Heroes of Last Resort (The Other Guys Book 1)

by JK Galioto

  Jack considered Dungeon Master’s words and decided that this time he would not just give up and move on. This time he would persevere; the stakes were too high. “Alright then,” Jack said after a moment, picking himself up. “I am going to take the next step.”

  Even if he didn’t feel as confident as he sounded, he would go through all the necessary motions until his actions matched his intentions. Looking around, he added, “If Earth falls, at least I can say that I gave it everything I had, isn’t that right, Dungeon Master?” But that sneaky bugger was nowhere to be seen. Classic Dungeon Master!

  “I, for one, would like to have something with my venison steak tonight,” Jack said out loud, not sure if that crazy bastard was still hanging around the meadow. He began walking toward the trees on the outskirts of the clearing, looking for anything he recognized as edible. Who would have thought it would take such a brief time to get tired of the all-steak diet? Dr. Atkins, rest his cardiac-arrested soul, would not be proud.

  Within a few minutes of searching, he found a raspberry bush and more of the healing moss, gaining him a bump in his gathering skill. He wondered if, along with clerics, there was a deity in this world that granted healing magic, or if healing magic was just another way to use spell points. He remembered the lady of stone he had found, Latani. She’d held a medallion that looked like a sun. In games he played, usually druids used medallions like that, focusing on nature or healing magic, but who could say in this world? For now, he would make do with healing moss.

  Moving back to his fire pit, he rekindled the flames, adding a few branches he had picked up along the way until it burned brightly and gave off a fair amount of heat. Dungeon Master was gone, and as Jack’s venison steak warmed up, he pulled out his lute and played quietly, letting his fingers move of their own volition, his calloused fingertips brushing the strings as he played whatever came to him. After some time passed, the moons moving visibly in the sky, he set down his guitar, ate the deer meat and fresh raspberries, and tried to sleep.

  Though his mind and body were exhausted, sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, his mind raced with the events of the past few days. He thought of Billy and his game shop and wondered if he would ever see either one of them again. He also thought of his band; they were supposed to do a gig at a bar called 107 this weekend; had his brother talked to them? Jack wondered what excuse Chad had given them.

  “Oh, Jack has been called away to save the world, just a typical day in the army.” Allowing a small smile to crease his face, he thought of what Chad would really tell the band. “Jack drank some bad beer and has dysentery; he’ll be recouping with me at my place in Utah.” Or, “I got Jack on ‘The Biggest Loser’ TV show; he’ll be gone for twelve to twenty-four weeks, depending on how he does.” Either excuse would be more believable than the truth.

  Finally, his thoughts turned toward his grandpa, who at eighty-eight was still highly active for his age, farming over forty acres each year, his primary crop alternating between beets, soybeans, and corn. What would his grandpa think if he could see his little Jacky now? He would probably tell him to quit thinking about him and get some sleep, knowing he would need it. And after a time, Jack did just that.

  * * *

  The next morning, Jack woke with the sunrise, his sensitive hearing picking up all sorts of creatures that were awake and flittering about, making further sleep difficult. Standing up, he let out a loud yawn and stretched his arms over his head. That’s when he smelled it. Something must have crawled into his armor while he slept, then been crushed to death, fully excreting its bowels, when Jack rolled over in his sleep. Or was it his armpits? Ugh! I need a bath!

  He decided breakfast could wait and headed to the river that he’d found on his first day. Moving closer to the edge, he practiced his stealth, hoping to find a rabbit, or really anything besides deer or mountain lion. Jack also wasn’t sure if there were any beasties in these forests and was on the lookout for anything that looked remotely threatening. However, his trip to the river was uneventful, and as he began to scrub two days of blood, guts, and gore off himself, he had an idea.

  He pulled the spear he had taken off a dead goblin out of his adventurer’s backpack and spent an hour trying to spear fish that were flowing around him in the shallow river. After countless misses, Jack decided to try another day. Stupid angle of diffraction!

  After cleaning his clothes and armor, he headed back toward the meadow, wet hair and clothes chilling his body in the autumn-like air.

  Back at the meadow, he returned the fire to its former glory, warming himself and fully drying his clothes, while warming up yet another of his mountain lion steaks. He mentally opened the inventory tab and nudged the interface to view his adventuring backpack, taking stock of his items.

  Adventuring Backpack: 19 of 25 spots used.

  Rope

  Flint

  Thieves’ tools

  Deer meat x5

  Mountain lion meat x7

  Echinacea x 1

  Spongy turf moss x5

  Deer hide

  Mountain lion hide

  Firewood

  Standard iron dagger

  Poor bronze dagger x4

  Poor bronze shortsword

  Poor bronze spear

  251 gold, 3 silver, 15 copper pieces

  Potion of Health Restoration

  Potion of Mana Restoration

  Lute

  Burning Hands spell book

  Not a lot to show for a couple days of adventuring, but more than when he started. As his grandpa sometimes said, an adventurer’s backpack is only as good as the hands that hold it. No, wait, that isn’t right. Jack needed better sleep.

  Noting that his food supplies were running low, he opted to stay close to the portal until Gooch made it through—if Gooch made it through. He wanted, no, needed, to be there to greet his friend and help him through the transition.

  Jack spent the next few hours foraging near the portal for more healing moss and berries, getting lucky on both counts. He checked his notifications and saw two skill gains in gathering and one in stealth. Stoking the fire yet again—he really needed to find a way to magic him some fire, but was saving the Burning Hands spell book for Gooch as a peace offering for what Jack planned to ask his friend. He put some mountain lion meat on a large rock on the outer rim of the fire and let it warm, then pulled out his lute to help alleviate his boredom, his newfound static diet, and his anxiety.

  Chapter 19

  He was in the middle of “Eleanor Rigby” when he noticed activity near the portal door. Hurriedly setting down his lute, he rushed toward the portal just as Gooch stepped through, clad in army fatigues. Jack looked at his friend: tall, with an athletic build, Gooch was a beast of a man. He had short-cropped black hair, deep-set brown eyes, and the faint outline of a goatee under his sharp, regal nose.

  “Gooch!” Jack exclaimed, a bright smile on his face, rushing in for a bear hug. “You came!”

  “Not yet, but if you keep hugging me like that I just might,” he said with a smile, extricating himself from Jack’s embrace and looking Jack over with an inquisitive eye. “You’ve changed, Jack, and I mean more than just the smell. You’ve lost a little weight and have finer features than I remember, if that’s even possible. And are your ears pointed?”

  “It’s a long story, but the weight loss can be attributed to me living off deer and mountain lion meat for the past few days, along with a healthy dose of hiking, running, and fighting. As for the finer features and pointy ears, that probably has something to do with my heritage.”

  “Heritage?” Gooch asked distractedly, taking in the meadow and surrounding forest for the first time. “Exactly what’s going on here, Jack? I heard the big pieces from your brother, but I really need to hear it from you.”

  “We will have time to catch up after you go through the transition. Listen, I’m not sure how much time is left and there are a few things you need to know,” Jack said hurriedly, putting hi
s arm around his friend. “First, you will be going through a process shortly that will create a live character sheet interface in your head. My advice: go with it. If you rebel against what your mind sees, bad things happen. Treat it like a game and you will be okay. Second, you will be asked to choose a class.”

  Gooch began to speak but Jack waved him off. “No time, Goochy old boy! Pay attention. As in most of the games we play, the class you choose will give you some base skills to prepare you for adventuring. I know you will be drawn to a mage class, but I need you to be something that can hold a monster’s aggro, dishing out and receiving punishment. There will be a chance to change your class at level five, based on how you gained the experience. I am in desperate need of a frontline fighter. It’s entirely possible that you will be able to pick up some magic later, but for now I need a tank.”

  Gooch looked up at his friend, a puzzled expression on his face and a question on his lips, when they both heard a voice. “It is time.” Jack and Gooch both turned toward the center of the meadow to see the LSU mascot, Mike the Tiger, waving Gooch closer, the LSU fight song blaring in the meadow. Jack preferred Tony the Tiger, but Gooch’s dad had gone to LSU, and this was probably something that connected with Gooch. Jack went back to his fire as Gooch began an animated discussion with the purple mascot that may or may not have involved a lot of hugging. Jack had to give it to him, Dungeon Master knew his stuff.

  Then Gooch sat down, going through what Jack now referred to as “the process.” A few minutes later it finished, and Gooch toppled from his sitting position to lie on the ground, appearing comatose. Jack ran over to his friend, turning him on his back and shaking him with more and more urgency. Gooch’s naturally dark Latino skin was several shades lighter than normal, his eyes were shut, and Jack couldn’t see any movement in his chest.

  Seeing Gooch like that brought back memories Jack thought he had long ago locked away. His mom, her lifeless body lying motionless on Highway 51, her chest still as blood slowly leaked from the side of her mouth. “Not again, damn you, not on my watch!” Jack screamed, placing his hands on top of Gooch’s chest and delivering a few quick, deep thrusts. “Breathe, damn you! Breathe!” he yelled again, tilting Gooch’s head back slightly, pinching his nose, and breathing into his lungs before going back to his chest compressions.

  “You never gave up on anything in your life! Don’t you dare give up on me now!” Jack shouted. As if Gooch finally heard him, his eyes flicked open and he sucked in a huge breath, panting wildly. Jack’s screams of frustration turned into quiet sobs of joy, tears streaming down his face as he helped his friend sit up.

  Gooch stared at Jack, clearly struggling to understand what was going on. “Easy, buddy, I’m here,” he said, wiping spittle from his mouth.

  After a long, pregnant pause, Gooch added, “Why are my lips so moist?”

  Interlude: Ravanan Empire - Cornado Continent

  A slightly built Ravanan sat next to the driver on a wagon carrying supplies destined for the northern front of the empire’s efforts to control Cornado, the largest continent on Rigara. Her scaled forehead was contorted, and if she had eyebrows they would have been squeezed tightly together in deep concentration. Patrie K-Margrit wore dark brown, nearly black robes that were embroidered with thin, gold geometric patterns throughout. The wagon, pulled by a pair of large, mostly white oxen, was one of a dozen traveling north on a dirt road following the west bank of a river that flowed toward the port city of Faldurton.

  The Ravanan had been in the process expanding their hold in this part of Rigara for some time now, and after some initial resistance to their military expansion, things had progressed according to the established timeline. These campaigns, backed by the military and logistical supremacy of the Ravanan Empire, were essentially an exercise in rote procedure. Patrie was deeply focused on a binder of the most recent operational reports from their current base of operations, Z-119. Things almost always went according to plan, but even the Ravanan knew some elements were outside of their control. While the victory was a given, she was tired of this backwater planet, of sleeping on the ground, of eating army rations, and most of all, of being surrounded by idiots. She was ready to finish the conquest of Rigara and receive her inevitable promotion. Her morose thoughts were disrupted by a scout racing her way. She looked at him with utter contempt as he began screaming at her.

  “Captain K-Margrit! Captain K-Margrit!” the scout bellowed as he ran toward her, desperately trying to get her attention.

  “How dare you interrupt me, grunt!” she yelled, her eyes promising swift punishment to the unruly bringer of chaos. She was just about to continue when the scout dared interrupt her again.

  “Captain, my apologies, but we are under attack from the northwest!”

  Patrie’s attention immediately shifted from the insolent scout’s position to a group of soldiers perhaps two hundred meters ahead of the main group, weapons drawn. They were moving into a defensive formation with shield bearers forming a small line in front of the contingent; all were facing the forest to the west of the trail.

  As she watched the scene unfold, a screech could be heard from the direction that the war party was facing. It sounded vaguely familiar to her ears, and it was apparent that whatever was in the woods was also reptilian in nature. The calls from the creature started to increase in volume and intensity, yet as they reached their peak, absolutely nothing seemed to happen.

  With their attention fixated on the west side of the path, the group of Ravanans was not ready for the pair of dark shapes that dove from the east, each latching on and carrying off a lightly armored figure in the back of the formation.

  Patrie glanced at her battle notifications and sighed before beginning to wave her hands in mirrored complex patterns while she spoke two words of arcane power. She stood as she finished the minor teleportation spell, and the oxen nearby startled as the air rushed in to fill the void she left behind.

  In the front of the group, Patrie saw terrified expressions on the archers near her as she teleported into their midst in a sudden burst of azure light. Before they could react, she began a new, more complex spell, chanting and gesticulating wildly.

  The dragon-like flying creatures continued farther away down the trail and attempted to gain altitude as they escaped with their prizes. Movement from the initial commotion could be heard, and suddenly a third form came into sight, joining the formation of the other two.

  Wyverns. Why did it have to be wyverns? Patrie didn’t need to analyze these degenerate beasts to know what they were. She finally finished her spell.

  At first, nothing seemed to happen. There was no sudden ball of fire, lightning, or other sort of magical projectiles sent flying after their enemy. Then Patrie issued a strong, yet calm, command, “Return and bow before me!”

  For a moment, nothing changed, but then the flying trio began to alter their course. The soldiers were speechless as they watched the creatures reverse their path and head back toward the caravan. Beginning to fear for the worst, the heavily armored among them moved to intercept, but immediately ceased when the barked order was given to stand down.

  After they landed, Patrie approach the largest beast, a massive thing of wings, beaks, talons, and scales. The creature was twice as tall as the oxen and three times as wide, over twenty feet from wing to wing. As the frightened hostage scrambled away from the beast, she drew an ornate onyx dagger from her belt. She ran her clawed hand from the back of the wyvern’s head down its neck and began to stroke the now-passive creature, which seemed to relish the attention. The enjoyment ceased, however, when she slid the blade between the scales at the base of the skull and into its brain stem, killing it instantly. What a waste. Patrie then killed the other two wyverns, who were still under her charm spell. They could have been fine shock troops for the Empire, but some creatures wouldn’t listen to reason and had to be put down like the rabid beasts they were. Cleaning her knife off on the wing of a dead wyvern, she sheathed
it and calmly walked back toward her seat on the wagon, thinking only about the additional paperwork these deaths had caused her.

  Chapter 20

  Jack, who by that point had pulled himself together, gave Gooch an innocent, nonchalant shrug and really looked at Gooch for the first time since the process. When Jack emerged from the process, his heritage trait had made a few changes to his body: slightly elongated ears, a lighter frame, and sharper features. Gooch was taller and slightly larger, his legs and arms looked even stronger than before, and his nose was blunted a bit.

  “Orc heritage?” Jack asked, continuing to look his friend over.

  “As if! Stone giant,” Gooch answered indignantly, beating his fists on his chest. “By the way, where is Mike the Tiger?”

  “Stone giant,” Jack said to himself. That answered a lot of questions. Gooch was about a foot taller than a typical Guatemalan citizen and a foot taller than either of his parents. He had assumed it was the gallon of growth hormone milk he drank every day growing up, but maybe a recessive giant gene from thousands of years before had given him additional height.

  Gooch wore heavy chain mail armor over a leather tunic, and Jack impulsively hit his friend in the chest with the hilt of his dagger to see how well his armor worked.

  “Um, what the hell are you doing, Jack?” Gooch asked, though his armor had easily absorbed the blow. It was chain link armor and covered his head, chest, arms, most of his legs, and his boots. He had a shield on one arm and a sword that had to be at least four feet long sheathed in a belt at his waist. And, of course, there was the chef’s kiss, the adventuring backpack. Whereas Jack had emerged with some light leather armor and a small shortsword, Gooch looked ready for war. That’ll do.

  “Oh, sorry Gooch, I couldn’t help myself! As to your question, Mike the Tiger is gone, for now at least. I can explain later. How was the process?”