Chương 6: The God-Sucking Leech

The magic beasts of Ostravia are a marvelous insult to all known laws of biology. Take the lesnik fox of the salt valleys: six tails like drifting banners, each one leaking faint illusions into the air. Hunters claim the beast tricks the eye so a man chases three foxes and returns home with none. I followed one for two days once. It let me believe I had it cornered five times. I suspect the creature laughed at me, that fucking… rat.

Then there are the frost-rams of the northern ridges with their great spiral horns filled with ice-crystal marrow. When they charge, the snow sings. Sings! I swear upon my boots this is true. The sound vibrates through the bones like church bells struck beneath the earth. And the river gnilks… disgusting things. Scaled like drowned rats, teeth like sewing needles, and endlessly curious about fingers. Lost two gloves to them last spring. Nearly lost a thumb as well. Fuck them. I don't like them either.

The problem with studying Ostravian beasts is that one must observe them closely. Unfortunately, they also prefer to observe you just as closely. —Excerpt from 'Travel Notes of Semyon V. Chernov', Written by Semyon V. Chernov, Natural Philosopher of the Ostravian Imperial Frontier For a second, Orland tumbled through a void. Light was gone. Sound was gone. Everything was gone, really—until he suddenly landed feet-first in a dark hallway. He paused.

It was barely a hallway in that the plain wooden walls, floor, and ceiling faded to absolute black just a few steps behind him. It was a hallway, however, that ended with an equally plain wooden door in front of him. Faint golden light spilled out from under the slit, and that was all the light he had to work with. Behind the door, though, there were voices and whispers.

"... This is the one you died for?" a woman hissed, completely furious.

"Of all the great men in Ostravia to die for, you picked some… some gutter boy from some no-name town? Why? What the fuck was going through your head?"

"Not much," a young man replied plainly.

"They do say falling tends to blow every single thought out of your head."

"What? Don't you—""I think what the Second means to say is you died for a boy who can't even inherit your Title," another man said, cutting off the furious woman. He sounded calmer than the two.

"Now what do we do? He has none of your talents. He has none of your blessings. Not a single fortune that was supposed to fall upon you will fall upon him, but as long as he continues to hold that gauntlet, every misfortune in the Blessed Lands will be drawn to him. He cannot endure the weight of fate."

"Fate, huh?" the young man murmured.

"I don't really like that word."

"Whether you like it or not, it's real, and you know it," another girl said, and she sounded much, much younger than everyone else. Almost like a child.

"Naghari blessed the Hero. The Curator Church divined the Hero's prophesied companions. Word's already spread far and wide to every corner of Vyrmgaard that the Fifth Hero has arrived, but if anyone—and I mean anyone—finds out you're already dead, the Tyrant'll send—""If fate is real, then isn't my death a part of 'fate', too?" The voices behind the door silenced for a moment. Then, all at once—"Bullshit," the furious lady snapped.

"All of us have died at the hands of demonkind, never any simple fall," the calm man said.

"Didn't Naghari predict you were at least gonna make it to Vyrmgaard?" the young girl said.

"This is not the time to be joking, Fifth." a fourth voice said, and he sounded the oldest of them all.

"What were you actually thinking when you died for him?" The young man said nothing. But when Orland pressed his ear against the door, immense curiosity and confusion getting the better of him, the door opened—and pushed him back into the void behind him.

"I'll tell you what I was thinking," the young man said.

"But first, promise me you'll never berate him again. It's not the right time yet, and he didn't ask for this."

"Then don't bring him here!" the furious lady snapped again. Before Orland could grab onto the doorknob, an invisible force shoved him back, and he began tipping into the abyss behind him.

"Wait!" he shouted, throwing his hand out.

"Who are you? What are you? At least tell me what's going—""Mind the great sunmane lion, unchosen one," the young man whispered, his voice echoing through the abyss.

"Its fate was intertwined with mine. Now it will be with yours." He blinked, and suddenly he was back in his bedroom in the Belograd Manor. The bedroom was dark. The candles were extinguished. Moonlight poured in through the window on his right while he laid on his giant bed, blankets pulled up to his neck. He blinked again. The clock above the door to his left read two in the morning—at least several hours since he stepped out of his bathroom. … A dream?

Come the toll of the ninth bell the next morning, Orland was escorted out Rusalka's western gate with a small detachment of ten nobleguards. Unfortunately, his limbs were sore, and he had a headache that only came from sleeping badly. As in, he didn't get much sleep last night. After waking up from that 'dream', he'd spent the next hour or two turning over every part of his room, trying to replicate how he'd fallen into that hallway to begin with. No such luck, though.

Several servants ended up coming over because of all the ruckus he was making, and he had no choice but to promptly go back to bed—as if he could manage to get any sleep afterwards. He was so cautious of sinking into his bed that he elected to sleep on the hard wooden floor instead. It can't be a normal dream. As if I was so tired my body just automatically climbed into bed the moment I stepped out of the bathroom without me remembering it? He still remembered everything he'd heard in that hallway.

That furious lady, that older man who spoke of fate, and that young man who said he'd 'died' for Orland… … Do I really want to know, though? He shook his head and tried to shake last night's 'dream' out of his head. It wasn't his business. It shouldn't be his business. If he was going to leave everything related to the Hero behind in a few days anyways, what did a weird dream or two matter? Let it go. It doesn't matter as long as it doesn't happen again. Soon, I'll just be 'Orland' again.

At least breakfast had made waking up this morning feel almost forgivable. Sharp at the eighth bell toll in the morning, the Belograd kitchens—may all their cooks grow fat and smug forever—had delivered to his doorstep enough food to feed him for a week: eggs in butter, smoked fish, white cheese, fried bread, hot porridge sweetened with some berry syrup, two different sausages, and three kinds of tea… among other things he couldn't name. For his part, he'd eaten everything he was offered.

'Never waste food' was one of his unbreakable rules, and if he was going to be marched into the woods to hunt some legendary beast, he might as well go in with his stomach full.

"... Where are we going, though?" he asked, putting on his most confident smile as he strided alongside Rurik, the young and nicer-looking man who'd introduced himself as the new Head Guard of the Belograd Manor. Rurik had been walking half a pace behind him—seemingly out of respect and reverence—but upon being addressed, the man quickened and smiled back.

"We're escorting you to the last known location of the God-Sucking Leech," he said, nodding down the road. Orland looked forward. The 'road' headed straight into the woods, and they must've cleared all caravans and wagons from using it today, because they were the only ones walking in the sun.

"It won't take long. It's only about a thirty minute walk away."

"Mhm." Orland nodded slowly.

"And, uh… why do I have to fight this leech again?"

"The God-Sucking Leech has a reproductive cycle of roughly eight years," Rurik answered.

"Every eight years or so, a new one emerges in the forests around Rusalka and begins preying on travelers, hunters, miners, and anyone else unlucky enough to pass near its territory. Unfortunately, we can't ever kill them when they're young. They stay burrowed underground until they're large enough to dig their way out, so the only solution is to kill them after they mature and become adults. It's been seven and a half years since the last leech was slain, so you came here right on time!" Orland swallowed.

"But if these leeches only show up once every eight years… I mean, who normally fights them? Why don't you just let them do it again?"

"Oh, no, the man who used to slay them for us died about four years ago. Black brine in his lungs, I heard." Rurik waved the notion away.

"So this time, Governor Belograd sent word to Relikov City asking for someone capable. We expected a templar—a Prefect would be strong enough, probably—but we certainly didn't expect the Hero himself to answer the call and say he was already on the way! How fortunate! Fate truly is smiling upon us!" Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. The other guards smiled and started whispering amongst themselves, so Orland gave Rurik—and the rest of them—a tight little smile.

"O… kay," he said. Fortunate for whom remained unclear, but he kicked a pebble off the path and decided it was time to ask the obvious part.

"Why's it called the God-Sucking Leech, though? Is it that powerful?" Rurik let out a short laugh through his nose.

"It's probably around Uncommon-5 to Uncommon-6—definitely the strongest beast in these woods by far—but if you were to ask me, most of its fearsomeness comes only from its name."

"Why's that?"

"The old legends say the God-Sucking Leeches and their kind were once great star-faring beasts. Cosmic serpents that drifted too close to the realms above. Some tale-tellers claim they tried to suck the blood of one of the Curator Gods themselves—""I heard they fed on divine runoff from the Divine Museum and grew arrogant with their own power," a guard chimed in from the back.

"Didn't they try to break into the Divine Museum itself and steal an entire section's worth of relics for themselves?" another guard said.

"—but whatever the real reason, the tale-tellers say the Curator Gods became enraged with them, and so they were cast down onto our world and stripped of most of their cosmic powers," Rurik finished, scowling back at his mates. The other guards snickered and laughed.

"Now they're just oversized leeches that look a little strange. They're called what they're called only because of their legend, not because they can actually go toe-to-toe with the gods."

"They definitely fight like demons, though," one more guard chimed in.

"I heard that they heal themselves and grow larger whenever they drink blood. As long as they have prey to slaughter, they can fight endlessly and—""And yet I have no doubt the Hero will be able to defeat this one," Rurik said proudly, saluting Orland with a fist across the chest.

"On behalf of Rusalka, I thank you for your kindness and bravery. May your trades with the gods be fair and just!" As the other guards saluted at once, Orland couldn't help but gulp nervously.

"Alright," he said.

"That's… um, that's good to hear and all, but… why's she with us?" He turned his head to the other side, and there Milena was, still humming to herself as she clutched his right arm.

She wore clothes fit for travel now—expensive boots, a fitted leather coat with decorative stitching, and a belt far too elegant for any woods—and a pair of her attendants had even followed her for a while, but now that they were about to enter the forest, she waved them away so that she could be left alone with Orland and the nobleguards. She noticed him looking and brightened immediately.

"Why, it's because I'd like to accompany the Hero on his mission, of course!" she said, all pleased and innocent.

"I wanted to see you in action again, and I do know how to doctor wounds should the need arise. Even if, naturally, you won't be getting injured."

"... Okay?" There was nothing else to say that wouldn't make him sound rude or terrified, so the road bent westward, eastward, winding through a section of the forest he'd never been before, until it began to slope down through thicker pines. Needles muffled their footfalls and damp earth gave under their boots. The first thing he noticed was the birds—there weren't any. No svetlisa sparrows, white-winged crows, and picklebirds. This is the place alright.

And true to his instincts, the trees eventually opened before them. A small lake lay ahead, sparkling blue and emerald, but on the opposite side of it—set in the side of a raised mound of earth—yawned a cave mouth broad enough to swallow the entire Belograd Manor. The soil around the cave looked freshly bored through. Something must've dug it deep and fast recently, and he had an idea just what it might be. Rurik, Milena, and the other guards stopped before they could wade into the lake.

"That should be it," Rurik said, pointing forward.

"The God-Sucking Leech is currently inside, as last sighted a week ago by a miner returning to town after he went out to dump corrupted salt. He swore to the Curator Gods he heard slithering and chittering inside that cave." Then he turned to Orland, nodding sternly.

"We will wait here until you return." The guards behind him shifted in unison, then raised their hands, clasping them together in front of their chests. Their heads dipped slightly, and they murmured a prayer Orland couldn't quite catch. Even Milena did it, finally letting go of his arm to lead the prayer. As they did, Ruruk pulled off the lantern hanging by his belt and held it out.

"You may need this," Rurik said.

"Just in case it's… dark in there." Orland stared at the clasped hands for a second longer than he should've, then awkwardly copied the motion with none of the same meaning behind it. He'd seen a thousand and one prayers to whatever spirits or gods that lived in these lands, but he'd never seen this one before. It just seemed important enough that doing it wrong—or not doing it at all—might get him noticed. When he finished, he took the lantern from Rurik and gave a short nod that he hoped passed for confidence.

"The Hero… uh, departs!" The guards cheered. Milena let out a small giggle. Electing to ignore her, he trudged to the edge of the lake and stopped just before the water, staring at his own reflection rippling across the surface. If he was going to keep up the act, this was a good moment to stick something into the guards' heads. Something they'd remember later when they talked about the Hero. He flexed his gauntleted hand.

Having read its tag, he finally knew what the relic was capable of, but knowing wasn't the same as knowing. Back when he'd used it the first time against Ruslan and his cronies, he'd activated the ability unintentionally—yet he still remembered that sensation. Like power rushing into him when he put on the gauntlet, and power from him rushing back to the gauntlet. If he could activate its ability consciously this time, in front of all of them… He lifted his gauntlet and focused on the lake. He pictured the bottom.

Mud, stone, packed earth. He imagined reaching down into it, grabbing hold of the lakebed, and dragging a layer of it up Then he pushed 'power'—strong, fast flowing mana—into his gauntlet, and the lake began to tremble. One by one, lumps of earth rose from beneath the surface and bobbed around as mud slabs. Each one hardened just enough to hold shape, and there were dozens of them, forming a crooked path across the lake. A grin tugged at his mouth. Cool.

As casually as he could manage, he began walking across his bridge of mud slabs, keeping his pace steady and his posture loose as if this were nothing to him. As if this was what Heroes did every morning before breakfast. He could feel everyone's eyes on his back, after all—turning to look would make him look less cool. But by the time he reached the far side and stood before the cave—damp and bloody air wafting out the darkness—he couldn't help but swallow and glance back a little.

Rurik, Milena, and the guards watched him with such shining expressions that he couldn't bear to do anything not Hero-like. … Gotta go in, at least. Sucking in a sharp breath, he looked at his tag on his wrist again. He still couldn't understand some of the words, but he remembered Milena's lecture last night and knew how to recognize the only numbers that mattered right now: mana capacity and mana regeneration per hour.

Mana: 111/117 (+6/hr) Six mana gone just from making those dozen mud platforms. His jaw tightened. He absolutely shouldn't have done that just to impress a few guards, because if he actually had to fight the God-Sucking Leech inside the cave, he'd wish he had all his mana on hand. Still, there was no taking it back, and after mulling it over for the better part of last night, he did have a plan. He took another breath, then focused on the lantern in his hand.

It was a relic too, judging by the faint tingles of mana wafting off it.

Without bothering to look for a dial to turn or a candlewick to light, he practiced feeling that sensation of mana again—pushing 'power' into the lantern—and a small blue flame immediately flickered inside the glass. He flinched at the sudden ignition. It's not a real flame. It's… just a product of a relic.

Name: Manalight Lantern Type: Active Implement-Class Relic, Common-3 Attribute Addition: None Ability Description: When mana is channeled into the lantern, a small flame will ignite inside the lantern. The activation cost is 1 mana, and every ten minutes of sustained activation costs 1 mana.

He managed to steady his heart as he read the lantern's tag. It wasn't a fire like the Great Fire, and it wouldn't be. Channeling mana into relics… isn't as tough as I thought, huh? With one last, heavy breath for confidence, he stepped into the cave. The fresh forest air fell away behind him, replaced almost immediately by that dampness and smell of blood that was so, so incredibly thick he almost had trouble breathing. The sound changed, too.

The open quiet of the woods became a close, muffled space where every step echoed just a little too much, but he kept walking, careful not to tread too heavily. The cave stretched ahead, then split off into multiple tunnels, which looked to curve even deeper into the dark. He hadn't been particularly worried about losing his way in here—he'd had experience wandering into beast dens for his hunts—but seeing how many directions the tunnels branched out in did make him a little bit worried. …

But on the bright side, that means the guards won't be able to search these tunnels as easily either. His plan was simple: don't fight the God-Sucking Leech. It was a damn good plan if anyone asked him. He only had to make it sound like he did.

"Break the walls, shake the ground, and collapse as many tunnels as I can for impact effect," he muttered under his breath.

"No fighting, no fighting, no fighting. Just come out looking a bit tired—maybe a bit scratched—and tell everyone the leech is dead or driven off permanently. What are they gonna do, check the caves for a carcass?" They wouldn't check immediately. Getting all the debris he was going to make out of the way was going to take them a whole day, if not several days—and he didn't plan on staying the Hero for much longer than that.

By the time the people of good Rusalka realized the leech was still alive, the 'Hero' would've departed, and 'Orland' would be reaping whatever rewards and goodwill the Hero told Rusalka to give to all slumborn. A risky plan, maybe, but it was better than trying to fight an Uncommon-Grade beast that was far, far beyond his actual skill level. If he had to guess, the usual lesnik foxes and brusnik toads he hunted were only 'Common-Grade'. Uncommon-Grade seemed a whole rank higher and a whole lot stronger.

And if it really, really doesn't go well… He could just run with the gauntlet. But he prayed he didn't have to. He nodded to himself as he followed the tunnel into a wider chamber, his lantern hanging off his belt. Bones littered the ground here, scattered and piled in places. Some were picked clean, others… not so much. Dark patches of dried blood marked the earth here, and fresh red sludge—more slime than anything, if people were asking him—streaked across every wall.

They almost resembled the nests of meat hornets he'd had the displeasure of hunting once. Alright. If there's any place to make a ruckus, this is it. He lifted his hand and readied his gauntlet. There was plenty of earth here to tear up and plenty of walls to crack. If he started collapsing the cave from here, then followed his trail back and collapsed every single tunnel in order, he'd probably make it too difficult for the nobleguards to confirm whether he'd actually killed the leech or not…

for a few days, at least. But by then he'd be gone, so— Something warm landed on his shoulder. Thick. Sticky. Tip, tip, tap. He frowned and tilted his head up. Three giant leeches clung to the ceiling above him with massive, pinkish, wriggly bodies. Each one was easily three times the size of a fully-grown shimmerbear. Their skin glistened wetly, and each of them had four limbs as well—two gangly-thin arms and two barebone legs that gripped the ceiling.

He could almost mistake them for giant lizards if not for the rows upon rows of tiny teeth that shifted in their wide open mouths. … Huh. They didn't tell me there was going to be more than one.