by Rachel Ford
“A friend of yours?” Ceinwen asked, and her tone made it clear she wasn’t impressed.
“How does that drunk know you, Sir Jack?” Er’c asked.
But it was Migli who supplied the answer. “Arath, my old friend: how long it has been since we last parted ways.”
Jack blinked. He did recognize the other man. He was Arath, a ranger he’d met in the opening level, along with Migli. Arath had helped them escape an army of Iaxiabor’s stooges, along with a warrior named Sir Lenkins, and on old man called Eorl. Eorl had died, and there hadn’t seemed to be any hope for Lenkins or Arath either last he looked.
Except, obviously the ranger had lived through the ordeal. Now, he blundered over, knocking into fellow revelers as he went. “Sir Jack – I never thought I’d see you again. And Migli, you little bastard: it’s good to see you too.”
Arath wrapped them each in a hug. A host of odors assailed Jack’s nostrils – stale ale, and a staler body being chief among them. Then, he doffed an imaginary hat in Ceinwen’s direction. She raised an eyebrow icily. He didn’t seem to notice. He was too busy moving on to Er’c, who he regarded in frank surprise for a long moment. “An orc? Oh, Jack: what hard times are these you’ve fallen on, my friend? It’s clear now, clear as ever – I shouldn’t have left you. You’ve need of my guidance.”
Arath nodded drunkenly at his own point, and Ceinwen sighed, repeating, “A friend of yours?”
“Uh…kind of. He saved my life.”
“Aye, that I did. Him, and Migli, and poor Lenkins too.”
“Where is Lenkins now?” Jack threw a glance around the bar looking for the warrior. “Is he here?”
“No. No, they took him: hauled him off and handed him over to that demon. He’s gathering heroes, Jack, for some dark spell. Great heroes. That’s why I ran. It’s bad enough they have Lenkins. Who knows what he could do with me.”
“Wait, you mean you ran, and let Kalbidor just take Lenkins away?”
“It wasn’t like that, Jack. I didn’t do it for me. I did it for mankind.”
Ceinwen scoffed. “A coward’s tale if ever I heard one.”
Arath turned a scowl her way. “You would regret those words, if you were not so fair a lady.”
“Don’t let that stop you…”
He, though, shook his head. “No. No, I can’t harm a lady. It goes against my code. A man must have a code to live by.”
“One that includes abandoning his friends, I guess,” she said.
Arath ignored her, turning back to Jack. “But this is good news, Jack: your presence means we can find Lenkins, and save him.”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t understand. What are you even doing here, Arath?”
He shrugged. “Hiding, from Kalbidor. So he couldn’t get his hands on me too.”
“Like a coward,” Ceinwen said.
“For the sake of all mankind,” he corrected. “And elf-kind too.”
“You should join our merry band,” Migli suggested, “and together we can rescue Lenkins and all the others.”
Jack scowled at the dwarf. It was bad enough to have one coward on his team. He didn’t need a second. Three options floated through his thoughts:
Of course, Arath. Your skill and valor will be a welcome addition to our little band.
Great, just what I want: a coward.
And,
I’ll rescue him myself. I don’t need you.
This time, Jack picked the third option, and Arath clapped him on the back. “Ah, such courage and derring-do. You’ll be a worthy addition to my team, Jack.”
Jack frowned. “Your team?”
The other man nodded. “Exactly. Welcome aboard.”
Jack started to argue with him, but Migli cut in with congratulations – to Jack. “What a team we’ll make.”
“We’ll leave at dawn,” Arath decided. Then, he paused. “Actually, I may need to sleep this ale off. We’ll leave at noon. Meet me in the square, my valiant comrades, at noon.”
Jack found he had three more options.
No. We need to set out early. We’ll meet at dawn.
[Agree to work with Arath] Fine. Noon it is.
And,
[Lie to Arath] Sure, Arath. We’ll be there at noon. You can count on it.
Jack chose the third option again, and Arath nodded drunkenly. “Good. Excellent. Well, I better get to my room while I can still walk. I’ll see you all tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Then he stumbled past the table, and off to parts unknown – presumably, whatever rat infested hole he occupied at the moment. Jack shook his head. His initial meeting with the man had certainly not prepared him for this encounter.
Ceinwen, meanwhile, leaned in. “We’re not really going to meet him tomorrow, are we?”
Jack could choose to respond with one of two options:
[Join Arath] I’m sure he’s better than this when sober. We’ll wait until noon.
And,
[Leave Arath] No. We’ll leave here at dawn, and leave him waiting in the square. If he even remembers this conversation tomorrow.
Again, he chose the last option, and Ceinwen nodded. “Good. This is mighty work you are about, Jack. We cannot let a drunken vagabond get in our way.”
“I am sorry we had to lie to him,” Er’c added, “but I concur with your decision, Sir Jack. Mister Arath seems not up to the task at hand.”
Migli said nothing. He just kept drinking, like the conversation had gotten away from him somewhere in his cups.
Jack and the elf talked of other things as the night wore on, and even Er’c opened up a bit more. He was shy around the pretty woman, that was clear. But her frank manner seemed to ease through his discomfort.
Migli was the first to excuse himself. “Well, it’s been a long night, and it seems there’s no fun to be had here. I think I should go and find it myself.”
Jack rolled his eyes. He knew that Migli’s idea of fun involved a beautiful woman with terrible taste in men, or dwarves more accurately. “Just remember the rendezvous.”
The dwarf nodded. “Aye, dawn. Where are we meeting?”
“There’s a fork in the road, just north of town. Let’s meet there,” Ceinwen said.
“Right. Well, I’ll see you then,” the dwarf said, and stumbled toward the door.
“I should turn in,” Er’c declared. “It’s been a long day.”
“Do you have a room?” Jack wondered.
The young man nodded. “I spoke to the publican. I’ve got a room here.”
“I’m at the Grey Mongoose, west of here,” Ceinwen said. “But I need to collect a few supplies before we set out anyway. So I should get moving, before there’s nothing left open. I will see you tomorrow. Godspeed to you all, and may the Fortunes watch over us.”
“Right,” Jack said, “the Fortunes.” It was bad enough trying to keep up with his grandmother’s panoply of saints without learning videogame ones too. She had saints to call upon for every situation. Lost job? Saint Cajetan. Lost keys? Saint Anthony. Lost loved ones? Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton. He guessed Ceinwen’s Fortunes were something like that: one for battle, and for love, one for treasures found, and one for children born. There was probably a whole slew of them, handling every manner of mortal affair.
Jack only allocated a certain amount of internal storage for that kind of thing, and at the moment, it was mostly full. So he didn’t inquire further.
Ceinwen took her leave, and Er’c headed off to bed. Jack found himself all alone at the table. He figured he needed to secure a room of his own. But he still had half a mug of ale left. He’d finish that first.
Which he did, taking his time and savoring the smokey, riotous atmosphere. It was like most parties he’d ever attended: full of drink, and people having a good time, while he watched from a corner. Indeed, it was so reminiscent, he felt a little gladder of heart, like some kind of festive air had transferred over from the mere association.
He got up a little happier than he
’d entered the inn. He’d found his new companion, and advanced his quest. He’d gotten that much closer to getting out of the game. All in all, it was a good day.
He sought out the publican – which proved an easy task. The man appeared behind him. “Traveler?”
Jack spun around. He was quite certain, this time, that the game had spawned the other man behind him. He’d taken a good look around before he stepped out of his seat; and no one could hustle over that fast. “Ah,” he said, “I’m in need of a room.”
“Of course. We have several available. But first, sir: your bill.”
A thought flashed through Jack’s mind:
You owe four hundred and eighty-three gold.
He blinked. “Wait, how do I owe that much? How can fish and chips possibly cost almost five hundred gold?”
The publican raised an eyebrow. “Your meal and drink cost forty-two gold pieces, as you would see if you would examine your bill.”
Jack glanced down at the slip of paper. He saw line items for his meal, and every one else’s. Then, at the bottom, he saw a line that read,
Arath’s tab…265
He blinked. “Why am I paying for everyone?”
The publican glanced around. “They were your party, weren’t they?”
“Well, sure, but…”
“And they’re not here anymore, are they?”
“Well, no, but…”
“And I need to be paid, don’t I?”
Jack scowled at the other man. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? And why the heather is Arath’s tab on here? And how in God’s name did he spend two hundred and sixty-five gold?”
“He’s been running the tab all day. He told me he was expecting someone, and to put it on their tab.”
“Well it wasn’t me,” Jack protested. “I had no idea he was going to be here.”
The publican made a skeptical noise in the back of his throat. “And yet, he knew you by name, and joined you at your table. I witnessed the entire thing. And I heard you all say you’d be setting out together tomorrow at noon.”
“I am telling you, he set me up. I had no idea he was going to be here. And he’s not really going with us.”
“That sounds like a matter for you to take up with him.”
“No, that’s a matter for you to take up with him. I am not paying.”
“Then I will call the constable, and you can room the night in prison.”
Jack scowled at him, but in a minute he reached into his purse. The man was a thief and a blackguard, but it wasn’t worth derailing the main quest over.
Then, Jack froze. He felt three, solitary coins among the fabric folds. “Oh bother.”
Chapter Four
The guards came and hauled Jack away in irons, to the fortress in the center of the city. Passersby shook their heads at him. One or two chucked old vegetables his way.
The guards were beyond any reason. They didn’t accept that Jack had forgotten he had no coin. They didn’t accept his promise to pay it off, or his plea that he could borrow money from his friends. “Let them bail you out tomorrow, then.”
“How will they know where I am?”
“They’ll figure it out. Or they’ll leave you to rot, and find better friends.”
They processed him quickly. The keeper of the jail sighed. “We’re at full capacity.”
“He tried to swindle the publican at the Golem.”
The keeper sighed again, and referenced a book. The pages were filled with cell numbers and prisoner names. “Put him in cell twenty,” he said after a space.
“With the giant?”
The keeper shrugged. “It’s that, or let him walk.”
“I vote let me walk,” Jack said. “You don’t want this kind of trouble, right?”
The guard scowled at him. “It won’t be trouble for me. It’ll be trouble for you. The man’s a murderer.”
Jack gulped. “Oh, well, then definitely let me walk.”
But the guard didn’t. He stripped Jack of his weapons and armor, and all his goods – and, mercifully, the irons too. Then he hauled him to a huge prison cell. It stood a story and a half tall, and had a great door twice as tall as a man. A large figure dressed in velvet, now soiled and stained, slumped against the far wall.
Jack gulped and planted his heels on the stone floor. “Listen,” he said, “don’t do this. I’m telling you, give me until morning; I’ll get the gold.”
But again, the guards would hear no reason. They shoved Jack brusquely into the cell, and slammed the great door after him.
Then, the escort tromped off, their footsteps ringing off the dungeon floor. Jack stood in the doorway, staring at the slumped figure.
He was as tall and wide as two men at least, with massive hands and massive feet, and a head half as big as Jack himself. Long forgotten fairytales ran through his mind, about men called Jack and giants.
There was the titular Jack from Jack and the Beanstalk, who climbed a magical beanstalk ladder and slew an evil giant in a sky realm. Fe-fi-fo-fum, and all that. Then there was the cunning Jack the Giant Killer, who spent his time putting down giants with pickaxes, blades and ropes. Jack – Jack Owens – was pretty sure he remembered some variant of fee-fi-fo-fum in that story, too. Giants, it seemed didn’t have extensive vocabularies, whether they hailed from Cornish folklore or English fairytales. Or German ones, for that matter, like the Jack of The Brave Little Tailor. Who was, admittedly, more a lucky fool than an actual hero; his giant slaying consisted of provoking a fight to the death between the giants he claimed to slaughter.
Jack decided the German story didn’t apply to him. He was more like the mighty heroes who climbed beanstalks and built clever contraptions to kill giants, than a lucky fool who bungled his way to success.
Still, there was ample precedent historically for Jacks killing giants. And for a long moment, he wondered if this is what the game meant him to do.
Then, he decided it couldn’t be the case. The developers couldn’t have anticipated that he’d be named Jack, and they wouldn’t have built an entire level around one beta tester’s name, anyway.
So maybe he wasn’t supposed to kill the giant. He cleared his throat. “Hello.”
The giant rolled over – and a great, terrible sound he made as he did it, too. A sound of crunching and grinding as he crushed little things underneath his bulk. He wasn’t an ugly creature, exactly. He sported very humanlike features, all trim and handsome in their own way.
But – giant. His eyes were as big as Jack’s hand, which despite being a very fine blue made them seem horrible. His golden hair was well-trimmed and neat, but each strand was as thick as a blade of grass.
All in all, despite a perfectly normal, even handsome, set of features, the giant terrified Jack.
Jack, on the other hand, barely seemed to interest the giant. “What are you doing here?”
He tried to find his voice, and struggled for a moment. But then it came out. “I’m not supposed to be here. This is a mistake.”
The giant snorted. “I’m sure it is. And what are they saying – mistakenly – that you’ve done?”
Jack considered lying. He considered claiming that he’d killed men, or slain giants. But that was a little too much like The Brave Little Tailor to sit well with him. He was Jack Owens. He didn’t need vainglory to survive. He would survive on his own. So he said, “They’re calling it theft, but it was a mistake.”
Now, he had the giant’s attention. The other man rolled onto his haunches and frowned deeply. “A thief? They’ve put an honest man in a cell with a thief?”
Jack snorted. “An honest man? You’re a murderer. They told me so.”
The giant drew back his head, as if affronted by the remark. “I am Karag, a humble seller of wines. I am no more a murderer than I am a mermaid.”
Jack ignored the strange imagery. “Yeah, well, apparently we’re roommates now. Until they hang you, anyway.”
“Oh, I won’t be hanged.
I fully expect a pardon when they realize they have the wrong man.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Great. I’m sure that’ll happen. Anyway, I need to get some sleep. My friends are going to be here in the morning to bail me out.”
Karag loosed a great, thunderous bellow of amusement, saying, “I’m sure that will happen.”
Jack frowned at him. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing at all. But I should warn you: if I find your hand in my pockets tonight, or ever, you will not live to see the morning sun.”
“I thought you said you weren’t a murderer?”
“I’m not. I’m a simple cobbler.”
“Cobbler? I thought you were a wine merchant?”
The giant paused half a beat, then smiled. “Of course. I am a man of many talents.”
“Including killing, apparently.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t presume to call myself a talent at that. But a man is allowed to defend his person and his property, is he not?”
Jack rolled his eyes again. “Yeah, whatever. I’m not a pickpocket.”
“And I’m not a murderer.”
“I’m really not a pickpocket.”
Karag smiled. “And I’m really not a murderer. So we should get on just fine, shouldn’t we?”
Jack had a hard time getting to sleep. And no wonder: he was sharing a cell with a murderer. He had no weapons, and no armor. And though the guards had likewise disarmed Karag, he was still a giant, with a giant’s strength at his disposal.
For his part, though, Karag slept with ease, snoring away against the far wall. Jack closed his eyes, and tossed and turned in the dirty hay that made up his bed. He tried to ignore the odors of sweat and worse things that permeated the straw, and the stale prison air. He wondered what kind of madmen and women would devote that much effort to realism. He understood recreating fine wine and good food and even terrible ale. It all added to the atmosphere. But the smell of armpit sweat and old urine?
In the end, he could only conclude that they must be lunatics. And, then, he fell asleep.
He didn’t stay asleep for long, though. It seemed he’d only just laid down to rest when the whine of metal bending most unwillingly roused him.