"Pwah—!"
Bursting up from the lake, Shapiro finally resurfaced, drenched from head to toe, his hair and clothes soaked and clinging to him. He looked absolutely pathetic—like a stray dog crawling out of a swamp.
He hadn't really suffered any serious injuries; as a warlock, he naturally knew how to protect himself with magic, and combined with some clever ways to dissipate force, he was able to tank the Duergar's giant hammers—even if they landed a few more hits, he'd still be fine.
But that didn't change the fact he'd been knocked straight into the water. He'd wanted to show off for Charles, to steal the spotlight, but all he'd managed was to fall on his face—well, in this case, his butt.
Seething with frustration, he muttered an incantation, leapt back onto the boat, and geared up to dive back into the action—only to be greeted by a chilling scene. The Duergar were already dealt with—dead, escaped, or lined up on the bow with their hands raised, no fight left in them.
There was no chance to save face in this battle.
Worse, he was about to get chewed out. Charles approached, face a mask of anger. "Shapiro! Why did you ignore my orders?"
"You think you're some sort of hero? Taking on a hundred spellcasters solo? Little reckless, don't you think?"
Shapiro's face went red as a beet. He clenched his jaw, searching for a comeback, but anything he said at this point would sound like lame excuses and only make him look more pathetic.
He looked down at his feet. Charles wasn't done: "This time, you were lucky—it was only a dunk in the lake and you could get back up. But what about next time? We're going after your ancestor soon. Are you planning to charge in and get yourself killed then too?"
In the background, Willo, Adele, and the others drew closer, watching the reprimand and ready to step in and calm things down.
On the other boat, Hanni peeked over and thought, Weren't you the one egging him on from behind before? Now you're blaming it all on his recklessness? What a sly fox...
She kept those thoughts to herself as Charles drilled Shapiro with his gaze. "I want to hear you say it right now, Shapiro. Are you ever going to pull a stunt like this again? Are you going off on your own again without orders?"
Shapiro ground his teeth, his neck flushing until veins bulged and he looked fit to explode.
But in the end, he looked down and admitted in a low voice, "I was reckless. It won't happen again."
The corners of Charles's mouth twitched upward; he let out a long breath. Instantly, his anger melted away, and his tone grew soft and gentle, "I'm not angry for the heck of it—you have people who depend on you. What would I tell your sister, or Lisa, if something happened to you?"
"You're the last family they have. For them, if nothing else, you can't keep risking your life like this, okay?"
At the mention of Malena and Lisa, Shapiro's anger faded; he took a deep breath and spoke sincerely, "Sorry, brother-in-law. I mean—sorry, Priest, for worrying you."
Embarrassed by his own slip, he turned away. Charles shot him a startled look, coughed, and let it slide. "Just remember the lesson. Go take a bath and dry off before you catch a cold."
Shapiro trudged back to his own boat. Meanwhile, Hattie and Theresa hopped aboard the Duergar ship, with Theresa keeping "Dawn" shining over the captives, making them squint and cry in the harsh light.
Charles, face stern, signaled for Sophia to give him a "Comprehend Languages" buff, then spoke in Undercommon, "We're not going to hurt any captives—as long as you cooperate."
"Who's in charge? Tell me what this ship's about."
The Duergar looked at each other, then a younger one stepped forward. "Captain's dead—killed by you. First mate jumped overboard, boatswain too. I'm just a rower. Ship runs cargo most of the time, but this run the cargo was top-secret. Not even I know what it is."
"But I know where it's stored. If you want, follow me."
Charles nodded, tossing him ten gold to sweeten the deal. The other Duergar looked on in envy, but it was too late for them.
The young Duergar led Charles below deck, a musty, moldy smell filling the air as they moved deeper into the ship.
They stopped at the hold beneath the bow—there, a thick lock barred a set of doors. The young Duergar stood respectfully aside. "Here it is, but we've never seen what's inside."
Charles didn't bother with the lock. He hefted his twin-bladed polearm and hacked the doors apart in one mighty blow, the noise making the Duergar flinch.
With the way clear, they stepped into the dim hold. Sturdy wooden crates were stacked up, each one hefty and sealed tight. Charles had the Duergar haul out a few and crack them open.
Inside: sleek plate armor, clearly designed for women, with the chest and other sections specifically tailored.
Charles's brow creased.
What kind of power needs so much custom-designed women's plate armor?
Was this for some Hellish race with a female warrior tradition?
Dark Elves? But that didn't make sense—there aren't enough of them, and their builds are petite. Plus, they usually make their own enchanted armor.
And Dark Elves and Duergar hate each other. No way they'd buy in bulk from them.
Deep Gnomes? No, the sizes don't fit—these were clearly built for women about 5'7" tall. Gnomes barely come up to 4', so these would hang off them.
As for other, weaker, civilized races in the Underdark—Troglodytes, Orogs—they'd never have the wealth to place an order for this much premium plate armor...
Was this shipment bound for the surface world?
That made sense...
He mulled it over, then shook his head, clearing the thought.
Didn't matter now. Whoever these suits were meant for, they were spoils of war now—and belonged to him!
With top-tier dwarven craftsmanship and such excellent fit, these would be perfect for outfitting his battle nuns!
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