ice pack on my thighs by the time the emotions ease. Despite the extreme physical sensations, the emotions fading leaves me hollow within.

Eventually, the pleasure from my hands competing with the fading inner ecstasy snaps my eyes open, and in the consuming blizzard I can make out the coffin’s form. It’s shape so solid my fist hadn’t even made a dent, just coated it with blood that refuses to freeze. Laying down in the snow it’s an effort of will forcing my chains to resume their shape and destroy that coffin’s form. The first tears of pain I’ve felt in this flesh freeze on my cheeks as my Infernal coffin reforms.

The pleasure fades as my hands heal, but the hollowness lives on. What should be an accompanying ache instead provides a twisted pleasure.

I never understood why they got her a coffin; she was already ashes. I never wanted to think about that service, or her coffin topped with that quirky flower arrangement Rachel had organised. Guess my subconscious is a bitch as well. Was I blocking myself from thinking of her? Why now though?

Curious about what she was speaking in, I hit up Analysis for my list again.

Analysis: Languages

[Language: The formal or informal language for a social group, species, etc. Those using a language might be a small group or extend over multiple planes.

Unlocked languages currently possessed by the enquiring entity are:

Draconic, English, Giant, Infernal, Latin, Norse, Pelóri Elvish

Languages that experience has exposed the enquiring entity to:

Abyssal

Goblin

Ignan (Native Language of the Elemental Plane of Fire)

Isil Elvish (Moon Elf dialect)

Necril (Native Language of undead)

Orc

]

She didn’t even speak their language—that’s so funny—I’ll learn it as well to poke her with later.

* * *

When the musical chanting fades, I catch the lightness of three Elven voices. There is a limit to how much moping I’ll let myself indulge in, even if I’ve little else I can do. The growing thickness of the blizzard makes carving runes a dicey thing. I leave the metal bars beside the stone slab and haul myself to the top of the ridgeline again.

It’s tempting to trudge around and see if I can find another Dire Bear to kill.

Digging through their possessions doesn’t get me much, but I find nuggets of silver and gold, along with rough gemstones—those join the materials I’ve got in Inventory. While the iron and steel from implements and weapons alike get turned into ingots, the undulating path I’ve trudged to the lair had already given me an idea for their use.

Once I’m back at the ridgeline I move a distance away from them before I carve stone parts out with Inventory. The initial attempts fare poorly, and I leave a deepening hole as I experiment. Metal supports twisting about in response to my control, linking pieces together as I fail and try again.

* * *

The blizzard hasn’t ended by the time I smell wood smoke again, but my plans at least are complete. They tip the stone slab out into the snow, and it forms a runway for them as it compresses the snowdrift that had formed in front of it.

“Good evening, you’ve picked an interesting time to move out.”

My words from above make Titus grab for his sword. He doesn’t relax as he looks up and peers in my direction through the falling snow. The sight of me sitting demurely in the air with my ankles crossed wasn’t comforting enough. I can taste the Blessing around the group, allowing them to see clearly in the dark.

Titus’s expression twists in distaste. “Sidero.”

Oh goodie, he’s gotten all judgmental as well

“Did you all have a nice long chat with the young ladies, or can none of you speak to them?” I ask as I float down, still sitting on the plate I’m currently perched on.

“The debt between us is clear now, Sidero,” snaps Inger as she steps past Titus, and I’m happy for her to cut to the chase.

“But you agreed to cast a major Blessing that I request,” I retort.

Inger’s grim smile is victorious. “And I did you foul thing, I restored the child to life.”

“That gets me no benefit. Why do you consider that repaying the debt to me?”

Faking the curiosity in my voice is as easy as faking so many other things.

“Doing so was a major casting, and I did so at your order,” challenges Inger.

“Really-“

Titus interrupts the moment I start. “I witnessed your order to do so, Sidero.”

“As did I,” Quinctus’ tone is colder than the weather, and I wonder if someone brought back from the dead offends him.

“Now acknowledge I’ve paid my debt, and that you are releasing the girls’ Souls,” Inger instructs and gestures back into the rest stop. “Or are you the hypocrite now, and going back on your word?”

“Very well, if she is actually alive, I have no choice but to acknowledge their Souls are not mine,” I agree, letting my pleased tone vanish and Inger just smirks.

Too bad for her; I never had them.

Iarien looks whole but strange. Her gouged out eye appears like a starry night instead of a matching silver iris. The Blessing—unsurprisingly—filled the eaten hunks out, but the replaced flesh is ice blue instead of stark white.

“See!” snaps Inger.

“Have you spoken to them yet?” I ask in the Isil language.

The look of hate in Inger’s gaze blazes. “You knew what I said to them, and you didn’t correct me?”

“Would you prefer I ask you for a translation fee? I’m not sure when you thought I became your slave, Inger, but I’d be happy to teach you to beg,” I purr.

Inger pale skin is burning bright, it is surprising her heat doesn’t melt the snow. “Was that a threat, fiend?”

“You really make so many assumptions. Aren’t you tired of them leading you astray yet?”

Horatia steps out of the hideout when she murmurs something to Iarien, and I make out a few words in Pelóri. Since someone can speak their tongue, there doesn’t seem to be a point to stringing this along.

“Horatia, did you actually ask Rúthel or Silevien what I asked for my help?”

The speculative glance Horatia shots at me is an answer enough. “You told Inger you asked for their Souls.”

My broadening smile makes Inger’s eyes widen, and her flush vanishes. “No, Inger assumed I had, and her words were: ‘Let the children’s Souls go, and I’ll do you one favour’. Sorry Gaius, apparently she doesn’t care about you. Are you feeling up to paying me now?”

Titus’ glance flicks at Horatia as she questions them for longer minutes than the question requires.

“You asked for them two kill people, and you threatened to leave them,” Horatia says at last.

“Elves should wear their age on pins or something; they come in so many sizes. I thought they were adults, my bad. Haggling requires a bit of grandstanding, and I didn’t even get out the door,” I say, watching Gaius approach as if I have asked him to pet a snake. I put the chains away when his trudging through the snow drift gets him within arm’s reach.

“Why a kiss from me? Why a kiss at all?”

“For whatever reason, you looked at me with desire. Even if you also have revulsion in your scent, I’ll take the good I can get,” I answer as I step in close, and lean into him, enjoying the feel of his muscles against me.

“Who did you want them to kill, Sidero?” Titus asks when I let the panting Gaius go, my body still pressing tight against his; it’s pleasing he doesn’t immediately step away.

“Well, Flavius for one, but I bet he wasn’t alone in his scheming. Pity I’ll likely miss out since they’re kids. He’ll be dead before they could handle going south, can’t ask them to kill someone in the expedition that would impede it for sure.”

“You push children around like a bully and plan to kill Flavius because he did the same?” Vitus accuses.

“If I’d known they were children, I might have taken a different approach with them. Yet you don’t know the difference between asking to have someone killed and forcing another to sell their Soul. Still, I manipulated Inger into bringing their friend back to life, so all good,” I reply and reach to feel my project, ignoring the look I got from Inger.

Holding the metal struts in my mind, stone chairs float down under my control, the curved stone sitting upright on a base plate. Each appears to be a seat with a thin base plate and arms to hold them within. As they hover above ground level, their position for them to each get in easily. I’ve even got them set up to clamp together on the ball joints I’ve created between them. My very own rollercoaster seats will be an undulating ribbon at my command.

“What are these things? Titus asks, motioning with his gladius.

“You all get to sit down for the next leg. Be sure to use the ropes to secure yourselves, or you might fall out,” I reply, not bothering to keep the smugness under control. Stepping back from Gaius my chain reappeared, and I turn some into a seat to hold me aloft. “Also, you’ll notice a little flag on the left side, push it up if you need a break or you’ll be sitting in filth. I take it they are coming with us?”

My motions at the Mountain Elves get a confused nod from Inger, and more chairs float into range of their enhanced vision.

“Once we have a stable location—it needs to be lived in for weeks—I can use a Blessing to send them across the distance quickly,” offers Martialis.

“Well, Martialis, you’re not as much of a useless dickhead as I thought.”

It was a gracious concession, but his venomous expression isn’t the least amused.

Chairs float over to the expedition members, and I hear Horatia repeat my instructions to the Elven girls.

[Metal Control [J] (15->16)]

I don’t tell them what I’m getting out of this approach. To keep all the chairs going like Magneto will push my control.