Startup 46: High Risk Venture

Rova 6, late afternoon

The Enterprise wasn’t in place when I reached the rendezvous, or at least I don’t think it was. I couldn’t be certain until I checked the stars, and there was still too much daylight.

I flicked my menu open, confirming that they were in range. They were, but that also meant their character sheets were updating in real time. More than half of Sandara’s spells and positive energy charges were gone. Even worse, most of the people on the crew were injured; they ran the gamut from a few hit points missing to deep in the negatives. Sandara could be a little bitchy, but she didn’t usually leave someone injured unless she was saving her energy.

They aren’t just recovering from a fight. She thinks they are still in danger. They’re stable, so she’s not wasting the magic. Cold.

I checked the rest of the sheets, and they all leveled up as I did. I was close, but on the edge of my range. I couldn’t see through the rain, at least not well enough to see my ship. For all I knew it was just over the horizon, but it could be in any direction but the one I came from.

Calm down, Curtis. Think. How do you work out where they are? What can you risk? What’s the worst that could happen? What do you want and how do you get it?

I signed towards Filli and called out to the Ekekeh. My plan was slapdash, flashy, and perfectly on-brand.

I get what I want by trusting my crew.

••••••••••

Syl heard the bell chime and took her station. She stood near the locked wheel, staring at the other ship. Gobron’s Ship, it was apparently called. The name was emblazoned on the bow.

Her body hummed with energy, making her body twitch at every sound. She knew she looked agitated, but she could focus on the moment when she used her mutagen. It redirected her mind’s energy to focus upon her fine motor functions, kinesthetics, and twitch reflexes. The energy, thanks to the wonders of internal alchemy, came from areas she didn’t currently need, like long term cognitive modeling and her senses of taste and smell. The plan was already made, and she didn’t need to worry about what might happen tomorrow. That would only be a distraction.

She looked to either side. At the utmost stern of the ship was Creed, Varossa’s bald lackey. Near the stairs down off the poop deck she saw Narwhal Tate and Rosie Cusswell, standing tall and resolute. They were waiting for ****. So far, this strategy of spreading out a handful of volunteers had been the best delaying tactic they had. It meant that each time Gobron came aboard with a new team of gunners, they could pick one person to focus upon but with no chance of collateral damage. The rest of the Enterprise’s crew would collapse upon them, severely injuring Gobron’s lackeys. Then they would do whatever they could to keep the poor soul alive once he was gone.

Two of the recruits from Port Peril hadn’t lasted long enough to make it to Sandara to be stabilized. Conchobar came close, only surviving because he could heal himself. The rest were stacked like firewood in the common room, waiting until she couldn’t afford to hold back. If Gobron ordered a full scale ****, they would be healed so they could fight again. Maybe half of them would be able to stand, even with healing magic.

Syl didn’t know how the other team was doing. Rattsberger dropped his spyglass when he was shot in the back. Possible spinal injury, so Sandara had wasted one of her strongest healing spells on him. The part of Syl that wanted to be a doctor knew you couldn’t let an injury like that set in or else he might be permanently crippled, but the terrified interim captain only knew that they had a limited pool of divine energy to draw upon. It was a miracle so few were dead or permanently crippled. Jaundiced Jape had his knee blown out, but so far no one else.

“Oh, that’s just the captain’s luck rubbing off on us,” Sandara had said dismissively. “Can’t be much of a captain without a crew, eh?”

The goblins came for Creed this time. Blood mixed with the rain, and Syl lunged. Her sickle swooped down like a hunting hawk, slicing low through the goblin’s thigh and severing the femoral artery. Blood sprayed across the poop deck, but Syl didn’t have time to enjoy the view. She straightened and lashed out with her silver dagger at Gobron’s eye level, more to give herself space than out of any hope of causing injury.

The plan was simple: strike down the chaff before disabling Gobron. His minions were different goblins each time. Syl could hardly tell the difference, but she trusted Rowe’s judgement more than she ever expected to. Gobron was taking a breather, reapplying his shield, and mending any injuries each time. That was probably the sole cause of delay between assaults. Once he was ready, he and four new goblins would make the jump.

His forces outnumbered the crew of the enterprise, but his troops were nothing special. He could afford to lose more people, but could he afford to lose four of his for every one of theirs? Besides, she needed to make time for Sosima.

She moved like a dervish, hoping that Rosie and Narwhal could take on Gobron for a few moments. She glanced down at Creed and instantly tallied up another casualty. Direct shot to the chest, almost certainly causing irreparable damage to the heart. Maybe if Sandara were here, but she couldn’t be risked. Varossa would be angry, no doubt.

By the time she could get to Gobron, Narwhal was already on the ground. He crawled away while Rosie desperately struggled to hold the tall goblin off. He’d noticed her replacement arm was weaker, and pressed her on that side, laughing as she barely kept his axe from splitting her skull with a clumsy parry. He swayed with exaggerated movements, shifting so as to avoid Rowe’s line of fire. It was Ivey that burnt away his shield with a thin jet of ghostly white fire, deciding after nearly a full minute that they couldn’t risk any longer an engagement.

His return teleport seemed to be somehow keyed to his shield, pulling him out of danger the moment he might actually be hurt. Syl wasted no time, staunching the flow of blood from Narwhal and Rosie’s injuries. She idly noted that there was no barrage of bottle rockets this time, which hopefully meant Sosima’s team was causing too much trouble.

“Narwhal. You’re out.” Syl snapped, “Rosie, you can go under if you like, but don’t sleep if you do. I think you might have a concussion.”

“Captain.” Rosie said, her eyes focused. “Who will come out if I do?”

Syl opened her mouth to answer, but realized she didn’t have a good response. They were out of volunteers. Even if she did **** the cowards like Salyar and Naomi on deck, they’d be more likely to fight back. It might even cause a mutiny. She looked at Cog, who had already taken multiple stray shots, and at Rowe, who was unmarked but had nearly been kidnapped four times. She didn’t know how long Ivey’s ability to heal himself would last, but such things always had limits. They couldn’t afford to take it all alone.

“Sandara will need to do another mass healing.” Syl said. “Then we start again.”

“And you’ll do it without me.” Creed said, standing up. He gestured at his chest, where the gaping hole was rapidly closing. “I can only do this once today.”

Rosie flared up.

“I’m glad you’re alive, but might I remind you that the rest of us-“

“Should consider surrender.” Creed interrupted, pulling out a bottle. “Not much is worth dying for.”

He downed the bottle, similar to the two he’d brewed for Varossa and Hinson a few hours prior, and his legs melted together into a tail. His skin turned a dark blue as he hopped over the side of the ship. No one stopped him. They didn’t have the time or energy to do so.

Could we surrender? Probably not. They opened fire on us unprovoked. Fuck them. Damn him.

“Captain?” Rowe said, pointing into the air off the stern. “What’s that?”

Syl whipped around, expecting another danger. She saw four bright lights in the sky, in a shade of purple she recognized. Emrys’s lights. She didn’t even stop to consider the possibility they might be some other drow.

“Rowe, fire off a salute.” Syl ordered, “Let him know we are here.”

••••••••••

It was always quite interesting to see precisely why something is forbidden. Nearly every other person on this amphibious **** would be subject to the rather novel punishment of double execution under Chelish law, with no option for conscription. Archduchess Thrune had always thought that was a little bit excessive, but she was starting to see the logic. Lubo wasn’t even particularly clever, and she’d already built herself a lovely little circle of devotees.

Pharasma, though powerful, had made a critical error in her ordering of the afterlife. Hardly anyone wanted to die, and knowing the least bit about what comes later reinforced the fear for everyone except the handful one might actually want to achieve immortality. Who would want to stay alive when paradise was waiting? Who would want to die when the forges of hell gaped open before them? It was an arbitrage opportunity for entities like Vishgurv, and Varossa could not help but applaud his innovative approach.

Varossa returned to the task at hand as she hauled herself over the railing, drawing her mace out of its sling. She took in the situation on deck.

Lady Aulamaxa’s boots thumped against the deck of Gobron’s Ship, each rhythmic strike releasing a burst of empowered sound, as often as not sending a goblin flying. She had gone first, plowing into the small chorus of goblin war chanters before the idiotic little men even knew they were under attack. She wrapped herself in a song she sang for herself alone, quickening her step and deflecting the enemy’s strikes. Naturally that had drawn all eyes towards her, allowing the laggards like Varossa and Lubo to follow unimpeded, giving them time to draw weapons and swell into the massive bipedal shark form Vishgurv offered his clients.

Of course, Varossa had an excuse; she was used to doing this kind of thing with legs. It was no wonder that merfolk didn’t often bother with boarding actions; climbing with only her arms was dreadful. Lubo, on the other hand, seemed more interested in making sure that none of her troops got cold feet. Varossa could relate; Hinson kept trying to argue that, since he was their healer, he should be kept out of danger in the water.

The goblin war chanters, Gobron’s personal retinue of minor bards responsible for healing and teleportation, scattered before the ****. The stream of effusive praise for their currently engaged captain cut off, but they quickly replaced it with simpler, more improvised ditties about all the terrible things that happened to intruders in goblin lands. Each sang a different song, which miraculously all fit together despite the words turning into an incoherent jumble. Likely each melody was a different magical effect.

The panicking normal goblins heard the music and their entire demeanor changed to one of anger. They formed up into small war bands and rushed whatever invader happened to catch their eyes. Varossa herself batted away their blades with relative ease, but they weathered her counterattacks and returned to the battle quickly. Only a clean killing blow would stop the miserable vermin, and that was difficult when so many infested the ship. Most of Lubo’s chaff would die quickly at this rate, and that would impede the mission.

“Countersong.” Varossa barked at Hinson.

The handsome man nodded and began to sing, taking longer to find the perfect melody than normal. Gills made several small but critical changes to his respiratory system that he needed to adjust to. Varossa made a note to have him practice with gills in the future so as to avoid a repeat.

His low, haunting melody was barely audible over the goblins’ cacophony of energetic solos at first, but it had a **** to it that was felt rather than heard. The goblins that were downed stopped standing up. Hinson’s voice swelled and swallowed up all of the lesser songs, sapping the **** from them to feed his own music, which in turn sapped ever more magic from the air. The goblins began to falter as the humming magic within their hearts faded. Even Lady Aulamaxa was slowed somewhat, but in aggregate that was an acceptable sacrifice. She was the only one here wearing armor; she could hardly complain if she had to take a few lumps.

She’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.

Varossa returned to the task at hand: Eliminating the enemy magic users. She didn’t know which of the war chanters were in charge of healing, so she elected to be thorough. She pulled out her hand crossbow, enchanted to be impervious to water among other things, and lined up a shot.

The first of the war chanters fell. A shame that so many magic users, especially ones capable of restorative magic, never put forth the effort to harden themselves against injury they could easily recover from. It was a flaw she’d noticed in Miss Quinn as well, and in Hinson until she’d made him correct the error.

Bolt after bolt found their marks, though once the little green men had noticed what she was doing they had tried to make it difficult. Goblins throwing themselves in front of her targets made the shots much harder, to be certain, so she was only able to kill four of eight before Gobron returned. Not enough, not nearly enough.

She quickly assessed the troops at her disposal. The sharklike bodies of the amateur binders were large and strong, but mostly piloted by glorified dockhands at best. The goblins, though smaller and relatively frail, somehow had a superior level of skill and combat discipline. They had hardly any chance of winning this battle before the return of the enemy VIP, and even eliminating the war chanters would be difficult without heavy losses.

“Pull back!” Sosima called. “We’ve done our job!”

No. I’m already risking far too much for this drow; we need a decisive win.

“Engage the enemy captain!” Varossa yelled at the shark men, barely audible over Hinson’s song. “If we can take him down, we’ll have won this.”

“Strike!” Lubo shrieked, backing Varossa’s call, “Strike!”

Sosima’s head whipped around to look at Varossa, and it was not difficult to imagine the snarl on her face. Easy to ignore, however, when there was work to be done. Just as the troops ignored the order to retreat when they still thought they were winning.

We can’t afford to let this be more drawn out than it already has been. They’ll be fine even if they die, dear. Eventually.

Not being entirely heartless, Varossa quickened pace. She decided to call the retreat just as soon as she ran out of bolts. That seemed reasonable. Besides, the retreat would be easier without enemy spellcasters.

Gobron, without his **** field, elected to take on a supervisory role. He rallied his troops into a passable gun line, so Varossa crouched down behind one of his cannons. It seemed imprudent to offer up a convenient target.

The goblins’ first volley, accented with distant cannon fire, ripped through the shark men, and predictably that was the end of their momentum. In a scenario repeated across thousands of battlefields, naked savages lost to gunpowder. Four of the shark men fell to the ground, their wounds weeping blood. Two of them reverted to their natural forms; the clearest sign that their souls had already departed. They would return in an hour or two, reborn as gillmen.

Lubo called the retreat then, though it was practically a formality. Her undisciplined troops were already scattering and fleeing into the water.

Varossa took in the field, sighing with disappointment. She had only managed to kill three more of her targets; the last one was whimpering at his captain’s heels, and she couldn’t manage a good shot. The goblins were in disarray, the enemy captain was injured, and their magic was hopefully in shambles. Acceptable, save one thing.

Sosima’s left foot was embedded in quickly hardening mucus, courtesy of Captain Gobron. She was largely immobilized unless she could remove the boot, and the goblins swarming around her didn’t seem inclined to give her that chance.

“Stop singing and try to enhance her.” Varossa ordered Hinson.

She wasn’t going to try to take on the whole deck alone, but Varossa wanted to give Sosima her best chance. Of course, that best chance didn’t involve Varossa sticking her own neck out any further. While Hinson began the first few bars of Heroism, Varossa leaned back and threw herself into the drink. She was already considering how to frame this to Minelda.

••••••••••

Sosima didn’t have time to watch Varossa flee, and didn’t see Hinson ignore orders to follow immediately. Perhaps because she was so close to ****, a strange sense of peace settled upon her. Her mind sharpened to a razor edge, a kind of flow state she’d first experienced when defending the Man’s Promise on Bonewrack. An imaginary metronome helping her to keep time.

Beat.

Hinson’s countersong faded from the air, and she snatched her magic back with a stomp of her left foot. This most simple expression of bardic magic, a song mostly within her head, traveled through the deck and up her right leg. The vibration ripped through her body painfully, but shattered the mucus. In a movement that flowed directly from the first, she raised her right foot to pivot on her left, swinging her blade at a goblin who had thought to capitalize on her **** position.

The strike was true, and the goblin fell to the deck with one fewer eye. She channeled the rush of victory into another stomp, completing the turn and releasing another pulse of volatile thunder onto one of the tools that dared stand against her. She caught a strike on her shield, batting it away.

Beat.

She continued to spin, twirling as if she were on a dance floor, inching towards the edge of the ship as she deflected blows from all sides. As dozens of beady red eyes focused upon her, she abandoned any vain hope of cutting a path. Instead, she used the most fundamental weapon laid out in the six hundred and sixty six Infernal Stratagems. Fear, with a twist of bravado all her own.

She brandished her blade, pointing it towards Gobron. As she did, she focused upon the seal etched into it. She opened the tiny rift found within, not large enough to allow anything to escape but easily enough to drink in the light and hope of the material plane. She positioned it before her face, that her words might run down the blade carry its hunger.

“I challenge you to single combat.” She said, her voice accompanied by a thousand whispers. “Unless you are too much a yellow coward to face me.”

The cold blade warmed slightly in her hand. She smiled beneath her visor, seeing the other goblins back away from her. They were thankful for the opportunity to quit the field, reminded of their mortality by the void’s chill. Gobron himself met her gaze, and she could see the panic in his eyes for a split second. All was still.

Beat.

The corners of Gobrons lips turned downward. All eyes were upon him. He held up his axe, looking at the blade for a few seconds to center himself. Sosima held her position, knowing that she had little chance of plowing through the crew all alone. This was her chance, either through a successful duel or by running out the clock and getting some manner of rescue.

“Gobron thinks not.” He said, “It would be unbecoming for a gentleman to individually battle a woman he does not intend to marry. That is why Gobron has subordinates after all. Fire.”

The firing line fanned out behind the little shit leveled their guns at Sosima. Their hands shook with fear, but that would only aid her so much. She leapt into action, but as she’d feared the remaining goblins had enough presence of mind to bar her way. She held up her shield arm, and felt a hot spike of pain pierce her just above the elbow. Another pierced her armor just above her thigh.

She stumbled and fell, the goblins around her rallied. Then the strangest thing happened. A wave of frost enveloped the deck all around her, coating the goblins with ice. Darkness crept in around the edge of her vision, and she must have started hallucinating.

She looked up, and saw Emrys hurtling through the air on the back of a gigantic fish. A hulking figure sat behind him, holding up a massive cloak like a sail. He flickered out of existence, and a trail of frozen rain rushed to Sosima’s side. He reformed, and it was him. He was clad in horribly cracked white leather, hair tied back in a tail, crouching slightly in a casting stance.

“I don’t know who the hell you are,” He said to Gobron, “and I don’t really care. If you leave, this can end right now.”

The gun line reloaded.