“You don’t know what you’re doing!” Mannon wailed. “I gave you all of this! People prospered! Other evils will rise up in my absence—far worse for you! Far worse!”

Yet the foretold time had come. Thane raised his blade and charged, and the other Heroes of Destiny followed. For a pristine moment, crystallized in Gorm’s memory forever, they were a force of good protecting the innocent by slaying evil.

Then blades and arrows and spells struck deep into Mannon’s wounded flesh with the force of ages. The cuts and gashes along his slimy body flared with searing light, and the world disappeared in a brilliant flash.

The goddess’ power receded from Kaitha like the outgoing tide, leaving her coughing and sputtering in the sun. A thin blanket was beneath her, but the cold of the cobblestones beneath it cut through the fabric. She tried to open her eyes, then quickly squeezed them shut again in the sudden glare of the winter sun. Someone placed a mug of warm water in her hand, and she drank it eagerly.

“Glad to see you’re up,” said a friendly voice. Kaitha blinked a few times, and her blurred vision resolved itself into a plump Dwerrow wearing the white and red robes of a medic among the bannermen. She was one of several overseeing a triage camp set up next to the smoldering ruins of Bugbeary Limited. Most of the other makeshift cots were empty. Only a few wounded heroes still lay convalescing in the sun.

The medic noticed her glance. “Oh, the only ones of you lot left are the ones with your, ah, sense of fashion.” The Dwerrow tapped her wrist, and Kaitha glanced down at her sobriety bracelet. “Anyone able to take a draught of salve is already up and on their way.”

A sudden thought cut through the haze in Kaitha’s head like a sunbeam through the clouds. “Gorm?” she croaked. “Laruna? The others?”

“Oh, your party is fine, Miss Kaitha. Have some more water, dear,” said the medic, and waited until the ranger was drinking to continue. “All your fellows are out helpin’ with the clean up, and I’m sure there will be paperwork after that. You can join them once you’ve rested up. The whole city is talkin’ about this one. Ha! They’ll be talkin’ about it on the far continents by next week!”

Kaitha was only half listening. Memories streamed through her mind; she could recall entering the chamber beneath the mountain perfectly, yet when the goddess had come upon her, everything became clouded and confusing. She could only catch glimpses of the exploding temple, and fighting alongside Gorm, and Jynn taunting an ancient evil, and…

The mug slipped from Kaitha’s hand and cracked on the cobblestones.

“Miss Kaitha? Are you all right? No, sit back down! You can join your friends once you—Miss Kaitha! You need rest!”

Yet the ranger was already walking out of the medic’s camp, her eyes locked on the rubble of a boutique armorer across the plaza. Fjordstorm Pinnacle looked like it had been hit by a siege weapon, and now several people searched through the rubble. Gorm was one of them, and also Heraldin, and a one-eyed woman who seemed familiar, but all of Kaitha’s attention was focused on the tall figure in their center.

He was built like a bear, with a thick beard that spilled down over a chest like an oak cask. He leapt with limber grace when Gorm shouted to him, but had the strength to lift a thick beam and cast it aside like a child tossing a stick. When he reached into the wreckage and helped a dazed Mr. Brunt to his feet, he was only a head shorter than the Ogre, yet somehow he seemed bigger. And when Gorm saw the Elf and said her name, the Sten turned around with a smile that outshone the dawn. He slapped Mr. Brunt on the shoulder and remitted him to the care of the one-eyed woman, then bounded over the ruined timbers toward Kaitha. He stopped short after hopping down from the wreckage onto the cobblestones, and for a moment it looked like he might jump back up into the rubble.

He didn’t, though. The Sten took a deep breath, ran a meaty hand through his hair, and spoke as she approached. “Ah, hello Kaitha,” he said in a voice as deep as a mountain’s roots. “My name is Thane.”

She stared at him with a gazer’s focus, as if her eyes could peel off this new facade and see beneath his skin with enough intensity. He looked different from… well, from anyone who had walked on Arth in the last five ages. But there was something familiar in his smile, something that she could feel rather than see.

“Uh, I know… I—I think you know me. We’ve met. In a way,” the Sten stuttered a bit as the Elf drew closer to him, and worry flashed in his eyes before he remembered his next line. “B-but I’d like to get to know you better. Would you care to join me for tea?”

Kaitha squinted at the tattoos on his exposed arms. There was something familiar about the spiral tattoos that cascaded over his muscles, a pattern reminiscent of the fur she’d seen on a dying Troll beneath Wynspar.

“I’ll buy the tea,” Thane added hurriedly. “I know a nice place. Spelljammer’s. It’s right over… uh…” Thane’s voice faltered as his eyes fell on the smoldering ruins of Spelljammer’s Cafe.

“Aha, that’s unfortunate. Still, I’ve heard the Astral Plate is… is…” The Sten turned to the other end of the Pinnacle, where a team of Academy mages were working to extinguish the fire that still raged through the wreckage of the Astral Plate.

“Well, maybe Sigil’s could—oh no…” The panic in Thane’s voice bloomed into despair as he turned to the smoking crater where Sigil’s had been. Words failed him entirely as he turned to the Restored Tambour, which would need to be restored again before anyone could walk inside, let alone order tea there.

“Is there nowhere to get a cup of tea!?” Thane cried, hands on his head. “Or a coffee!? Anywhere I could heat some water and put some leaves in it!? I just can’t believe… I need… uh…” The Sten’s lament fell silent as he caught Kaitha’s gaze, and he smiled as he remembered himself.

Kaitha studied his eyes as she drew close. They were the same; faceted amber orbs flecked with crimson, like a sunrise.

“Maybe lunch?” Thane ventured.

But by that point, he was within reach. Kaitha seized the braids of his beard and pulled him into a kiss that somehow exceeded every expectation.

Chapter 35

Gorm rolled his eyes and looked away once the kissing started.

He’d watched Thane and Kaitha meet with a grin on his face, wondering what they’d finally say to each other after overcoming dungeons and death and an evil from beyond time. As it turned out, nothing. The Sten just asked the Elf for a date, and then she latched onto his face like a leaping swamp leech. Jynn and Laruna had done pretty much the same thing once Mannon was dead and gone. Now the mages had run off somewhere, and he knew better than to go looking.

Grumbling inwardly about the perpetual indecency of tall folk, the Dwarf turned his attention back to the rescue at hand. Heraldin and Gaist were still tending to Mr. Brunt and his party, though their discussion had oddly turned from relief at finding the Ogre mostly unharmed to concern over his wardrobe.

“You need to get rid of that, Brunt.” Magriss pointed up at the Ogre’s head. “It’s not an accessory. It’s dangerous.”

Brunt rumbled something unintelligible, but also clearly uncooperative.

“It’s beyond dangerous,” said Heraldin.

“He’s taken a shinin’ to it,” said a Scribkin engineer. “He likes it now.”

“Burn what he likes!” snarled Heraldin. “It’s⁠—”

Brunt rumbled again, like a volcano about to evict the local villagers.

“It’s something we should reconsider,” Heraldin finished with considerably less force.

Gorm walked around the Ogre, trying to get a better view of the subject of controversy. His eyes caught the twisted piece of black iron in the Ogre’s ear just as a psychic imperative rolled into his mind.

Hey! Get me down! Brunt’s earring shouted in Gorm’s head.

An iron hook hung from the Ogre’s cauliflower earlobe, with the crossbar of the hook wedged through one of Brunt’s piercings and the sharp crescent of the hook dangling. The ends of the crossbar waved about like iron worms in a futile struggle to wiggle out from Brunt’s flesh.

Gorm squinted up at the protesting jewelry. “Is that⁠—”

“Who else would it be?” Heraldin said, glowering. “How many sentient hooks are there?”

A vision of a criminal mind, or really anything approaching an average one, in Brunt’s body brought a scowl to Gorm’s face. “So is he⁠—?”

“No,” said Heraldin, shaking his head. “Mr. Brunt seems… resistant to Benny’s command.”

This idiot has a mind like a greased slug! Benny Hookhand wailed. The tendrils of iron flexed suddenly, and a palpable sense of exertion filled the air.

Brunt loosed a thunder of short, staccato booms. It took Gorm a moment to realize it was laughter.

A few seconds later, the hook went limp. I can’t get a grip on it. I can’t even tell if he hears me!

Gorm grinned. “Looks like Benny finally met his match.”

“Mr. Flinn did as well, they way they tell it.” Heraldin shrugged. “He still can’t—uh—shouldn’t keep the Hookhand. Benny is a menace.”

“Who’s going to take him away?” Gorm asked.

Anyone! Benny snarled, waving his iron tendrils anew. Someone get me down!