Then one of his partners had a baby girl, and Patrick made up his mind. He dropped by to pay the man a visit, picked up the baby and entertained it as much as any childless middle-aged man could entertain someone else’s baby. He threw it in the air, did baby-talk, made faces... And the baby got used to him, relaxed in his arms. That was all he needed.
A week before the spring equinox, Patrick was ready. He had a stock of food, his weapon was ready, he had a bag packed full of milk bottles. He told his partner he wanted to visit the place where Jane and his boys died, then headed to his house.
He went through the window into the bedroom and made sure the baby was in its crib. The young mother, exhausted by her routine and sleepless nights, was sleeping nearby in the marital bed.
Patrick stood for a long time staring at the baby girl's tranquil face. Then he stroked her forehead, feeling the warmth of the child's body with the tips of his fingers. Suddenly, he heard a rustling behind him and turned. The child’s disquieted mother was turning over in her sleep. Her forehead was soaked in sweat, her bare thigh was lying shamelessly over the comforter. She herself was basically still a girl. Not much different than his Jane...
He adjusted the baby's blanket and, not turning, climbed back outside. Then he went back to the city gates, waved at his partner and headed into the forest. He didn't have a clear plan, but did have the glimmer of an idea. After a day of searching, he found what he was looking for.
Patrick pulled a wolf pup out of a wide burrow. The mother was clearly gone either to hunt or drink some water.
The pup was blind, mewing and poking into his arm trying to find something to suckle. Patrick tossed it in his bag and ran toward the Mire.
He spent two days underway with breaks to feed the pup and a wolf howling behind him. The voice came back to help him get the wolf pack off his trail.
After he reached the Mire, Patrick did exactly as Behemoth instructed. He dug a deep hexagonal pit, carved strange figures into the soil and let the voice guide him.
Then he produced many strange guttural hissing sounds and began putting the soil back. The vibration and hum grew stronger. A sharp pain pierced Patrick's head. He lost consciousness.
Somewhere in the forest, the wolf mother howled in sorrow.
Then the momentary flood of memories came to an end. He could barely make out what the cursed boy was holding in his hands.
"Mr. Patrick?" he asked. "Are you doing okay?"
O'Grady reached for the glass of gnomish swill and drained it in one gulp. Then he wiped his moustache and drew air into his nose. The day he buried that wolf pup, everything ended for him. The Sleeping God was enraged that he used a pup instead of a human baby. Everything went wrong and leaving Patrick alive was not an act of mercy, but one of impotence. The Sleeping God had clearly been awoken, but he was so weak he couldn't even move.
Still the deity's rage was strong enough that everything after that happened in a fog. Patrick ran, fell in the water, got out somehow and kept running. Onward! Onward!
Back in town, he quit the guard. But the connection with Behemoth remained. The voice continued to whisper and demanded he fix everything, put it right. The nightmares the Sleeping God sent him even in waking life only left when he drank. So the only time Patrick felt alright was drunk as a skunk...
And now he was trying to achieve that – to drink himself into a hole with the money from that foolish kid, taking him for as much as he could get.
"I've been doing bad for a long time, boy," he answered. "What would you like to know?"
"I asked if you knew who this locket might belong to."
Patrick raised his head. The idea glimmering in his head formed into a fully-fledged plan. After all, this really might work! And why not?
"I do," he called back, revealing his blackened teeth in a crooked smirk. "But if you want to hear the answer, boy, you'll have to do something for me."
"Of course, Mr. Patrick. How can I help?"
"You're nobody's fool, Scyth! Haha! What have you heard about the Mire?"
Chapter Twenty-Two. Immaculate Impulses
"WHAT HAVE YOU heard about the Mire?" Patrick asked, tapping the table two times loudly. "Another!"
Lulu the level-seven waitress, played by Luciana from my school, rolled her eyes. A minute later, a huge mug appeared before Patrick filled with fresh fiery Black Mountain ale. He drank the first practically in one gulp right after I showed him the locket. He turned it over in his hands, then opened it and stared at the portrait for some time.
"The Mire? I heard its full of these terrible monsters called needlers. They stick a larva under your skin and it is usually deadly, especially if you give them time to dig deeper in your body."
"Needlers?" Patrick took a swallow and wrinkled his nose. "Believe me, boy. That isn't the worst thing out there. Those swamps harbor true horrors..."
He muttered something indistinguishable and nasal, then went completely silent, staring into the distance. Rocking in place, Patrick seemed to be looking past me. I followed his gaze, but there was nothing there. Or...
In the far corner of the tavern there was a brigade from the Olton Quarries. They were all level two or three except the foreman. He had hit five.
The workmen were concentrating on moving their jaws, savoring the tasty food they couldn't get in the real world as noncitizens: roast boar ribs with mountains of pearl barley, enriched with ground chitterlings, pepper and oil. My Cooking was a great help in recognizing the dishes served in this tavern. I remembered my plan to level that before I headed off to farm. I'd have to pay Chef Arno a visit. Maybe he'd toss me some new recipes...
"Watch where you're going, birdbrain!" The thunder of breaking dishes and stream of curses that followed reached the whole tavern.
I recognized that voice. It was Crag. I turned my head and saw him shaking some workman, lifting him two feet off the floor. "Manny, level 5. Quarry Foreman," said the words over his head.
"Aw jeeze... I'm sorry, it was an accident. My bad..." the foreman murmured.
"My ass it was an accident," Crag squeezed out between his teeth. "Well, let's go. I'm turning you in to the city guard!"
"Please, not the guard!" Mannie rasped. "For god's sake, they'll make me pay or go to prison! How will I work? I have a family, a child..."
"What god do you follow?" the warrior asked, looking interested as he set the workman down. "Tell me a name!"
"What god?" he asked, batting his lashes in bewilderment. "You know, God. What else is there? The father, the son..."
"Excuse me, half-wit! What is this nonsense? One day you will come to know that Nergal the Radiant is the one true god! And for that blasphemy, you'll be beaten to a pulp! Come now, let’s go, step to!"
The man looked to be forty years old. His brigade looked on gloomily, but there were no attempts to help. With their levels and reputation, messing with the city just meant attracting problems. Only the very youngest one, around twenty, tried to jump up but the man next to him held him back.
That threw me for a loop. That cream beer glass he broke was worth just a quarter silver, but Crag clearly wanted to frighten Manny and take him for all he had as "compensation." In my experience, Crag was a big fan of demanding "compensation."
I glanced at Patrick, he was still in a trance. His vision was glazed over, his lips twitching soundlessly. His gnomish swill stood untouched.
Meanwhile Manny, spurred on by Crag, passed by me.
Oh, nether! Alright. I never got the chance thank a noncitizen by the name of Clayton. I'd try to pay back my karmic debt this way. I got up sharply and stood between the ganker and workman.
"Hey there, Crag! How are things?" I only then noticed the warrior’s gear had taken a step down. "Rough I take it?"
"Ah, Scyth..." his eyes squinted. "This doesn't concern you, stay out of it! This is between me and this onitso!"
Onitso? An individual with no societal value, a slang word for all noncitizens. I again remembere
d Clayton/Dargo, mentally putting him in Manny's place...
"Now it's my business. What is your problem with him? A mug of cream beer? I'll order you another one. We good?"
"Not on your life! Let me repeat, this doesn't concern you, stay out of it. Your clan will not help you, I am within my rights! You know it, he knows it, and everyone else knows it!"
He almost shouted his last words, attracting attention from the whole tavern. The room fell silent, and even the group of bards on stage stopped playing.
"People!" Crag exclaimed. "Here's basically what happened. This onitso knocked a glass of beer out of my hands on purpose. The glass broke, I got soaked in beer, and now I’m feeling like crap! I want to turn this scamp in," he said pointing at Manny, "to the city guard! Am I right to do so?"
"You are! People like that must be punished! You’re doing the right thing!" I could clearly hear a few players saying that in the disordered hullabaloo. The noncitizens kept silent, trying not to look at Manny.
Crag gave a satisfied nod and poked my shoulder. I flew to the side.
"Get outta my way! And I better not see you again, ever!" said the warrior.
I got up, thinking feverishly. I couldn't stop him by force, should I call the Dementors? I guess not. I’d have to have no conscience to do that, especially after all my refusals to join them, and after I was not able to agree to help them with Tissa. Pay Manny's fine to the guards? It would still hurt his reputation with the city. He might lose his job...
"I challenge you to a duel!" I shouted after him. "I'll put my blue belt up against five gold with the condition that you forgive this workman."
"What?" Crag froze in the doorway. He stopped the foreman and then came back to me and asked, intrigued: "One on one? Without your friends? You and me?"
"Yes. You and me. Tomorrow evening. At nine beyond the wall next to the market row."
"This guy's lost his marbles! Level four against twelve?" someone shouted. "Hey, this is that idiot who spent a whole year sitting outside the tavern!" came another person. "And that is Crag, PK'er extraordinaire and PvP specialist! I bet a gold Scyth won’t last ten seconds!"
But there were other surprised voices as well. They were quieter, but the table of quarry workers was closer so I heard: "Who is that? Why does he want to help?" "Is he one of us?"
"Let's shake on it!" Crag bared his teeth. "So, do you all hear? Tomorrow at nine PM at the city wall I'm gonna punish this cretin for biting off more than he can chew! When I win, he will have to give me a rare belt!"
"If you win, not when. The rest is all true!" I said loudly.
"So you don't get cold feet, let me be clear about one thing!" the ganker strained his throat. "No limitations in terms of equipment, weapons, elixirs and buffs!"
"Accepted!" I nodded in agreement and extended a hand. "Agreed?"
Crag held a pause, bared his teeth, looked around the room to make sure everyone was watching and clapped hands with me. With a crack, he squeezed, pulled me closer and whispered:
"I guess you weren't exactly ‘in the clan,’ huh? Maybe you never were even close. Have that belt ready, worm!"
Guffawing and unbelievably self-satisfied, he left the tavern, not forgetting to give poor Manny a shove so hard he slid under a nearby table.
I helped him up. The foreman opened his eyes and shuddered when he realized it was me, not one of his guys. He tried to tell me something, couldn't and just nodded. I closed my eyes for a moment, let go of his hand then got back to Patrick.
He was already back from the astral plane and watching with intrigue. I took a sip of cream beer.
"Your little hands are shaking!" the drunkard noted. "What'd you get yourself into, boy? Who did you piss off? Look at yourself, you're just common riffraff, but you jumped at a glorious warrior! Whatever for? Hoping for cheap glory?"
"Justice. Not glory."
"You're a fool," Patrick said evilly. "There’s no such thing as justice!"
"I cannot change the world, but I can change myself," I answered in annoyance. "So let’s stop talking about this. It's my problem, not yours. You said I need to do something so tell me about the locket. What exactly?"
The drunkard was still holding the item. He opened it again and looked at the portrait, then returned it to me decisively.
"You see, son... First I had a different idea for what you should do. Something I once could not do myself. But now, seeing and hearing you... I don't think you can help me. This seems more like a job for the guy you'll be fighting tomorrow."
"What makes you say that? You think because I'm lower level than him I can't do it? You don't know me!"
"Oh, believe me, boy. I know you very well!" Patrick laughed. "It isn't a level issue. This issue is... Ah, nether. Nergal smite you! Basically, listen. I'm not sure you’ll be able to do it, at the very least because you won't be able to reach the Mire. And then you’ll have to cross it. But that, as you say, is your problem."
He shouted to the waitress, ordering another ale and asking for a pencil. A few minutes later, Lu brought both. Patrick started making a rough sketch of the edge of the Mire right on the table, made a line for the main road from Tristad, marked the bits of dry land and drew the contours of the route to the destination.
"This is the dwelling place of Behemoth," he said.
"Behemoth?" I clarified. "Is that some big animal?"
"No, this is a different sort of entity. If it so desires, it will reveal itself to you. In any case, you must tell it that I sent you. And you must do as it wishes. And when it comes time for your reward, be sure to say you want what Behemoth promised me. Tell it these words exactly: the thing you promised Patrick. If it does not agree, well..." he went gloomy. "Then we'll call it even and I'll tell you about the locket."
Patrick O’Grady, former guard patrol squadron captain and honorary citizen of Tristad, would like you to go to the point he showed you in the Mire and offer your help to a spirit which calls itself Behemoth and, as a reward, ask for what it promised to Patrick.
Rewards:
— 1200 experience points;
— reputation with Patrick O'Grady increased by 150;
— Patrick O'Grady will tell you the story of the locket;
— next mission in the quest chain.
Penalty for not completing mission:
— reputation with Patrick O'Grady lowered by 150;
— reputation with the city of Tristad lowered by 10.
Recommended level: at least 15.
"Well boy, what do you say? Will you take it?" he snorted. "Just know this: I have no reward to give you. I'll tell you about the locket, but I don't think the story is quite what you want to hear. And by the way, there’s no rush. I understand that you need to get stronger before trying to go there."
I thought hard. With my curse I was sure I could make it. What was more, the Mark of the Destroying Plague would show itself sooner or later, and I'd get there unharmed. I wouldn’t have to kill anyone there, just talk, and that meant my level didn’t matter. And the fact that there was no time limit was only to my benefit. I should level up a bit before sticking my nose in there though. Otherwise it would just take too long, killing aggro'd mobs for hours every day.
Accept Patrick O'Grady's mission?
Yes, undoubtedly. I added the quest and O'Grady nodded.
"By the way. As for your curse, you should ask Behemoth. It was his doing."
"I see. Thank you"
"Well, will you treat old uncle Patrick to one more?" he asked happily. And he changed somehow imperceptibly. His shoulders weren’t so tight or something, as if a heavy weight had been lifted. "The sun will be going down soon, but I'm not the least bit tired! Are you gonna treat me, or was tonight a bust?"
I nodded, took out a silver coin and placed it on the table.
"You blow off some steam, Mr. O'Grady," In the end, he wasn't lying about being an "honorary citizen," and that merited good treatment. "I've gotta go. Now I’ve got that duel
tomorrow and I have to get ready!"
He patted me on the shoulder understandingly and barked, calling Lulu:
"Another ale for an honorary citizen of Tristad!"
Uh... But he just got one! I didn't even see him drink it. Alright, Nergal be with him. Levelling Cooking would be canceled for today.
I was planning to level while Crag slept. I had quite the night ahead of me.
Chapter Twenty-Three. City Jail
THERE WAS NO TOBACCO in the sandbox, but Dis didn't stop you from rolling up some herbs and smoking that. In fact, that had grown up into a whole industry and every day herbologists put new recipes on the market that gave various positive effects. And although they didn't last long, they were a relatively healthy consolation for people who couldn't rid themselves of the psychological habit of lighting and dragging on a burning stick.
Class-A Threat (Disgardium Book #1) LitRPG Series Page 20