by David Petrie
“Who’s there?”
The shape moved closer, becoming more recognizable as a tall man in a heavy cloak. His hood was pulled down to hide his face. He lumbered toward her, staggering as if drunk, his middle swaying with each step.
“You three them? The ones who pissed off the clerk inside asking about Rend.” The man’s voice came out gruff but labored, like he was putting in effort to sound tough. There was something familiar about it. On top of that, his head seemed… small.
“That’s us. Are you the one who can get us set up with a House.” Ginger stepped forward.
“That’s me, the name’s Finn.” He pointed to himself with a rather short arm for someone of his stature. “My, ah, brother sent me to get things sorted.”
“Okay, how do we do this?” Farn raised an eyebrow as Finn’s face came into view, the mousey features of a jerobin hiding under the hood.
“Same as inside.” The oversized jerobin shifted in an unnatural way, like he was trying to reach a pocket inside the cloak but couldn’t quite find it. A quiet squeak came from his stomach; then finally, he pulled out a ratty looking book and dropped it open on top of a barrel. Three pieces of aged paper lay folded inside.
“These forms were salvaged from Rend by my grandfather just after it fell. Each of you got to put your hand on them and say what I say.”
Kira wasted no time, snatching a sheet off the barrel slapping it against the wall so she could press her hand against it. The word Archmage stained the paper in a heavy, gothic font that didn’t match the forms inside the registry.
Ginger pointed a finger at Finn and swept it up and down. “So are we just going to ignore the fact that this guy is obviously three jerobin in one cloak standing on each other’s shoulders?”
Finn winced, then immediately went on the offensive, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a prime physical specimen of jerobin strength. You don’t see me accusing you of anything.”
“Yeah,” a second voice said from around where Finn’s knees would be.
Ginger rubbed at the bridge of her nose, then dropped her hand back down to her side limply. “This is not how I envisioned becoming the Lady of my new and glamorous House.”
“Too bad, your one of us, and this is how we do things.” Kira wiggled impatiently. “Now git your hand on that paper. I want to be an Archmage.”
“Yeah, we’re not exactly glamorous,” Farn added.
“I should have expected this when it threw in with a bunch of dungeon rats.” Ginger gave in, taking a form from the book and slapping it against Kira’s back with her palm.
“Hey!”
“Deal with it. That wall looks filthy.”
Farn chuckled at her housemates, a warm feeling filling her chest as she took the last form and pressed it against Ginger’s back, the words First Knight appearing across the paper.
“Repeat after me.” Finn staggered closer. “I, state your name, will call Rend my home.”
Farn felt Ginger take in a breath beneath her hand, and together, the three of them declared their homeland.
The moment the last word left Farn’s mouth, her hand tingled, and ink spread across the paper, surrounding her fingers with a pattern of intricate line work. It was beautiful, like lace and embroidery.
“Done.” Finn picked up the old book from the barrel and held out his hand. “Give me your forms. I’ll file them in with everyone else’s inside.”
“That’s it?” Farn handed hers over.
“Almost. You still need to choose a name and an emblem.” Finn fished around within his cloak again until a small wooden box fell out the bottom. His face froze as a small arm reached out from the underneath to pick up the item. The box disappeared again only to reappear poking out of his collar, held up by another rodent-like hand. He took it without acknowledging that there was anything out of the ordinary. “Here, this is your ring box. It will always have a ring inside that you can give to a new member whenever you open it.”
“Thanks.” Ginger took the item as Lady of the house.
“You all should be able to figure the rest out on your own.” Finn started to bow but almost fell over. “Best of luck with your new home in Rend. I’m sure the fallen city will give your House a warm welcome.”
“If it doesn’t kill them first,” a voice mumbled from where Finn’s stomach would be, followed by a sudden movement under the cloak. “Ouch, watch where you’re kicking.”
Finn cleared his throat.
“Yes, anyway. If anyone asks who helped you tonight, I was never here.” The tall jerobin stepped away, supporting himself with one hand against the stack of barrels as he went.
Ginger shook her head at the awkward form, then turned her attention to the box in her hand. A second later, her brow furrowed. “It doesn’t open.”
“Hey, this box doesn’t open!” Farn ran a few steps down the alley after the strange NPC.
Finn’s shape disappeared around a corner, but his voice traveled back.
“Of course not. I already told you, you need a name first!”
Chapter Eight
One year.
That was it.
The entirety of Corvin’s career as a Blade had added up to one year. Actually, it hadn’t even been that long. He was still a month shy. He certainly wasn’t anywhere near reaching high-level. No, he was level 77. Almost 78.
Nevertheless, here he was, bowing all polite like to Amelia, the Lady of the Winter Moon. Judging from the look in her eyes, she had intent to end him.
She inclined her head, then stepped down off her platform to join him on the floor. She was a reynard like he was, but somehow, the ears and tail made her look more like a wolf than a fox.
His heart raced as he suppressed a shiver that threatened to add a tremble to his hand.
Damn.
Badasses don’t shake.
Or sweat.
Yeah, they definitely don’t sweat this much.
Corvin wiped his forehead and backed up to give her room. Behind him, Max kicked over tables. Corvin cringed at the ruckus and decided not to look. Instead, he just assumed that Max had things under control. He hoped the same for Kegan since the Leaf had run from the tavern only moments before with the majority of Amelia’s house chasing him out the door.
They’ll both be fine, Corvin told himself. At least their levels are higher than mine. The thought brought him back to the fight ahead of him.
His palms started to sweat.
Amelia strafed to the side as if sizing him up. Her tail swished back and forth as she moved. She cracked a smile as she drew her sword, throwing its sheath to the floor. A dark mist wafted from its curved edge.
He didn’t recognize the weapon. It was longer than most swords, single-edged and lacking a hand guard. The saber was probably a contract item. The mist, some kind of poison or curse. He couldn’t let her scratch him.
“I’ve seen that stance before.” She pointed her sword at Corvin’s feet. “You’ve been taking lessons out there in the real. Kendo, if I’m right?” She had a way of forming words that somehow always kept the tips of her canine’s visible. Also, she was right.
He swallowed. “Ah, yeah. I started classes a few months back. I thought–”
“You thought it would give you an edge in-game?” she interrupted.
Corvin offered a weak nod, to which Amelia flicked her furry ears forward and clicked her tongue. “Can I give you some advice?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. “Training out there with an instructor is all well and good, but for most of us in here, we learned by doing.” She swiped her sword through the air between them. “The result is pretty much chaos. So discipline and form don’t mean much here.” She punctuated the statement with a wink. Then she lunged.
A blur of purple mist came at him, too fast to dodge. He thrust his sword forward, drawing it a few inches so that the steel peeked out from its sheath, enough to block. Impact radiated through his palms as a rush of wind blew past his face. Th
e air crackled, and his feet slid back a few inches. Whatever damage bonus she was getting from her stats must have been massive. He glanced at his wrist. She hadn’t even hit him, and he’d still taken a bit of damage from the impact to his hands.
She forced him back another foot, metal scraping against metal. Amelia’s eye shifted to the three inches of steel sticking out of his sheath that held her at bay.
“Nice block. You improvised.” She sounded surprised.
“So this is a lesson then?” Corvin grunted, partly to sound tough but also because it took everything he had to stay standing.
“I’d feel bad killing you without at least teaching you something first.” She shrugged, releasing some of the pressure held against him.
There it was. The moment he’d been waiting for. Corvin cracked a smile, a fang poking out the corner of his mouth.
“My turn.” He slammed his katana back into its sheath, trapping the edge of her saber in between as he twisted his weapon in an attempt to wrench hers out of her hands. She fumbled and jumped backward but didn’t lose her grip. He didn’t wait for her to recover, tearing his sword free from its scabbard and whipping the empty sheath at her head. Her sword swept up, splitting the black lacquered wood in half as part of it clubbed her in the eye.
Corvin heaved a breath, still hunched over in the follow-through from his throw. Obviously, he was aware that a few kendo classes wouldn’t beat someone like Amelia who had developed her own style of fighting through years of improvising. No, that would never work. He needed to fight like the rest of his friends. All instinct and attitude. A hot mess of chaos and skill. Lucky for him, he’d had a helpful Leaf to teach him. Well, teach might not have been the right word. Kegan had made a habit of shooting him with arrows every time he had his back turned. It was meant to troll him, but eventually, Corvin had gotten good at finding ways to fight back.
Amelia lowered the tip of her saber to the floor, a blank expression on her face. A crimson glow faded from her eyebrow. The hit hadn’t carried any real damage since it wasn’t from his sword, but still, it must have been unexpected. She let out a single mad laugh, her face hard to read. Then her mouth turned up into a terrifying smile.
“What level are you?”
His left ear twitched as a couple of gunshots went off behind him. Corvin debated on lying to keep her in the dark about what abilities he did or didn’t have but settled on the truth. “Seventy-seven.”
Amelia flipped her saber down and pushed its tip into the floor so she could rest one hand on the butt of its grip. “And here I was spouting off lessons on improvisation like an ass when you’ve got that part down.” Another few gunshots fired off from the other end of the room. She didn’t flinch.
Corvin suppressed the urge to look behind him. “I have strong friends. I had to catch up.”
“I see–” Amelia started as the far side of the tavern erupted into a storm of fire and bullets. Max’s fight had taken a turn for the worse.
Corvin held his ground, tilting his sword so that he could see the reflection of what was behind him.
Amelia rolled her eyes as her Cauldron Mage stumbled and lit half the place on fire. “Hey, Klaxon, I liked this place.”
The mage ignored her and refocused his spell on Max as the Fury threw his weight into a wall, smashing through it. Klaxon’s spell ran its course soon after, but not before guaranteeing that the tavern’s days as a purveyor of libations was over. The mage glanced at the Max shaped hole in the wall. Then he staggered over to the bar where he grabbed a bottle, uncorked it with his teeth, and took a drink. With his priorities in order, he walked out the door to find Max.
Corvin returned his attention to his opponent, who was again leaning on her sword as the building began to burn around them. She plucked the saber out of the wood and raised it in his direction.
“Ready for more?”
“Okay, maybe you can teach me something else.” Corvin took a shallow breath of smoky air as flames climbed the walls.
“Maybe.” Her eyes narrowed.
Corvin raised his katana just in time to deflect what came next. Steel sang as her saber slid to the side of his head close enough to give him a nose full of purple mist. It smelled like lilacs and death. A second later, she planted a foot in his gut. He crashed against the bar, knocking over an empty mug. It hit the floor with a hollow thrum. Amelia hooked the tip of her weapon through its handle mid-bounce and launched the mug in his direction. He ducked as it sailed overhead, smashing a bottle on the shelf behind the bar. She kept coming.
He kicked off the floor and threw his weight against the counter as her saber streaked through the space where he’d been. A few innocent bar stools took the hit, and he landed with his rear sitting on the counter like a ridiculous puppet hiding an arm up his backside. He blocked a blow aimed at his neck. The impact sent him tumbling behind the bar. She followed with a downward strike that split the countertop above as he hit the floor. He sprang up only to duck back down as her saber tore through the air, crashing through the contents of the bar’s shelves. Broken glass rained down on him along with a shower of booze. A tiny flame icon appeared on his wrist next to his name to represent a newfound weakness to fire. Corvin’s jaw tightened.
That’s not good.
He stayed down and searched the floor around him, finding an unbroken bottle. On the other side of the bar, Amelia’s footsteps strafed to the side, probably waiting for him to poke his head up so she could cut it off. Corvin focused on the sound, trying to pinpoint where she was. Then he jumped straight up on to the bar and threw the bottle.
She cut the projectile out of the air, shattering the vessel and successfully covering herself in bottom-shelf virtual rum. Corvin didn’t waste time, lunging at her with all his strength while she was distracted by her new flammable status. She dodged to the side, and his sword hit the floorboards with a solid thrust, lodging it in place. “Damn,” he cursed as he abandoned his weapon, unable to pull it back out without getting bit by her saber.
He scrambled away toward the flames at the other end of the tavern and yanked the remains of a wooden stool out of the fire by an unburnt leg. He lobbed it in Amelia’s direction, and it hit the floor with a burst of embers, forcing her back, away from his sword. He dashed for his weapon.
Then things got out of control.
Amelia pressed two fingers against the back of her saber and slid them down its length, adding a current of energy to the weapon. Corvin reached his katana as she wound up and shouted the word, "Shockwave!" Corvin didn’t bother pulling his sword free. Instead, he ducked down, bracing himself against his blade and shielding his head with one arm. A blast of power swept out from her in an arc that crashed into him and everything around him. His skin lit up crimson in a hurricane of tiny needles. Tables and chairs flipped behind him as embers exploded into the air.
Corvin didn’t have that attack yet. No, he wouldn’t unlock that skill for at least another year. A glance at his health, which told him that he couldn’t take another.
Amelia didn’t let up, her fingers already swiping down her saber for another. Corvin tore his katana from the floor and ran for cover, expecting another Shockwave only to be surprised when she yelled, "Phantom Strike," instead. He stopped dead in his tracks as an invisible blade streaked past his face like heatwaves through the air. It carved a path through the room until it smashed straight through the wall.
She twirled her saber and spun on her heel, throwing another three phantom blades as she danced to one side. Corvin dodged two but took the third to his leg. He fell to one knee with a grunt and touched two fingers to the back of his sword. When in Rome, he thought, as he whispered, "Phantom Strike." At least it was a skill he had. He swung, sending an invisible force through the air. It destroyed a chair but ran out of power a few feet shy of where Amelia stood, leaving her unharmed and laughing. The skill didn’t have the range to compete at her level.
He stabbed his katana into the floor and hoisted hims
elf back to his feet. His chest heaved as he coughed out a lung full of smoke. He hadn’t even landed a real hit. Of course, he still had his trump card—the basilisk eye hiding beneath the patch on his face. Though, any way he thought of it, using his eye felt like cheating.
Embers drifted through the air as the fire consumed everything, climbing each and every surface but the floor between them. Corvin’s health ticked down below twenty percent from the heat. Amelia glanced at her wrist, clearly realizing the danger they both were in. She didn’t run, or at least, she didn’t run for the door. She wasn’t finished with him yet. A wild yell erupted from her throat as she charged.
Corvin pushed off into a labored run to meet her. He drew back his sword, resigned to go down fighting. He had never expected to win, just to slow her down long enough for Max and Kegan to tip things in their favor. Then a loud crack came from above.
Panic flooded Corvin’s body as the ceiling’s support beam began to fall, its surface consumed by fire. He dropped to one knee and dug his sword into the floor to stop himself before he ran straight under it. Amelia kept running, her ears pinned back while her mouth cried out the same mad scream. Her eyes were trained on his head.
She doesn’t see it, he realized. She’s running right into danger. The beam was going to crush her. Dread bubbled in his chest. He didn’t want her dead. They needed information, and dead players didn’t talk. With that, he ripped off his eye patch and met her gaze.
Amelia’s face blanched white as she froze in mid-step, her body locked in place by Corvin’s yellow eye. A pulse of pain hummed through his skull just as the ceiling’s beam crashed into the floor in a mass of fire and debris. The sound was deafening. He lost track of Amelia, unsure if he’d been able to stop her in time to keep her from being flattened. Flames crept close as he fell back on his rear. He checked his health. Down to ten percent. The tiny flammable icon still hung above his name, taunting him. Then a saber slammed into the floor beside him.
“Get off your ass. We’ve overstayed our welcome.” Amelia reached her hand down, leaning on her sword. Apparently, she’d reevaluated their relationship.