Dreisterne

CHAPTER 21

Kobolds scurried through the winding belly of their den, their bare clawed feet slapping and scraping against damp stone as they moved about to work. Some wove moss into nests; others busied themselves carving crude spears or stacking scavenged trinkets. The air was damp and thick, the tunnels cramped and stale. It reeked of lizard sweat, old meat, and stagnant water. No fresh air, and no clean exit known to most outsiders. A perfect tomb to any who dare intrude on the lizardfolk's lair.

One of the cave patrols, small, hunched, and yellow-eyed, paused in the central passage, nostrils flaring. There, just ahead, framed by the flicker of torchlight, stood a lone figure. It looked human, clad in a long cloak, and fixed in place with a lit torch in hand. The kobold rapidly clicked its tongue against its teeth sharply: a signal drilled into every sentry since hatching.

From the shadows, they answered. A dozen kobolds crept into view in response to the call. They crouched low, tongues flicking out to taste the air as they ringed the chamber's entrance. Pairs of eyes blinked in the dark, tension crackling as they watched their prey. They charged, led by a loud and guttural screech. The first kobold among the horde lunged, its claws and teeth bared, only for its jaws to sink into dusty fabric. The figure collapsed, revealing nothing but a battered cloak draped over a barrel, a stick for a spine, a torch tied on with wire.

For a heartbeat, there was stunned silence. Some stirrings of indignant snarls reverberated a moment later. If there was one thing they hated more than being cheated by humans, it was being cheated by humans of a meal. One of the kobolds then perked up in alarm, its nostrils picking up a smoky, rancid odour coming from the floor around the group.

Oil.

Bottles rained down from ledges overhead, each filled with viscous black liquid, as if dozens of them were thrown at once. They shattered across the chamber floor, oil spreading in dark tendrils. The oil splashed on the kobolds, which shrieked and scrambled from surprise, and some of them even slipped on the slick stone floor from panic.

Then came the sparks. Bolts of fire streaked across the chamber, licking up the oil, dancing along the walls. There was no explosion; this was no careless arson. It was calculated, controlled, and designed to be a slow suffocation by smoke and fear before the fires took the kobold horde. A handful of the scaly creatures not caught in oil and blaze attempted to make for the exit, only to be summarily burned by a couple more fire bolts.

Unseen above, hidden on narrow ledges they had scouted hours earlier, Nathan crouched above the chaos, the last fire bolt still fading from his hand after he burned the fleeing kobolds. Next to him was Harald, who smirked approvingly at Nathan's pyromantic display.

"Wunderbar, Herr Festivus! Two clean shots at the vermin! You have improved," the pyromancer remarked. He then turned to Keith. "I wonder if you are still keeping up with your magical training as of late, Herr Nimbus?"

"You've seen me do my breathing exercises every night, H," Keith replied, feeling slightly stung as he threw the last handful of oil vials on the burning monsters below. He deflated as he continued, "But, I dunno. Maybe spell casting's not for me after all. It's been months, and I'm still having trouble conjuring a speck of fire at my fingertip."

Harald gave his friend a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Take heart, Keith. The fact that you could conjure flames at all is proof that you can channel mana. I tell you what: once we reach Londinium, we could meet other students of magic there and see which school suits you better."

"Sounds like a decent plan," Nathan remarked, smiling at his friends before returning his attention to the matter at hand. "So, do we go deeper into the den, or..."