Hero's Journey: A LitRPG Adventure (Beta Tester Book 2)

by Rachel Ford

  Still, Sv’nd had saved his bacon, so faux Scottish accent aside, he found himself inclined to like the other man. And the more Mountain Frost he downed, the more he liked him – him, and everyone else at the bar.

  He liked the barmaid, who had been about to throw him out on his ear. He liked the couples who seemed pleased with each other’s company, and he liked the couples who looked ready to break things off. He liked the sad singles and the happy singles, the bard at the far end of the establishment and the late diners.

  He liked life, and quiet villages, and dragon gold and dangerous quests. And he made no secret of any of it. On the contrary, he told anyone – everyone – who would listen.

  And Sv’nd listened. Sv’nd was a very attentive listener, and a most pleasing companion. He knew just when to laugh, and just when to smile; when to ask questions, and when to shut up and listen.

  And – most importantly – he knew when to buy the next round.

  Sv’nd bought two more rounds and laughed at every joke Jack told. Then he asked what turn of good fortune had brought such a courageous adventurer and brilliant conversationalist to their neck of the woods. Whereupon the now quite inebriated Jack shook his head darkly. “It was no good fortune, Sv’nd, I can tell you. Though I’m quite pleased to be here now, don’t mistake me. I don’t want you to think I mean anything else.”

  “Of course,” the other man assured him. “Perish the thought. But tell me, Jack: if it was not good fortune that brought you here, then what?”

  Here, he paused for a moment. He wondered if he should relate the details of his business to random strangers in bars. It might not be the most imprudent act of his life, but surely it wouldn’t rank up there among the cleverest things he’d done, either.

  Then Sv’nd said, “But your glass is getting low. Let me buy you another, my friend.”

  Jack raised an unsteady hand. “God, no. I can’t drink anymore.”

  “It’s a celebration,” the other man insisted. “You saved our town, Jack. It’s the least I can do. Let us toast to your victory again.”

  Jack woke up some time later in a wheelbarrow. It took him a few moments to get his bearings, but he did, sort of. He was outside, and it was late. That, he could tell by the chill in his bones and the darkness all around. He was surrounded by people. The torches and concerned murmurs told him that. And he was still very drunk. This last bit he attributed to the slightly uneven state of the world – which he rightly attributed to himself, and not the earth’s axis suddenly going off tilt.

  What he didn’t know was how he’d gotten here, or where Sv’nd had gone, or even what time of the night it was. More worryingly, he didn’t know why a crowd had gathered to gawk at him, much less with the kind of concerned expressions these folks were wearing.

  “Uh…hi,” he said. “Is something…wrong?”

  “Wrong?” someone repeated, scoffing.

  “Would you listen to him,” another said. “Pretending everything’s alright. We know what you’re up to, traveler. We know the danger you bring.”

  “Sorry,” Jack said, trying to push himself out of the wheelbarrow. “I don’t understand.” He seemed to be buried under a pile of – something. He took a moment to examine the something all around him. They were smooth, reddish pieces, cool to the touch. He lifted one up and stared at it, like it was some kind of strange, alien artifact. Then, his brain caught up to his eyeballs, and he recognized it as a shard of terra cotta pot. They were all shards of pots. He had no idea why he was buried in pieces of broken planters, and he might have gone on puzzling this new mystery if not for the rising murmurs of the crowd.

  “We understand just fine, even if you’re going to pretend you don’t,” someone said.

  “You’re picking fights with demons,” someone said.

  “I dinnae want any of that here. None of us do, ye ken?”

  “Aye, we’re a peaceful folk. We don’t meddle in anyone’s affairs, and no one meddles with us.”

  “If ye want to be startin’ a collieshangie with demons, ye cannae be doin’ it here.”

  Jack was way too drunk to follow the meaning of any of that. But he did hear the word demon repeated once or twice. So he asked, “Demons?”

  “Aye, then he admits it.”

  “So he did. I heard it too.”

  “And I.”

  Jack had no idea what he was admitting, or even who was claiming to have heard him make these mystery admissions. All he could see was the gleam of torches, eyes reflecting that gleam back at him. Now and then, a pair of tusks gleamed orange and white in the dancing light, or a pale green face stood out in the torchlight. But he didn’t recognize anyone, and he still had no idea what was going on. “Look,” he said. “I’m a little drunk.”

  “Aye, you’re sleepin’ in a barrow of roobish. That ain’t the actions of no man sober I ever seen.”

  That got a laugh out of the crowd, though not Jack. “My point is, I have no idea what you’re all talking about.” He glanced around. His memory was coming back, slowly but surely. “Where’s Sv’nd?” The last thing he remembered was starting his fourth – or was it fifth? – round with the other man.

  “Never you mind where he is. He did right in warning us, even if you did try to butter him up with drinks to buy his silence.”

  Jack tried to follow. He really did. But this story made no sense, and it hurt his brain to follow. So he laid back and closed his eyes, just for a second – just to shut out the swimming torches all around him.

  He opened them a short time thereafter – maybe seconds, and maybe minutes. He couldn’t say. He’d apparently fallen asleep again; and he might have continued sleeping had not a pair of strong arms hoisted him out of the wheelbarrow and tossed him down on the cold earth. He stared up at the torches, muttering indignantly, until they started to swim again. Then he closed his eyes.

  He woke up with a start the third time. The villagers hadn’t confined themselves to gentle prodding, or even chucking him onto the ground. It took a moment of sputtering and terror to figure out what they had done. But the beads of icy water running down his face and under his shirt, and the orc holding a great pail a step ahead of him, told him what had happened: they’d doused him in water.

  “What the fluff, you fluffing mothertruckers?” he sputtered. “That was cold.”

  A tall, broad orc dressed in a rich, fur-lined tunic stepped forward. Jack was still shuddering on the ground, so he saw the man’s boots first. They were of fine leather, with a gold buckle that gleamed in the torchlight. The hems of his trousers had been embroidered with gold thread, and he wore a shining chain of state around his neck. He spoke in rich, considered tones – mercifully lacking any hint of an accent. “I am Mayor Eiv’nd.”

  Jack nodded and forced himself to his feet. His breathing was still coming hard and fast from shock. “Good. I want to press charges against these hooligans.”

  The mayor smiled, in the same measured way he talked: slowly and carefully, agreeable but not necessarily agreeing. “I must ask your pardon on their behalf,” he said, “for their…overzealousness.”

  “Overzealous? They were flipping waterboarding me,” he said, with a heavy dose of exaggeration. “They could have given me a heart attack, waking me up like that.”

  “I must ask your pardon on their behalf,” Eiv’nd repeated. “But you must try to see it from their point of view. They’re only trying to protect the village.”

  “Protect the village? From what? Snoring? I was sleeping.”

  “Of course. It wasn’t what you were doing in the moment. It was what you are doing in general.”

  “What the heather does that mean? I am way too drunk for some kind of pop-psychology, or philosophy, or whatever.”

  “Are you denying what you told Mister Sv’nd?”

  Jack frowned. “Sv’nd? What did I tell him?”

  “So you are denying it?”

  “I don’t know. I – I don’t remember what I said.”
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  The mayor sighed. “A very convenient amnesia.”

  “It’s not amnesia,” he snapped. “It’s one too many Mountain Frosts.”

  Mayor Eiv’nd didn’t lose the skeptical air, but he did supply a brief recap of his earlier conversation. “You told Mister Sv’nd that you were on a quest to stop Iaxiabor’s return. You told him that you were pursuing a prince among demons.”

  “I did?”

  “Is that true?”

  “Is it true that I told him, or is it true that I’m trying to stop Iaxiabor?”

  The other man smiled, in a forbearing but quickly losing his patience, way. “Both.”

  “I don’t remember telling Sv’nd, and that’s the truth. But I guess I must have, unless Migli did.”

  “Migli?”

  “My companion.”

  “The dwarf,” someone called. “I saw them come into town together.”

  “You are not acting alone, then?” the mayor asked.

  Jack shook his head. “No, of course not. But look, mayor, what’s this about? I mean, sure, we’re trying to stop Iaxiabor. But – you guys don’t work for him or anything, do you?”

  The other man drew up tall, as if affronted by his words. “Of course not.”

  “Okay, good. So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that we do not get involved in such matters – not on his side, and not on yours.”

  Jack laughed. “Dude, you’re involved. Trust me. This is the classic dark lord scenario. He doesn’t give a rat’s you-know-what about what you want. You are involved whether you like it or not.”

  “We will not be drawn into the wars of men and demons. We live in peace here.”

  “Only because the demons haven’t knocked on your door yet.”

  “We will continue to live in peace. But to do that, we must have no part in such things -not on their side, and not on yours.”

  Jack snorted. “How very Neville Chamberlain of you. Come on, mayor: face the facts. There’s about to be a big showdown. Good versus evil. Dark versus light. Freedom versus tyranny. Blablabla. You gotta pick a side, sooner or later.”

  The mayor didn’t seem moved by his drunken persuasions. “If that is the case, as you say it will be, then we will choose when the time comes.”

  “That’s my whole point, dude: the time has come. It’s here, now-o-clock, go time.”

  “Go time indeed, Mister Jack: for you, that is. Time to go.”

  Jack blinked. “What?”

  “I’m afraid you must leave Little Valley. You and your accessory to intended violence. Now – immediately, this very night.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  He hadn’t figured it could be possible, but Migli was even more pissed at being tossed out of town than he was. Hell, Migli was more pissed at the mayor than he had been at the werewolves – and the mayor only interrupted his time with Larg’tha. The werewolves had wanted to kill him.

  Jack shook his head at the dwarf and his protestations. They were standing on the far side of the town, opposite the mountain. Migli had been calling down dwarven curses on Mayor Eiv’nd and his house for a hundred generations, calling them knaves and cowards, and swearing that he would put that cowardice to song so that their infamy would live for all time.

  The sun started to peek over the eastern horizon, and still the dwarf raged. He might have kept on raging, had not one of the town guard loosed a warning shot near his head. An orcish arrow planted itself in a wooden way marker, and that sobered both Jack and Migli a little. They turned their backs on Little Valley and walked off into the early morning.

  By now, the drink had lost some of its hold on Jack. He felt a dull thudding in his head, and a kind of vague sadness. Migli’s sadness seemed to be a lot more acute. He glowered into the sunrise and swore to no one in particular that he would never forget the fair orcish maiden out of whose arms he’d been so cruelly ripped.

  They walked on and on, without any real idea of where they were going. Jack had supposed they’d find the next clue for their quest somewhere in Little Valley. Except, of course, they hadn’t.

  But the road only ran in two directions, forward and back. And back was a nonstarter, so they went forward.

  They kept going forward until late morning. The terrain got fairer and greener, and the rugged mountains became a memory, replaced by rolling hills and easy slopes. Then, they took a break. Neither man had slept much during the night, and it seemed as good a time as any since they didn’t know the country – in the middle of day, when predators would be less likely to attack.

  They picked a spot by the river, with a few trees overhead to shade them, and bushes behind to shield them from view. Then Jack settled down and closed his eyes to sleep.

  He didn’t get to sleep, though. Before he had a chance to drift off, he heard a rustling near at hand. It wasn’t the kind of soft, incidental rustling of the wind through branches. It wasn’t the rippling of water nearby, either.

  No, this had been something large, and not particularly stealthy. It had been moving slowly – and it was very close.

  Jack drew his dagger and scanned the bushes. Migli, meanwhile, had already settled into sleep, snoring loudly against a tree trunk. The snoring made his listening a little more difficult, but in a moment, he heard the sound again.

  He sprang, diving through the bushes and pressing the blade against the spy’s throat. The spy let out a scream of fright.

  So did Jack. This was no mercenary sent by the demon hordes to kill them. It wasn’t even a thief or bandit. It was just Er’c, the orc youngster from Little Valley. All the color had gone from the young man’s face, and he stared at him with big, frightened eyes.

  Jack sheathed his dagger and offered the other man a hand. “What the heather, Er’c? You could have got killed.”

  He took it and brushed himself off. “I beg your pardon, Sir Jack. I did not mean to startle you. But you move with a terrifying alacrity.”

  Jack waved this aside. “What are you doing here? You’re miles away from home.”

  Er’c nodded and grinned a little shakily. “Yessir. I know that.”

  “Okay, but why are you miles from home?”

  “For the obvious reason, Sir Jack.”

  Nothing about the situation seemed obvious to Jack, and he said as much.

  But the young man wasn’t put off. “Because I mean to join your quest. I heard what you said earlier, in the village. And you’re right: this is a fight for all peoples. I’ll not be a coward and stay home.”

  “Woah, woah, woah. I didn’t mean kids. This is a serious quest, not a babysitting gig.”

  Er’c drew himself up tall. “I am no child, Sir Jack. I am a man grown. My eighteenth birthday was two months ago. And it was you who told me to follow my heart, do you not remember?”

  He frowned. It sounded like something dumb and inspirational he might have said, figuring it would earn him some kind of speech bonus. So he lied. “Definitely not. I think you must have got me mixed up with someone else. Probably someone really stupid. You shouldn’t listen to them.”

  “It was you. And it was the best advice anyone has ever given.”

  “It really wasn’t. It was terrible advice. You should go home, where it’s safe. Go home and study, like your dad wants you to. You should always listen to your parents, Er’c. They know best.” Part of him wanted to hang himself for saying it, he sounded so much like his own mother; but he reminded himself that this was just a videogame, and Er’c wasn’t a real person. So he wasn’t messing with anyone’s real life.

  His mental gymnastics proved unnecessary anyway, for the simple reason that the boy ignored him. “The fate of my people and yours, and Mister Migli’s, and all the races of life, is tied to your quest. I cannot sit idly by. I cannot devote myself to books, or even to the kitchens, knowing that Iaxiabor may return.

  “No, I pledge now, the gods as my witness: as long as this quest is yours, Sir Jack, it is mine too.”

&nbs
p; Jack might have argued longer, had not Migli woken up. “Ah, good news indeed: our band of heroes grows. And all thanks to you, our fearless leader. Well done, Sir Jack.”

  He frowned at the dwarf. “What?”

  “To defeat Iaxiabor, we need a band of the mightiest heroes the world has ever seen – men and dwarves and orcs and elves, and any other beings brave enough to risk their lives for others.”

  Jack glanced at the squat, cowardly dwarf, and then the tall, reed-like orc. He figured the world was in some serious trouble if these were the mightiest heroes it had ever seen.

  The dwarf kept talking, though. “Our party has grown by one. Soon – I feel it in my bones – others will flock to our banner.”

  “Any man or beast of stout heart cannot help it,” Er’c said. “Not when they hear the cause.”

  “Hold on, though. Even if I accept that we need Er’c, we don’t know where we’re going. We don’t know what our next step is. We have no idea what the vision was showing us.”

  Er’c glanced over. “I cannot speak to that, of course, Sir Jack, for I did not see the vision. But if you do not know where it leads, perhaps we should try Iaxiabor’s old fortress.”

  He blinked. “What now?”

  “The place where he ruled and was defeated the first time.”

  “You mean…no one thought to pull down the fortress of the Big Bad who tried to enslave all humanity and elfkind and whatever else the first time?” They stared blankly at him, and Jack shook his head. “You know what? I changed my mind. If these morons were able to defeat Iaxiabor the first time, maybe we will be the best this world has ever seen.”

  Migli’s algorithms must have taken this as some kind of bravado, instead of despairing sarcasm, because he clapped Jack – hard – on the back. “That’s the spirit, Sir Jack. Iaxiabor will rue the day he tangled with us.”