The Monolith

by Stephen Roark

  “Okay, breathe, Clay,” I told myself, as images of the Fortune Teller’s trap flickered in my mind like an old slideshow.

  …Rey, my mother, the doctor, the hospital…

  ……Rey’s lips moving toward me…no, no, no!

  Rand—

  —why are you calling me that?!

  “Fuck,” I moaned, slamming a fist between my eyes. The pressure and slight pain helped a bit with the memories, visions, whatever they were. I’d almost welcome the brain zapping invasion of the monolith over what was happening now.

  “You look a fine mess, son.” A voice above me, one that shocked me so much I almost couldn’t believe it. But when I looked up, I saw him—Rathborne, standing tall above me, holding out his old, strong hand to me. “But this is no time to be lying down, is it?”

  I forced a smile through my nausea. “No, it’s not.”

  Taking his hand, I grimaced as he helped me to my feet. My legs told me they wanted to give out again, but I didn’t listen. Bracing myself against the wall of the hut behind me, I took deep breaths, doing my best to control my heartbeat that was ready to leap from my chest like it had been hit with an overload of caffeine.

  “Are you all right?” the old Seeker asked me with concern, placing a hand on my shoulder. I shook my head.

  “I’m—sick,” I told him. Would Rathborne understand epilepsy? What a seizure was?

  “You’ve come a long way since we last parted. Grown considerably.”

  “Yes,” I nodded, focusing on the pride in my chest. “But, why are you here, Rathborne? How did you find me?”

  “Happy accident.” Rathborne smiled as he bent down and picked up my top hat where it had fallen. He placed it on my head carefully as though it were a crown. “Walked to Ebonmire to clear my head. As many memories as my home has, sometimes it’s best to get away.”

  “Well, you couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “You found the Fortune Teller.” It wasn’t a question. Somehow he knew, and not in a suspicious way. I supposed it was written in my face, demeanor, whatever essence I projected to the rest of the world. I’d grown since our last encounter, and he could see it.

  Rathborne’s silence when I nodded told me all I needed to know. He understood what I’d been through. How—I’d never know. This was a real world and he had real experiences, perhaps even with the terrible girl, and he knew, as I did, that nothing he could say would have any bearing on what I’d experienced with her.

  “And came out the other side,” I finally said with another forced smile, fighting back the feeling of salt water spinning around in my skull. “Seek the spider. That’s what she told me. Do you know what that means?”

  Rathborne shook his head. “Rumors. Only rumors.”

  “Rumors of what?”

  He shrugged, disappointed in himself for not having any answers for me. “Some kind of monstrosity beneath Quelan. Powerful. I don’t know what or why or who, however.”

  “Well, she told me I should seek him out,” I told him. “Like the monolith…”

  “Quelan,” Rathborne said softly.

  “The Fortune Teller, Cliemene, she gave me a bell to take me to Quelan,” I told him, producing the thing from my inventory. It was small, brass, faded and old. I was careful not to ring it. “But my friends aren’t here right now, and I am in no state to go alone.”

  “I will guide you,” Rathborne said without hesitation.

  “No,” I replied quickly. I tried to shake my head, but was overwhelmed with nausea. I don’t know why I said it. All I knew was that I didn’t want to burden the old man with my problems. He’d gone through enough already. “You’ve done enough for me, Rathborne. This is my problem.”

  “This entire land is everyone’s problem,” Rathborne corrected me. “That makes your problems my problems.”

  “No…”

  “An old man doing nothing is an old man waiting to die, Rand,” Rathborne told me. “I—I stare out at the grave of my son every morning and evening, and I can do it no longer.”

  The old Seeker hung his head, adjusted his hat so it did not fall off. He’d never cry. I knew that. This was the closest he would come, and it pained me to see it. His hand still gripped my shoulder, tenaciously, like a father might hold onto his son, and I understood why I couldn’t say no. I raised my hand up and took hold of his arm and nodded.

  “Okay, old man,” I told him, a smile coming more easily to my lips. “But it isn’t going to be fun.”

  51

  Hacking Away at Bog Trolls

  “I no longer frequent the swamp. Most people don’t believe me that it was once a nice place, peaceful and serene, uninhabited but for a scattering of birds. But now that the beasts have come, I must find a new place to sit with my books.

  —from the diary of Richard Frost, citizen of Ebonmire

  I tried several times to log out again, but it just wasn’t happening. Rathborne would have gladly waited for me while I rested, which I desperately needed, but it was a moot point. Instead, he found an old wooden crate for me to sit on while I fought off the waves of nausea that still plagued me. But after a while, I realized again what I didn’t want to accept, that the only way to feel better was to get moving. It was always the way of things—the paradoxical nature of how I felt after a seizure. I didn’t want to move, and it made me want to puke every time I did, but after moving around enough, eventually I’d start to feel better.

  So, I’d taken to doing laps around Ebonmire, my hand on Rathborne’s shoulder, bracing myself as I beat back my post-seizure fatigue. I wondered if I was feeling the full effects down here in the game world. Maybe the sensory transmission wasn’t one-to-one? Maybe back in the real world I was feeling worse. Maybe there was sweat coating my forehead and blood dripping from my nose. Maybe the capillaries on my cheeks were burst (petechiae, they called it). And who knew how long it would be before I was able to get back there.

  Mom must be worried sick by now, I thought miserably as we completed another lap around the town.

  “Quint? Quint for me?” the Blood Merchant’s voice rang out again. It was an incessant soundtrack to the village and I wondered how people could stand hanging out in the town square with her greedy little voice ringing out every time someone passed her shop.

  “How is it now?” Rathborne asked me.

  “If it used to be a ten—it’s probably about a four or a five now.”

  “That’s much better.”

  The sun had almost set, with only the slightest bit of violet orange glare peeking out over the treetops. The sky looked like rain, which was the absolute last thing I wanted right now.

  Altarus and Fujiko still weren’t back, which wasn’t a good sign. One of them should have at least been back in to check up on me after what happened. I could tell that I hadn’t been given any medicine in the real world, as my nausea would have been all but gone by now. Rey was Bloodless. Jacob was Bloodless. I was on my own, fighting hard against the shackles of my seizure to get myself into good enough shape to even be able to step back into battle. Having Rathborne back on my side would of course give me a huge advantage, as he was max level, but I couldn’t simply rely on him to do what needed to be done. Neither of us knew what we’d find beneath Quelan, and after what had happened with the Fortune Teller, it seemed to me that along this leg of my journey, anything was possible.

  I stopped behind the Smithy’s hut, closed my eyes and focused on the clatter of steel against steel. He was forging something in there, and despite the massive upgrade I’d received on my axe from the Stone of the Beast Hunter, I still couldn’t completely quell my curiosity about what he could do for me.

  I’m a gamer, I thought with a smile. I can’t help it.

  “Have you been to Quelan, Rathborne?”

  “Close, but never actually there,” he replied.

  “So, you don’t know what to expect?”

  “It will not be easy,” he said.

  “I figured
that. I should work off this death penalty before we go,” I said, tensing my muscles, forcing the sickness down inside me. “But I don’t want to go back to Londorin.”

  “This way,” he replied, taking the lead. I followed him out of town, down a slope toward a bog that must have been where Victoria’s river ended up spilling out. The humidity was thick and sour, like soup that had been left out for weeks and was growing mold, and was doing nothing for my nausea. Purple mist clung to the trunks of the trees, which were formed by twisting vines like many stiff ropes spun together, giving them a semi-translucent appearance, through which I could see a great number of lumbering beasts, hunched and haggard, with tattered rags wrapped over bulging muscles.

  Bog Troll—Level 13

  “Kind of low level,” I remarked as one of them swatted angrily at a small tree in front of him with an axe that looked inappropriately small in his hands, like an adult wielding a kid’s toy.

  “Just kill many of them,” Rathborne replied, leaning casually against one of the trees and crossing his arms. I raised my eyebrows and chuckled, drew my axe and made my way through the shallow, stinking water of the bog.

  Is it too much to ask for a nice green forest? I thought. My post-seizure mind was no longer completely turned off to the idea of hunting traditional low level mobs, like boars and wolves, in a nice zone that didn’t smell of food that had gone off and didn’t feel like I was breathing through the air of a sauna.

  The first troll turned to face me as I came up behind him, grunting like an ape.

  Hug-ung-hung! It barked from its chest, raising its axe to swing. But my Blunderbuss was ready, and the riposte was good.

  Doooooommm!

  Ung—ung the thing groaned as it fell to its knees. I drove my blade home. Blood sprayed from its neck, misting in the heavy air.

  212

  My Rally bar ticked up.

  “Atta boy,” Rathborne said from behind me. My next few swings did more to abate the sick sensation in my guts, and I dispatched the troll with relative ease. My death penalty still was sitting at 5%, so it was going to take at least another 9, probably more, before I was ready to go. But I was all right with that. Heading off to an unknown area with 5% penalty and feeling like my stomach was ready to hop out of my throat given the slightest chance probably wasn’t the best course of action.

  I kept at it, hacking down the trolls until my penalty was gone and I was feeling more myself. Compared to what I’d been fighting, they weren’t really a challenge. It was just a grind, but I did gain enough Quintessence to be able to buy some stuff from the Blood Merchant before we left. Probably a Firebomb, but I was still curious about the Cursed Parchment and Madness in a Bottle. Hopefully the crazy woman in Ebonmire carried both.

  “All set?” Rathborne smiled as I walked back to him. His hat was tipped forward, the brim casting a shadow over his closed eyes.

  “Wouldn’t say I’m at my best, but yeah.”

  “When are any of us at our best?” he replied, readjusting his hat. “But at least you’ve got your legs under ya.”

  “Let’s go back to town before we go,” I told him. “I want to pick up a few things from the Blood Merchant.”

  “Right-o.” Rathborne smiled, leading the way back out of the putrid place.

  We climbed the slope back out of the moisture and stink and made our way back to Ebonmire, which was now deserted. The players that had been there must have gone out hunting or moved onto another town.

  The world of Blood Seekers was definitely different than other MMOs. No capital cities with a bustling population of hundreds—just small towns, villages scattered across the world with a handful of players coming in and out. It felt like I’d imagine it must have felt to be a settler in a new world, out on the frontier, fighting against nature and the elements, trying to forge a safe society. Of course, there was more to worry about than wolves and bears in this reality.

  I made my way over to the Blood Merchant’s fogged window, and saw her shadow appear as I approached—as though she could smell me.

  “Seeker!” she cried out, her fingers tapping against the glass. “Have you Quint for me? Quint?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I groaned, opening a trade window with her. She had basically the same things as Alastor. I picked up two Firebombs and a Cursed Parchment. The Blood Merchant made a satisfied slurping noise as we made the trade.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she giggled happily. “Quint! Quint! Quint!”

  “Hey, uh—what’s the Madness in a Bottle?” I asked her.

  “Ooooooh, a lot of fun that is!” she cackled, her fingernails percussing the pane between us. “Ever wanted to see monsters fight each other?”

  I looked back at Rathborne, who nodded. “Very useful.”

  “Sounds like it,” I agreed, slapping two fingers on the icon and closing the trade window.

  “Come back with more Quint!” I wondered what the old woman behind the glass looked like, or why she was so infatuated with Quintessence. Did she feed off it like Alastor? Did they all? Maybe it was like candy to them—no. Knowing Mizaguchi, it was more likely a drug. An image invaded my mind, of the inside of the Blood Merchant’s hut, her frail corpse-like body curled up in a rocking chair, nursing a high from the Quintessence I’d provided her, smiling and rocking slowly back and forth, eagerly awaiting the next Seeker to show up and provide her with her fix. But maybe I was just in a bad mood.

  “All right,” I said to Rathborne. “I’m all set.”

  “Going somewhere?” I spun around at the sound of Fujiko’s voice, and saw her and Altarus standing behind me.

  “The Hell have you guys been?” I roared, but in a way that let them know I wasn’t really angry.

  “No matter that,” Altarus replied. “Are you okay? We saw what happened.”

  “I’m…doing better now.”

  “That translates down the link?” he asked. I nodded, saw the concern on his face.

  “I worked most of it off,” I told them, smiling when I saw they’d both gained a level while I was on the mountain.

  Altarus—Level 11

  Fujiko—Level 11

  “Looks like you had some success up there on the mountain,” Fujiko remarked, tilting her head at me, indicating my level.

  “It was…an experience,” I replied. “And a long story. But yes, we are going somewhere. This is Rathborne. He’ll be coming with us.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Rathborne replied cordially.

  “All right, Mr. Big Shot,” Fujiko said. “Fill us in.”

  52

  The City of Eternal Flame

  “The city did not fall! At least, not in the way they said it would…”

  —from the diaries of Lee Corpicus, the Mad Architect

  It turned out there’d been some kind of power situation at the lab that had required Fujiko and Altarus’ immediate attention. The current there was old, probably illegal, and prone to failure. That’s why it had taken them so long to log back in after I came down from the mountain. I’d tried thinking my way back out of the game, but evidently my brain was still too tired—at least, that’s what I was hoping.

  I can’t be stuck here like the rest of them! The panicked thought kept invading my mind like a mouse finding its way back into the house no matter how many traps we put out. I did what I could to stay calm while I regaled them with the tale, from finishing off the Yama-Uba, to the cable car and the Fortune Teller’s game—or test. They sat in silence for a moment, which honestly didn’t surprise me. I actually felt kind of stupid telling them everything that had happened with Cliemene. I mean, what were they really going to say? It was like explaining a dream to someone and waiting for their bad interpretation while they played at psychoanalyst for ten minutes. Thankfully, neither of them took that route.

  “The spider,” Altarus pondered.

  “I hate spiders,” Fujiko spat.

  “Who doesn’t?” I replied.

  “This will not be an ordinary sp
ider,” Altarus remarked. “And I fear that with our low levels, we will be of little or no use to you, Rand.”

  “We’re going, Altarus,” Fujiko said firmly.

  “We are, Fujiko,” Altarus replied. “I simply want our expectations to be…realistic.”

  He was right, of course. I was now 7 levels higher than both of them, but still relatively low myself, and here we were heading off across the world on nothing but the word of a treacherous girl, with no real idea what we were looking for. Rathborne would be a force to contend with, there was no questioning that, but he couldn’t protect us from everything. At a certain point, we were all going to have to chip in, and with no knowledge of what was waiting for us in Quelan, there was no way of telling how we would fare.

  “Oh, Altarus,” I remembered, removing the Musket of the Mountain I’d picked up off the Yama-Uba. “This dropped for you.”

  I handed it over, feeling like a parent at Christmas, and watched as his eyes lit up as he examined his new weapon.

  “B scaling!” he said enthusiastically as he lifted the chestnut brown rifle to his shoulder and gazed down the sights, taking aim at an imaginary monster at the edge of town. “This is great, Rand! No way anything my level would drop something like this!”

  “I was just going to sell it to the creepy Blood Merchant lady,” I joked. “But I figured I’d share the wealth.”

  “Greatly appreciated,” Altarus said. And he meant it.

  “Nothing for me?” Fujiko asked.

  “I’m not Santa Claus,” I joked back. “Anyway, let’s get going. We’re wasting time.”

  I withdrew the Old Bell of Quelan from my inventory and held it in front of me. It felt heavy, but I couldn’t be sure if that was real or in my mind. The little piece of brass carried with it an immense gravity, as though I was holding the key to the secret truth of the universe bestowed upon me by a goddess who’d chosen me for some noble task.