BT - Book 1 - Chapter 37 (Patreon)

Micah sighed, taking in the collection of saplings that used to be the grove.  Every dreg of temporal energy was siphoned from the old growth trees and into his collection of daemons.  Dozens of Onkert milled about, snarling and whining at each other as ten Brensen lounged indolently in the shade just outside the bounds of the grove.

Next to Micah the two Luoca, cicadas the size of an ox with the head of a man and the tail of a scorpion stood silently, observing his forces with him.  Each had taken an entire tree’s worth of temporal energy to summon them, and they chilled him to the core.  Unlike the rest of the more bestial daemons, the Louca could reason.  When they weren’t under orders, he could hear them conversing in low hissing voices that he couldn’t quite make out.

As much as they disturbed them, he’d seen their speed and power.  Even better, reality itself seemed to shy away from them.  Their wings and tail seemed to soften or even melt matter that they came into contact with.  Not enough to destroy what they touched, at least not immediately, but they certainly weakened anything they were striking.  Micah didn’t really have a frame of reference for how powerful a level sixty blessed was, but at least according to the book he’d received from Mursa, the Luoca were more or less their match.  

He reached down and ran his fingers through the dirt.  Micah didn’t know if it was the act of tapping temporal energy from the great trees guarding the grove or some other effect, but the rich soil of the clearing had slowly transformed into lifeless sand.  All around him, ferns and grass struggled to take root in the loose and nutrient free earth.  

They starved.  Soon, the clearing would be devoid of all plant life.  A brown and grey smear in the verdant green of the forest.  After that, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the nearby ecosystem avoided the grove.

It pained him to see what had been more or less his second home after Telivern and he moved out of the cave wither away, especially given his role in its destruction.  Of course, that didn’t mean that Micah regretted his actions.  Although his ‘army’ numbered less than fifty daemons, it could almost certainly level Basil’s Cove on its own.  Especially with him supplying support spells to his minions.

That was another pleasant discovery of the last couple of weeks.  He could cast spells that normally needed physical contact through the tethers that bound him to the daemons.  It wasn’t entirely pleasant to think of the implications of that piece of information, that the daemons were inexorably linked to his soul, but every time he closed his eyes, his body illuminated the darkness like a bonfire.  He barely slept or ate anymore, and when he rested he could almost hear the daemons speaking to each other, like voices whispering just around the corner.  Whatever was happening to Micah, he suspected it was irreversible at this point.

With a whistle he called the attention of the daemons.  It didn’t really matter.  His home was ash and he wasn’t entirely sure if he still counted as human, but Micah had successfully marshalled an army that could challenge the Durgh.  If the price to save his friends and family was turning his back on everything that made Micah who he was, that was a bargain.

The daemons stopped their activities and turned to Micah.  Row after row of dully glowing eyes set in bestial faces.  Waiting expectantly.

“I don’t know how much you can understand,” Micah began, rapidly feeling sheepish about speaking to a collection of summoned creatures but too embarrassed to admit his mistake, even to himself.  “I don’t know how, but I think I’m beginning to understand you.  At least a little.  You hunger for destruction.  Unmaking what the gods have created.  I haven’t summoned you without reason.  Today we set out to destroy a great many beings that would otherwise hurt me.”

Silence filled the clearing.  Other than a disinterested snort from Telivern, none of the daemons responded.  Despite that, Micah knew that they understood.  Maybe it was the way the Onkert panted or the gleam in the Brensen’s cyclopean eyes,  but they knew that their moment was fast approaching.  That soon, Micah would let them off of their leashes to destroy.

With a motion of his hand, he began walking through the woods toward the road to Westmarch.  Once they arrived at the road, Micah directed the daemons to stay in the woods, just out of sight while Telivern and he walked toward the citadel.  After an hour or so of silence, the buck lowered its nose and nuzzled Micah.

Tension.  Illness.  Worry.

“It’ll all be over soon buddy,” Micah smiled slightly as he reached up to scratch the back of the deer’s neck.  “I don’t know if we have enough daemons, but we’re out of temporal energy.  If this isn’t enough, well.”

“It’ll end one way or another soon,” he pursed his lips.  “Tomorrow’s my eighteenth birthday.  For better or worse, we’ve run out of time to prepare.  Unless we act now, we have maybe four months until Westmarch falls.”

Confusion.  Worry.

“In just over three months, the Durgh are going to march forth from the Great Depths and lay waste to the countryside,” Micah replied.  “We’re going to beat them to the punch.  We’ll descend into the Depths and do enough damage to their forces that the Durgh can’t even think of an attack.”

Grudging Acceptance.  

With that last exchange of thoughts, Telivern stepped away and they kept walking, only stopping when the deer needed sleep.  Micah either kept watch or hunted with the daemons, quickly and easily finding rabbits or other small game to fill his meager food requirements.

Finally, they reached Westmarch.  A great tower, unimpressive after the architecture of Bitollan but an achievement in and of itself, surrounded by a great wall.  Even from a distance, Micah could see the siege equipment stuffing the upper levels of the tower, their great height giving them a commanding advantage when attacking anything encroaching on the small hill that the citadel was built upon.

He didn’t even bother.  Micah had the attunement to go into town and shop, but it would just be a matter of procrastination and he knew it.  His fate, for good or ill, lay under the nearby mountains.

They followed the road further, this time not even trying to hide the daemons.  Without the forest it would be impossible anyway.  Luckily they didn’t meet too many people, just a handful of intrepid merchants that braved the Great Depths to trade food and surface medicine to the Durgh in exchange for their superior metalworking.

The quiet trade between human lands and the Durgh clans never really made sense to Micah.  While not explicitly evil, almost no civilization actually liked the Durgh.  Their tendency to suddenly attack neighbors and allies without warning in order to fulfill Ankros’ mandate didn’t exactly earn them many friends.  

Even if the clans were peaceful, the Great Depths themselves were as dangerous as any dungeon.  Expeditions needed to be large and well equipped to fend off the various horrors that dwelt in the shadows long enough to even reach the Durgh.

They reached the guardpost protecting the yawning cavern without incident.  Not much more than a walled fort with a couple of huts in it to house the soldiers that worked the outpost, Micah made to simply walk past it into the Depths themselves.

His brow furrowed slightly as a soldier hesitantly left the guard encampment to meet him, a nervous woman in her forties, her knuckles white around the halberd she carried.  Behind her, the other three or four troops on duty quietly snuck into the fort.  

Micah stopped, allowing her to approach.  By the time she reached him, her companions were watching silently from the outpost’s walls.

“In the name of King Gosswood and the Pereston Kingdom I,” she paused for a second, her voice cracking slightly just before she licked her dry lips.  “I request that you stop.”

“I’m stopped,” Micah replied, trying not to laugh as the soldier almost jumped out of her skin when an Onkert whined plaintively at her.  He couldn’t help but wonder what her thoughts would be if she could feel even the barest hint of the daemon’s hunger, not for her flesh, but for the very primal essence that made her a coherent entity.

“Thank you,” she gave Micah a pained smile.  “I know that you don’t have to humor me, but I appreciate it.  I’ve seen Onkerts before and I know that four of five of them is more than enough to tear down our entire outpost.  I can’t recognize the other daemons, but every instinct in my body is telling me to throw down my weapon and run away right now.”

“You have good instincts,” Micah chuckled.  “Now, if you could let me know what this is about I have places to go and things to kill.”

“I’m required to stop every party venturing into the Great Depths to ensure that they can handle themselves and to ascertain their purpose,” she paled at Micah’s words but did her best to continue normally.  “Now for you, I know that this is a formality, but could you tell me your class, level and goal in the Great Depths?”

Micah opened his status.  Ever since his entourage had grown, his levels started growing at an exponential rate.  It helped that for experience purposes, the tethers turned the daemons into extensions of himself.  Even without Micah present, his summons cleared every dungeon that wasn’t regularly raided by Basil’s Cove on a daily basis.

Micah Silver

Age 17 [ERROR] / 27

Class/Level Thaumaturge 32

XP 17,250/40,000

HP 650/650

Class Specialty

Chronomancer

Attributes

Body 10, Agility 10, Mind 53, Spirit 52

Attunement

Moon 16 Sun 2 Night 15

Mana

Moon   2112/2112 Sun 2084/2084 Night  2110/2110

Affinities

Time 10

Tier V - Foresight 4, Time Echos 1, Temporal Transfer 2, Haste 5

Wood 6

Tier I - Refresh 10, Mending 9, Plant Weave 9

Tier II - Augmented Mending 12, Root Spears 11

Tier III - Heal 8, Paralytic Sting 3

Tier IV - Regeneration 4, Healing Wave 6

Air 5

Tier I - Gale 7, Air Knife 15, Air Supply 4
Tier II - Wind Shield 6, Sonic Bolt 11

Tier III - Updraft 2, Pressure Spear 5

Tier IV - Flight 2

Blessings

Mythic Blessing of Mursa - Blessed Return, Ageless Folio

Skills

Anatomy  7

Arcana   7

Enchanting  11

Fishing   1
Herbalism  5

Librarian  5

Ritual Magic  23

Spear   11

-Wind Spear 8

Spellcasting  25

The thaumaturge class was finally beginning to show its strength.  The constant advancement to his spirit attribute had over doubled his mana totals since level twenty.  When combined with his incredibly high mind attribute, which increased the power of his spells as well as decreasing their mana cost, Micah could cast his fifth tier time spells dozens of times before exhaustion.  Hells, if he could get his hands on a sixth tier time spell he could probably cast that as well.

Of course, his Air and Wood magic were much less than half as effective.  Each rank in an affinity represented a major shift in power.  Even his Wood spells, at affinity 6, cost an average of 30% less than his Air spells at affinity 5.

Micah returned his attention to the quaking soldier.  She’d obviously misinterpreted his moment of silence, and now he could practically see her knees rattling through her greaves.

“As for my class,” Micah just laughed.  “I’m a spellcaster.  I’m level thirty two and my goal is to prune the Durgh clans before they can rise up and attack Westmarch.  One of my dungeon rewards alerted me that they planned an attack before the end of the year, and I consider this my patriotic duty.”

“But,” she sputtered, her eyes wide as she took in the ranks of daemons.  “Pereston has a peace treaty with the Durgh.  If you attack them, you’d break that treaty and they’d be fully justified in starting a war.”

“I plan on honoring that treaty just as much as the Durgh do,” Micah replied, rolling his eyes.  “Look, I realize that I am venturing into the unknown and attacking a vastly superior foe, but I am out of time.  If I’m not strong enough, well.  That is what it is, but I’m not going to sit around cowering behind a wall and waiting for someone else to save me.”

“I have seen what is coming to pass,” Micah’s voice took a bitter turn.  “No one takes the invasion seriously and the powerful flee leaving the rest of us to our fates.  Eventually the Royal Knights retake the land and we start over.  Even if averting that tragedy seems impossible, I still have to try.”

“No one is coming to help,” he looked her dead in the eye.  “I am your last hope.  If I fall, you die.  Westmarch dies.  Basil’s Cove dies.  Tens of thousands up and down the Horn Coast will be butchered or enslaved.”