The Duty (Play to Live: Book # 3) by D. Rus

own chest in disgust.
    I listened to the ex-granny's story in silence. I didn't know what to say that could make her feel better. Actually, she probably didn't want my sympathy. She just needed to get it off her chest.
    By then, Zena had already gotten a grip. "I think that we should be about thirty or forty now, each of us, in terms of hormones and physiology. And the process isn't finished yet—quite simply because we don't want it to. When you've one foot in the grave and been offered a cup of immortality potion and another of eternal youth—it's not easy to stop drinking it, you know."
    She fell silent. I cautiously squeezed her tiny paw. "Zena. I'm pretty sure we'll work something out. Some kind of magic or a race-changing artifact."
    She chuckled, then sniffed her slightly reddened nose. "See if I care," she waved my suggestion away. "Life is good as it is. Goblins aren't that awful, after all. I've got this Mountain King army captain making advances to me now. The other day he brought me a bowlful of Purple Slugs—horribly expensive, mind you, ten gold apiece. You should have seen them all squeaky and squirmy, belching defensive slime, while he was pushing that delicacy on me—he literally grabbed them with his fingers and tried to shove them down my mouth, poor slob."
    Those last words sounded affectionate rather than rude. It looked like in another couple of years there would be no xenophobes left in AlterWorld. Personally, I had already stopped reacting to any amounts of green or blue-skinned creatures, pointy Elven ears, disproportionally huge eyes or waggly tails.
    "That's the cave!" Whizz called out in front. Always the rogue, she'd been scanning the area since the moment I gave her the location coordinates.
    We dismounted. The girls bared their swords and began inspecting the spot, searching for eventual dangers threatening their employer.
    I concentrated on my own perceptions. "Is it only me or do you feel the earth shake, too?"
    Bomba's face darkened, blushing. "I thought it was the alcocream."
    "You're right, dude," Freckles nodded. "Like, I can barely stand on my feet!"
    I shrugged, but seeing as we were already there it was a bit late to cancel the whole thing. "Okay, you wait here. I'll keep you posted."
    I ducked, taking the uneven steps down into the cave. The earth shook harder with my every step. By the time I reached the end of the stairs, I had to hold on to the walls to stay on my feet.
    The cave was barely lit. Grym sat at the table, looking old and drawn—older than when I'd first met him. Mouthing curses, he scribbled something on a piece of yellowed parchment, his other hand covering the candle stump from the sand crumbling overhead.
    "Grym?" I asked softly.
    The hermit raised his head, squinting his red rheumy eyes. "Ah! There he is!" he exclaimed happily, his glare boiling with a mixture of delight and undiluted hatred. I backed off.
    He reached behind his back, feeling for the broom. Holding it like a baseball bat, he went for me. "What's that mess you left in the dungeon? What's with all the shaking?—take that! All the rumbling—take some more! All the wailing—here's a whack on the ass for you!"
    He ran after me with the broom in circles, stumbling and complaining, "I can't sleep! I can't eat! I can't work!"
    Finally out of breath, he stopped by the wall next to the secret door that led down into the dungeons. Seeing it, he joyfully shouted a command unlocking the passage.
    "Down there, now!" he pointed a gnarly finger into the darkness. "And don't you come back up until you've sorted it all out!"
    In two unexpectedly youthful leaps he cornered me, his broom steering my back toward the door. One final kick, then the door clanged close, surrounding me with silence. Now I could finally think straight.
    Who would have thought! A scraggy old fart—and he had more vigor and panache than the entire Royal cavalry! Very well, so I had to look into it now.
    I walked along with a seaman's