Steel Orc- Player Reborn

by Deck Davis

“We were waiting for you when we heard Lizzy’s voice from inside the room,” said Warren.

  Jon shook his head. “I told you not to go.”

  “I wasn’t the only one webbed to the ceiling.”

  Jon fixed his brother a look that Tripp had seen hundreds of times from his own brother, a blend of concern and condescension unique to older siblings. “Sometimes you have to become an idiot to protect an idiot.”

  “I felt extremely protected while we were both stuck fast with weaver slime,” said Warren.

  Clive returned, stopping in front of them. “I broke as many illusions as I could find, but any that escaped must be gold rate. A silver anti-illusionist can only shatter illusions of a silver quality or lower.”

  “I can concur with his assessment, having completed a visual check,” said Bee.

  The traps were laid bare for Tripp to see now. A dozen of them scattered over the checkerboards; bear traps, pressure switches, pits filled with spikes. A painful death waiting in each square, born from an imagination whose darkness was only rivaled by his godliness. Boxe was a psycho with a magic wand, a mage with godlike spells unburdened by limitations of manus.

  Despite that, there was a crack of hope shining through. With the illusions broken, and added to the ones they’d already found using the psychic arrows, Tripp saw a path through the checkerboard that would give them access to each statue.

  “We have the gold keys,” he said. “We need to stand in front of a statue, say the creature’s name to activate the rune, and then turn the keys. We know we’re going to have to fight whatever creature each statue represents.”

  “The psychic told us there was a key for every lock, a metal for every danger. Are you sure you want to use gold keys? The higher you aim, the more chance the arrow falls back on you.”

  “It’s my last chance in the labyrinth, and I’d rather lose by trying for the best, then leave with another bronze haul. Besides, we’ll take on the monsters methodically.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Warren.

  “We activate each statue separately and kill each creature on their own. No point activating four at once if we can just deal with each one in turn. Bee, how much time left?”

  “Eleven minutes.”

  “That’s cutting it close,” said Warren.

  “Let’s not waste more time. Follow my path.”

  The three of them took a path over the checkerboard. Their footsteps were amplified on the marble, but it was better than hearing the click of a pressure sensor, or the rumble of alcoves opening to reveal hidden archers. Clive’s anti-illusion skill had uncovered a false floor on one tile, which opened onto a hole in the ground. It was too dark to see anything, but the hissing sounds that came from the depths made a coil of anxiety wrap itself tight in his stomach.

  Finally, they reached the first statue; a bronze casting of a sleel, its torso slightly bent as if it was turning in the air. Clive and Bee hovered level with it, while Jon and Warren stayed behind Tripp.

  “Remember, sleels are weak to water damage,” said Tripp. “Jon, I gave you the dagger artificed with water damage. Use it if you run out of arrows.”

  “We’re trusting a lot into your crafting here,” said Warren. “This sword you gave me; how do you know it’ll have any effect?”

  “They’ll work. Trust me.”

  He put the gold key into a keyhole cut into the square platform of the sleel statue. An uneasy feeling tightened in him.

  “When I say the word and turn the key, get ready.”

  Knowing Boxe’s love of riddles and inability to play fair, Tripp had realized that although the word to active the rune was ‘sleel’, it wouldn’t be the direct translation. Instead, he’d checked the book on creatures again and found that the full name for the sleel species.

  “Anaslaveelitirus,” he said.

  A pulse of purple light ran over the statue, dipping into its marble curves, rippling over its tentacles. Tripp tried to turn the gold key, but nothing happened. He jiggled it to see if it was stuck, but it wouldn’t move.

  “Let me try,” said Warren.

  Tripp stepped aside and while Warren grunted as he struggled to turn the key, Tripp eyed the rest of the statues. The frorarg was squat and mean, the tougher older brother of the kind found in the plains of Godden’s Reach. It looked to frorargs what wolves were to dogs.

  The eisschwarm which was cast in silver, and looked like a cloud but with sharpened sides and six long, beanpole legs on each side. It was dark as coal, the kind of cloud that would empty a street and have people running for cover if it suddenly loomed in the sky.

  Then there was the metamorphic hornfel brute. This was a rock given arms, legs, and a body. A mass of rock muscle, with fists that looked like they’d punch through the hull of an aircraft carrier and eyes brimming with malice. It was hard to imagine a monster like this being able to move. How would its legs support its two-ton body? How did its neck stop from snapping when it nodded its rocky head?

  He didn’t like their chances against any of them, let alone having to take them on one after another. Maybe with more preparation time, he could have made even better weapons and armor. Then again, how much time was enough? When you were facing the impossible, the answer was none. All the grains of sand in the Sahara wouldn’t fill the time glass Trip would need to feel ready for this.

  Warren gave up turning the key. His face was red, his eyes narrowed. “It isn’t just stuck; we haven’t done something right. What about the rune word?”

  “You saw the light; I got that part correct.”

  “Then there’s only one other possibility,” said Jon. “We can’t do them separately.”

  “Eight minutes,” said Bee.

  Tripp set his inventory bag on the marble and started handing out keys. “We have to take on four creatures at once, and we have eight minutes to do it. We’re running over the trenches and straight into a machine gun nest. Here, everyone take a health potion.”

  “This is impossible, Tripp,” said Warren.

  “Maybe. What choice do we have?”

  “We could give up. There’s a prize for surviving the wave, and tonight’s the last night. If we die down here, we spawn outside of the Reach and we fail both the labyrinth and the wave. If we can’t have everything, maybe we should at least try to get something.”

  “You can’t leave even if you want to. The labyrinth doors lock behind us.”

  “Do they really? It seems fine to me,” said Warren.

  Tripp was surprised to see the door to room three wide open. That feeling didn’t last long. It was Boxe again, changing the rules while the game was still in play. Closing the room behind him, then opening it again to mess with him.

  Boxe had probably watched them playing the game for long enough to know that one of the brothers would be tempted to back out.

  “Tripp, your bag,” said Bee.

  His inventory bag was glowing yellow. Opening it, Tripp saw that it was the crafter’s codex that he used to communicate with Boxe. Light seeped from all around it. He opened it to find a message from Boxe.

  I decided to call your bluff. You won’t kill yourself to end the game. You want to see the end too much.

  Tripp’s stomach lurched. Boxe was right. It had all been a bluff, and he thought it had worked, for a while.

  “I’m sorry,” said Warren, retracing the safe path back off the checkerboard. “I won’t get another chance like this. Everyone says the Blood Wave won’t happen again.”

  “You’re leaving?” said Jon.

  Warren stepped off the last black square and headed toward the room tunnel. Jon watched him, his face twisting with indecision.

  Boxe’s words glowed in the codex. I decided to call your bluff.

  Boxe had spawned the orb weaver in the room. He’d known Warren’s temptation for loot would make him take the easy choice, and then he’d reopened the labyrinth doors. He wanted Tripp to have to fight and fail alone.

  Somethi
ng exploded by Tripp’s head, the noise loud enough to obliterate the hearing in his right ear. He lost his balance, stumbling against the statue. Pinpricks of pain spread over his face. He put his hand to his cheek and felt something sticking out. Wincing, he pulled it, to see a shard of glass.

  He felt dizzy, the explosion still ringing in his ears, unable to comprehend the glass and the blood.

  Jon fell to the ground. Warren was out of room three now. He was standing in room two, at the door entrance where Tripp could barely see him.

  “Jon?” he shouted. “What the hell was that?”

  The door to room three slammed shut and locked, separating Jon and Tripp from Warren.

  Jon groaned and got to his feet. Shrapnel was stuck in his face, and blood was running in drips down his cheeks and onto his chin and then his neck, staining his leathers. The air smelled of fire.

  Trip’s hearing returned to him, bringing his balance along with it. His senses came back, and he stood away from the statue and looked at the ground.

  There, he saw Bee. What was left of her, anyway.

  Boxe had brought her back, made Tripp think that he’d scored an advantage, and then blown her up.

  Bee was gone, even if the pieces of her remained, sprinkled over the checkerboard squares and glinting when torchlight glowed over them.

  That left them with five or six minutes to complete the labyrinth. Four keys that they had to turn at once, but only Tripp, Jon, and Clive to do it.

  CHAPTER 70

  Gilla

  None of the guilds wanted to venture out first, for one simple reason. It was the final night of the wave and nobody wanted to be the first to die. The problem was that if they let the orb weavers reach Mountmend and take the fight to its warren of streets, everyone would be meeting the gods of respawning soon.

  That was a sure way to get wiped out. There were much fewer fighters around than the last two waves. The Forgestriders had lost six people themselves, and they were one of the more populated guilds with separate archery, spellcasting and sword and axe units. Other groups had taken an even bigger hit.

  The guilds had to work together, and they needed a plan. Up to now, Gilla hadn't been able to force them to do it. Maybe with the threat of the fog that hid the orb weavers from view and was steadily advancing toward Mountmend, they could be successful in their last-ditch effort at working together.

  They might not have united as one force, but that didn’t mean people were lazing around. A throng of sounds met Gilla’s ears as she walked through Mountmend’s cobbled streets. Hammers knocking nails into place as people with the building skill heightened the fences around Mountmend. Hunters carried sharpened logs out into the plains, where they placed angled spike traps around the boundaries. Mountmend was beginning to resemble more of a fortress than a mining town.

  The Fleet, a guild who the Forgestriders had a non-competitive skirmish with two years ago to warm up for a tournament, had cut notches into the wooden fence so that their archers could unleash their volleys as soon as whatever the fog carried came into sight. If you walked around the outskirts of Mountmend now, you’d see archers watching you from behind every other fence slat. At least some people were taking it as seriously as Gilla.

  The Fleet were to archery what Genghis Khan was to sacking and pillaging. They used to be an all-rounder guild; a few healers, mages, tanks. Doing a little of everything, but none of it particularly well. Now, since Penny Alvertos became guild leader, they had specialized in archery, and that had earned them the fruits of winning the Bayspire battle tournament last year.

  Bayspire was an expansive land full of long stretches of unbroken clay ground and odd hiding places, which made it perfect for archers to unleash pointed fury from far away. Knowing that, Penny Alvertos had completely gutted his guild and re-shaped what kind of players they accepted, taking on archers and long-range spellcasters. Swordsmen and axemen had to either adapt or take a hike, and that meant the Forgestriders had recruited a few of the unhappy stragglers.

  It wasn’t just the players getting ready for the wave. Some trader NPCs had left their shops and gathered by the town gates. Despite it being sundown, they'd left their families at home and carted their wares to the fences, where they were selling whatever they could to the fighters. There were alchemists, blacksmiths, potion sellers, hunting suppliers. Right now, every man, dwarf, elf, warg, troll, darkborne or gnome was either a player getting ready for the wave, or a Mountmend citizen trying to turn a profit.

  Their cries met with the dinks of hammers as builders extended fences, the clangs of swords hitting wood as melee fighters practiced their strikes and tried for last-minute skill level ups before the fighting began.

  “Healing potions, two for ten gold.”

  “Get your leather chest pieces, guaranteed to repel weavers.”

  “Get your iron and your steel, lest you be an orb weaver meal.”

  As for the Striders, Gilla was happy to see that they were all busy with their jobs. Kobe, their smithy and weaponmaster, was sharpening and artificing a pile of iron and steel swords. Gilla had given him a portion of the guild purse and he'd bought every inch of sharpened metal that Mountmend's traders had to sell. Now he was artificing them with forge fly essence, which Lamp had discovered to be one of the weavers' weaknesses.

  Estella, their alchemist who was a genius when it came to combining essences, was going from Strider to Strider and giving them two healing and two manus potions each so they could put them in the loops of their belts for easy access in the fight to come.

  That was all Gilla could offer her guild today; swords designed to combat weavers, and some potions. With the tournament so close, she had to save as much gold as she could. The wave was interesting, but the tournament was everything, and she wished the other Striders would remember that.

  Her plan was to have some of her insiders report back on the other guilds who would be competing in the tournament; what weapons they used, what armor they wore, their tactics, their skills. Knowing that, she’d buy the Striders gear to suit it. As much as whatever prize on offer for surviving the wave could give her the edge in the last tournament before Lamp left the game, she had to measure risk with prudence.

  Gilla heard footsteps and then saw her friend, Lamp, walking toward her.

  He was wearing an odd mix of mage robes and armor, with folds of thin red satin layered between polished steel on his arms and chest, before becoming kimono-like at his feet. Blood red and painted with runes, he looked more like a battle mage than ever.

  He carried a staff taller than he was, the wood constantly glowing green and giving off a swampy smell as part of its artificery. Not content with the robes and staff, Lamp had made his eyes shine a shade of red that made them look like they were burning. This was Battle Lamp, the guy who’d helped Gilla and the Striders place third in the Bayspire tournament, the same one Penny Alvertos and the Fleet won last May. It was a version of Lamp that Gilla rarely saw, but one that she always looked forward to spending time with. The more intimidating her guildmates looked, the better.

  "Gilla, they're waiting for you," Lamp said.

  She saw the four other guild leaders waiting impatiently outside the tavern while NPC traders and beggars crowded around them like flies at a horse manure cart. Penny Alvertos swatted a young panhandling dwarf away.

  Nodding at Lamp, Gilla said, "You'd think they would give us things, rather than trying to get more money from us. We are defending their town, after all."

  "The NPCs? They're traders. Makes sense they would try to take advantage. You can’t feed your family on kind words.”

  Gilla took a deep breath. While Lamp had donned his Battle Lamp person today, it was time for Gilla to step up, too. She needed to be strong and persuasive, to cast a net with her words and see what wriggled in twine. It was time to talk the guild leaders around to her way of thinking.

  All four of them were watching her now. Penny Alvertos, leader of the Fleet, looked too jo
vial for the circumstances, and nothing at all like a guild leader. Dressed forehead to tiptoe in rags, he would have fitted in better sitting drunk in the gutter, or perched against a wall in a crowded city street and calling out for spare change. His mustard-yellow shirt was so stained that Gilla felt like she could smell his stink from across the street.

  He’d earned the nickname ‘Penny’ because he spent years in Saltfleet, where the richest merchants and the sellswords who had become bored with selling their swords lived. There, Penny pretended to be a beggar. Coin after coin would land in his upturned iron helm. Coin after coin, day after day, metal clanging on metal. Most players were convinced that Penny was an NPC because all he ever said was “Spare some gold for an old fighter?” Never mind that he was neither a fighter nor old.

  He used to travel ten miles east to Wildemond every night and bank his begged gold there, and his fortune steadily grew. He played the game this way until he’d earned enough to buy his own guild license.

  Quite why he’d done it this way when he could have earned masses of gold killing things and completing quests was anyone’s guess, but Gilla had an idea. He was probably using some kind of script that made his character say the words “Spare some gold for an old fighter?” while Penny got on with his real life. Money for nothing, a way around the tight measures the devs had put in place to stop people getting what they hadn’t earned.

  Then there was Zayne Haley, a giant rat with a pointed face and a circle of white fur around his eyes. A guide orb floated by his head, oval-shaped and giving off blood-red light, with thin discs orbiting around it. Zayne wore so much jewelry around his neck that it hurt Gilla’s own muscles just thinking about walking around with them. Gems of red and blue glistened in between the polished gold, some catching the sun in a purely decorative way, others draining manus from the atmosphere. Zayne was sitting down on a low wall. His golden ankle bracelets made a clacking sound when he crossed his legs.

  Zayne was another guild master who’d barely swung a sword in Soulboxe. Funny how the game didn’t just bring people who wanted action; it was a magnet for people seeking power, too, and Zayne was like a thirsty man drinking saltwater when it came to power; the more he had, the thirstier he became.