An Epic Hero Story: Book 2 Chapter 59 (Patreon)

Note: Hello everyone, Urns here. An Epic Hero Story has concluded its second book with this chapter, and myself and A.C. have decided that this is a good point to pause the story. We appreciate everyone who's been reading and supporting it up until now, but we've gotten burned out on the book for a while now, and at this point it's really just eating into time we could be using on other projects that are more likely to give us financial returns.

In slightly more upbeat news, we are cooking up a new story which can be seen as a spiritual successor to AEHS, though its release date is some ways away (beta readers will be accessing chapters quite soon, however!), so you can look forward to that in the meantime.

Thank you all for reading as long as you have, and we hope you enjoy our other works.---

Night in a creepy, old castle was not pleasant, but it definitely beat night in the ruined landscape surrounding that creepy, old castle. We took the time to tend our wounds and recover as much dignity as we could following the unearthly arse-kicking we’d received the day before. 

Gruin was by far the worst. I’d been injured badly, a stab wound right in my leg and more than one bone cracked, but my Heroic blood was already starting to ease the pain and knit things back together. Jeeves had more medical experience than most of us, and by his estimate I did more healing in that single day of rest than most patients managed in a week without strain.

Which, mind, did not leave me fully recovered, or even close. I’d probably suffered enough damage to keep a normal man down for months at least, and I was hardly recuperating in ideal conditions. Vara was less hurt, but also replenishing her strength slower. The main benefit she got from the Heroic blood on a physical level was that she didn’t seem to be succumbing to infection like a normal woman would. Either that, or she was just lucky enough to be gouged by a remarkably clean-clawed gargoyle.

Il’vanja’s wounds were the least concerning, as usual. Aelfs are no sturdier than humans, but she was so damned quick that apparently even the blows I’d thought had landed for sure were mere glancing hits. No. Quick wasn’t the word for it, she just had a way of moving, an economy to each twitch of her limbs and turn of her trunk. Like trying to hit a leaf dancing in the wind.

Granted, the Upiór had managed it, clipping her more than once. She might well have taken longer to overcome her wounds than Vara.

Dubin, ironically, was basically unscratched. Even Jeeves was more hurt than him, a symptom of fighting far less conservatively than a squishy human should have, I reckoned. We were all fortunately ready to set off by dawn, though far from eager for it. Vara and I took point as we headed out through the hole we’d punched in the fort, Thaumaturgy readied to turn anything we caught moving towards us into a large puddle of something that used to be a creature we caught moving towards us. 

It didn’t come to that, though. Which was a good thing in and of itself—I was bloody exhausted.

This exhaustion was only the beginning of things. We still had our trek back along the tortured landscape to the lair of the first Upiór, and this time we had to carry Gruin as we went.

Had to carry Gruin, and smelled of blood. Not a good combination in our weakened state. We had no more trouble from gargoyles, fortunately, but found our fair share of ghuls and other nasties throwing themselves at us with all the eagerness of drunkards seeing a group of legged wineskins walking past. It wasn’t hard fighting, but it was a lot of fighting. All of it back to back, with the breaks in-between only serving to let wounds and fatigue worsen rather than diminish. That sort of struggle wears you down more than any single deathmatch against near-equals ever could.

Still, we were lucky enough. No extra injuries, no deaths. Gruin remained stable as we went and by the time we were in sight of the first Upiór’s castle, it looked as if we were in the clear. I still felt a knot in my stomach as we approached it. One Upiór had almost killed the lot of us while we were fresh and healthy, now we’d be marching towards another. What if we entered the fort to find Morlo dead and an ambush waiting for us?

Well then we’d die, I reckoned. It took all of my willpower not to bolt before we reached the place, then we were inside the frosty halls and making our way deeper into the same room the Upiór had first received us. To my pleasant surprise, Morlo was still there. Unhurt, but angry as ever and scowling as we entered.

“Took you long enough,” he snapped, then peered at the group with an assessing gaze. “Oh, and the Grynkori’s dead. Nice going, idiots.”

“He is not dead,” Il’vanja corrected. “But badly wounded.”

Morlo took his own look at the Grynkori, and I felt a flood of magic on the air as he did something to presumably heighten his odds of living, but once that was finished the Thaumaturge didn’t even spare him another glance. I thought that was a bit cunty, personally.

“Anyone else?” he asked, looking around and zeroing right in on Vara. “How’d you get hurt?” he snapped, seeming more irritated at his apprentice than he was concerned for her. Even Vara was cowed by that.

Treatment followed quickly, which was comforting because the remaining Upiór had started ogling our wounds like especially juicy steaks. I was glad to still be wearing my armour, battered as it was starting to get, and kept my sword ready. Even now my limbs were heavy with fatigue though.

Fortunately, I could also tell that I was not the only one standing on-guard and ready to be attacked. 

Dubin looked like he’d already sweated half his body weight out, while Jeeves was beside me protectively. Il’vanja looked as calm as ever, but I knew I’d not pick up anything odd in her body language if she was ready to run me through.

“Alright, you’re as healed as you’re going to get.” Once again, Morlo managed to sound angry with Vara for having such destructible bodily tissues. She met the contempt with more of her own this time, but didn’t go so far as to verbally challenge the mad Thaumaturge. She’d probably have gotten away with it if she had, his focus was on the Upiór. “We had a deal.”

“We did.” The Upiór turned to me with that catlike stare. I couldn’t bring myself to try and play her by acting charmed anymore, not now. I was too exhausted, too hurt, and too thoroughly familiar with the real face of her kind.

“No,” Morlo cut in. “You’re dealing with me.” I was surprised when he stepped in-between himself and the Upiór, and more surprised when the air shivered. He didn’t unveil his real power so often; all that bluster, all the ranting, it was a smokescreen, a cover. The eccentric madman hid the ancient Hero, and she was peeking out from beneath the disguise now. The very room around us seemed scared of her.

The Upiór was less scared, but still unnerved. I could practically see the gears turning in her mind as she slowly decided whether or not this was a fight worth picking. Inevitably, she decided not. 

“Okay,” she said at last, giving no indication of backing down through posture or stance but clearly de-escalating. “Fine, we had a deal. I will fulfill my end of the bargain.”

Morlo didn’t let up the pressure, just kept staring and throbbing with power. The tension only eased when the Upiór started talking again, this time with detailed instructions. 

***

I was actually so eager to get out of her presence that I considered just leaving the castle then and there, but I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Even I was wounded, and it would’ve been risky enough if I were travelling alone. With the whole group in its current condition, we were pinned down with our own wounds. 

As before, Gruin was by far the worst. He still hadn’t regained consciousness, and I found myself starting to truly worry for him. The Grynkori hadn’t been this hurt before, I thought, and even his endurance must have had some limit. 

“Will he live?” I found myself asking Morlo. I was surprised by the fear in my own voice. Gruin was an arsehole, sure, but he was…dear god, he was my oldest friend. Maybe Vara counted as an older one, but I wasn’t quite sure what her and my relationship was. Complicated, that’s what. Not a friendship, not just that at least. 

And I’d actually spent about as much time with Gruin as I had her, thanks to that period we spent travelling together. 

“I don’t know,” Morlo said after a moment. His words felt like a knife twisted into my guts.

“How can you not know?” I hissed. “I’ve seen you set entire formations on fire, you can’t heal one Grynkori?”

“The Grynkori are hard to work magic on,” he replied evenly. “And even if they were not, it’s much easier to break something than to mend it.”

Something about that sounded right to me, natural. I’d done enough magic myself that I could understand it intellectually as well as intuitively. Harder to mend than break. Story of the world, right there.

Fortunately, Morlo could do more than nothing for the Grynkori. In his words it was little more than aiding Gruin’s own healing processes, but within the night I’d already noticed a marked improvement. My own body was doing better too, though that damned leg still dragged when I moved it and felt like it had no more than a tenth of its usual strength.

I had no right to complain of course, I was coming out of that smelling like roses compared to everyone else. A half-week of hard travel and I’d already mended as much as most men would have from a fortnight of bedrest. One more day of actual bedrest and I felt as though my wounds had been mending themselves for over a month.

Gruin still hadn’t woken up by then. I’d known him to be unconscious for just as long as this and still emerge from his slumber, but I was still starting to worry. Vara came and set herself down beside me, seeming to read my mind in that way she had.

“He’ll live.”

“How can you know that?” I snapped, amusingly enough having the exact opposite reaction to her saying the exact opposite of what Morlo had. I wanted certainty, even when I knew there was none, and would get angry if denied it, but don’t you dare offer me some anyway! 

We departed only somewhat reluctantly once it became clear Gruin wouldn’t be waking up soon, with Morlo, as usual, being the one to urge the rest of us onwards. Dubin was by far the hardest to convince, he was now the last of the Arvharest trainees. He didn’t argue as much as just struggle to respond, eyes unfocused and staring nowhere, body sluggish and lagging behind everything around him. I felt like I was watching a corpse. 

Morlo was less sympathetic about this than most of the rest of us, however. 

It took a reminder to Dubin that he was still within an Upiór’s lair to get him moving along with the rest of us, the fear of it striking fortunately close to home on account of what exactly it was that had left him so traumatised. Then we were off for the tomb of Vory the Flamesmith. Rest assured, it was somehow more dangerous than the places we’d already been marching off to. 

But that’s a story for later. My hands are getting tired, and I have to head off to give some fucking speech now.