Bibliomancer

by James Hunter

  Sphinx and her trio of assailants were moving so quickly that Sam was just as likely to hit Sphinx as the Hardcores. He wasn’t sure whether or not his spells could deal friendly fire, but now was most definitely not the time to find out. He could repay her lessons in sword fighting by putting the knowledge she’d taught him to use right now, though he’d have to play it safe considering his stamina would run out quickly. Still, it was his best option. After all, who would expect a glass-cannon Mage to charge into battle with a sword?

  Silent as a screaming toddler, Sam shot forward, pulling the dagger from his belt and muttering the words to call forth his Aeolus Sword. The magical blade extended to full size—cool blue and deadly—moments before he launched himself at the enemy Rogue, who conveniently had his back turned to Sam. The ironic justice of backstabbing a thief as a Mage was not lost on Sam. He lunged forward, executing a textbook—though rather simple—thrust. Sometimes the simple things are the most effective because the blade punched into the Rogue’s lower back and knocked off sixteen points of health.

  Not even close to killing the thief, but more than enough damage to get his attention. The Rogue let out a guttural howl and rounded on Sam, a black dagger in each hand. “You are gonna regret that, you little turd.”

  “Turds are brown, not stained a bloody red like my clothes… unless you are having other issues?” Sam taunted the killer. Perhaps not his brightest move.

  The Rogue broke away from Sphinx, dancing toward Sam with liquid grace; the guy’s obviously high dexterity was on full display. He came at Sam like a constipated cobra, creating a constant combo of coordinated thrusts and slashes. Sam retreated backward, drawing the Rogue away, but it took everything he had to fend off the assault.

  Sam was far too slow to respond with a proper counter-attack of his own. The Rogue launched into a series of broad, slashing sweeps, then flipped into the air, hurling a pair of throwing knives with his off-hand. Both struck dead on, piercing Sam’s Mage Armor. One punched into his right shoulder, while the other penetrated his gut. The pain was worse than anything Sam had ever felt before, and that was with his miserable perception stat lowering it.

  Back in the sixth grade, Sam had dislocated his shoulder. He could remember the day in exquisite detail; the sun high above him, the hot steel of a half-pipe dropping off below the lip of his skateboard, the *clang* and *clatter* of metal on metal. He’d teetered precariously on the edge of the pipe, his heart thumping as he worked up the nerve to drop in for the first time. This was the small half-pipe, only a six-foot drop, but to sixth grade Sammy, that descent looked unimaginably high—like taking a flying leap off the edge of the Grand Canyon. Yet, despite the fear, he leaned forward and plunged straight down.

  He began fishtailing almost instantly, dislocating his shoulder in the process. This felt like that, though the pain was somehow more jagged and stomach-turning. The Aeolus Sword guttered and died as he fumbled the blade, unable to hold on to the hilt through the waves of agony. He stumbled, drunk from shock and trauma, and fell on to his back, his good hand scrambling at the dagger protruding from his belly.

  His Mage Armor had saved him from certain death, but his health was down to less than half, and he was hemorrhaging points every second the knives remained planted in his body. With a wheeze and a grimace, he pulled the dagger in his belly free, then went to work at the blade jutting from his shoulder.

  That one was stuck more solidly—at a guess, it had probably hit bone—so he had to wiggle it free, which was about a hundred times more painful than getting stabbed in the first place. Finally, the blades were gone, discarded in a patch of grass nearby, but he wasn’t out of hot water yet. The Rogue was stalking forward with the lethal movements of a hunting panther, ready to end its prey… though this predator killed with cold iron instead of rending jaws.

  “Shoulda joined us when you had the chance, dweeb,” the Rogue growled, his voice scratchy and slightly distorted from the interference of a microphone. This guy wasn’t in a pod, that much was for certain.

  “I’d rather die,” Sam spat, his spittle tinged red with blood.

  “Good,” the Rogue replied, twirling his daggers with a flourish. “Allow me to help y–”

  He never finished the sentence. An Ice Lance slammed into the side of his throat, driving all the way through and leaving a ragged hole behind. The Rogue gulped, working his jaws like a fish out of water, then keeled over, gravity taking hold as his legs gave out. Just like that, Sam and company actually had a chance here.

  Filled with a new surge of adrenaline, Sam sprang to his feet, bringing his hands to the ready, but… there was no one left to fight, no one left to kill. Every single member of the Hardcores lay dead in the grass, pools of sludgy blood surrounding their corpses like ghastly halos. Somehow, miraculously, they’d done it!

  They’d beaten the unlikely odds, and even more impressive, every single member of their crew had survived the encounter. They’d just taken on an aggressive ambushing force without taking a single casualty! Glancing around, Sam saw that Finn had done the bulk of the heavy lifting since four out of nine bodies were liberally peppered with blue-white Ice Spikes.

  The message was clear—Mages were not to be trifled with. The folks at the College might be a bunch of pompous know-it-alls, but there was a reason for their feelings of superiority.

  “Get wrecked!” Dizzy hollered, thrusting her maul into the air. She threw back her head and cackled. “You boys are a game changer!”

  Her mad laughter slowly subsided. “With you two on our team, no one is gonna be able to stop us! Let’s get into town before they shut the gates and have a little celebration. Drinks are on me!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  They made it back through the gates fifteen minutes before full dark set in. Cutting it close, considering the potential repercussions, but everyone was far too elated to care. The group was high off their gains of the day, and taking out the Hardcores was just the cherry on top of it all. Sure, they didn’t earn anything for taking out Headshot and his goons—Eternium dissuaded PKer’s by ensuring they earned no experience and couldn’t loot corpses—but they also didn’t get in any trouble. On top of there being no tangible benefit for PKing, the game actively punished Pkers by docking experience, reputation, giving you a player-killer aura that let people kill you for rewards or collect bounties from the local guards.

  Of course, if you killed another player in an act of self-defense, there was no negative downside. In this case, there was at least one upside—they got to teach the Hardcores a well-deserved lesson. To celebrate the victory, they made their way to the Square Dog Inn, which was nearly packed to the rafters with adventurers fresh from a long day grinding out experience and killing the local fauna with reckless abandon. By the greenery some were covered in, Sam surmised that there was a significant amount of flora destroyed as well.

  The bagpipe-playing bard was gone, replaced by a troupe of scantily clad brunette triplets, each playing a different instrument. One sat on a low stool, plucking the many strings of a zither, while another beat out an upbeat tempo on a leather-topped instrument that looked like a mix between a snare drum and a modern tambourine. The racket sounded like… racket. Everyone else seemed to like it, so Sam simply sighed and added another reason to get his perception up. As he was grumbling, the third triplet stood front and center, swaying and sashaying across the stage as she crooned a tune that left Sam’s cheeks burning red when he took the time to actually listen to the lyrics. It seemed this tavern only allowed those who were eighteen and older.

  The pub-goers, however, didn’t seem upset at the lyrics, just the opposite. They stomped along, waving full flagons of beer while more than a few sang along like a round of ye olde karaoke. Most of the singers couldn’t carry a tune if they had a bucket to hold it in, but that didn’t matter; everyone in the tavern was having the absolute time of their lives. Splashes of colored lights whisked across a dance floor filled with grooving bodies. Sa
m glanced up and saw that some enterprising soul had attached bits of colored glass to the massive wrought iron chandelier overhead, turning the whole apparatus into a makeshift disco ball. The sheer ingenuity of humans never ceased to amaze Sam.

  “Come on,” Dizzy called over her shoulder as she jostled her way into the press of bodies, clearing a path with her physical prowess. They fought their way all the way to the back of the inn, where Dizzy proceeded to order meals and drinks for everyone on the team. Not that Sam had any idea where exactly they were going to sit; abyss, even finding standing room was going to be a challenge considering how stuffed this place was. Dizzy leaned forward and exchanged a few quiet words with the bartender. After a few moments, a small leather bag left her palm and found its way into his pocket.

  “Follow me,” Dizzy called, cupping one hand around her mouth to be heard over the clamor and racket of the room. “I managed to get us a private room in the back for a little extra coin.”

  Beside the bar was a door, which Sam had just assumed lead back into the kitchen. False. The door led into a long hallway with a couple of private rooms off to the left and the right. The spaces weren’t huge, but they were recessed into the walls and far more secluded than the seating in the common area. The tables and chairs were also of a much finer quality than what was available for the masses. Instead of creaky wooden floorboards, the private rooms had colorful carpets laid out, candelabras poking out from the walls, and elegant trestle tables made of polished walnut.

  Dizzy had just bought them access to the VIP section of the Square Dog Inn. Nice. Sam thought that he could get used to this kind of treatment. Most of the private rooms were already occupied with parties of finely dressed heroes, but the last room on the right was open and waiting for them.

  Mugs and dinner were already set out on the table. Sam hadn’t seen any servers bustling through, but somehow, they’d managed to get the food and drinks out in the short span of time it had taken the party to walk back here. Now, that was service! Or the food had been sitting there for a while… he chose to believe in good service. The party crowded around the table and dropped into padded leather chairs—chairs a thousand times more comfortable than the wooden benches in the front. Sam let out an involuntary groan as he settled in; this felt celestial to his aching feet and adventure-sore legs.

  Then the aroma from the food hit him in the nose, and all thoughts of exhaustion fled as Sam recalled just how hungry he was… and how long it had been since lunch. He hunched forward, forearms resting on the polished tabletop, and inhaled the steam wafting from the wooden bowl in front of him.

  Sam picked up a spoon and ladled a bite into his mouth, burning his tongue in the process. In his mind, he circled ‘good service’ and scratched out ‘food had been sitting’; then he turned back to the food. It was a stew with chunks of tender lamb, sliced carrots, and cubes of potato all covered in a thick, brown gravy that tried to sing on his tongue. Rich, salty, with just a little bit of spice to balance out the lamb. The only downside was that after the initial burst of flavor, his perception ensured that all he tasted was the texture of the food. At that point, it may as well have been sewer special surprise.

  At least he wasn’t the only one eating, or he may have just given up. As it was, he was sure he would get some kind of ‘quality food’ bonus, so he kept going. The table was silent except for the scrape of spoons against bowls and the soft smacking of lips as everyone ate.

  About halfway through the meal, a serving girl in a wool outfit brought out several fresh loaves of bread, along with small wooden bowls filled to overflowing with creamy whipped butter. Sam was slogging his way through a second bowl of stew when Dizzy raised her mug and rapped against the side with a silver spoon, the *ting-ting-ting* drawing everyone’s attention.

  “Everyone who knows me knows that I’m not really one for making big speeches, but after a day like today… I figured someone should say something.” She shrugged apologetically. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you all for putting everything you had on the line today. We pushed hard, took some serious risks, and won a battle that we probably shouldn’t have walked away from.

  “But we did because we held our ground, worked together as a team, and trusted each other. I couldn’t be prouder. I think with the addition of these two spell-slingers… we are going to be unstoppable. I can feel it in my bones. Although we still don’t know how to form a proper Guild yet, I think it's high time we come up with a name for ourselves. Folks like the Hardcores should know who to cuss out after we kick their teeth in.” She paused, glancing at each face in turn, her eyes curiously lingering on Finn. “So. Ideas?”

  A contemplative silence fell over the gathering like a thick blanket.

  “How about the Wolf Pack?” Sphinx offered after enough time had passed for things to move into awkward territory.

  “But… the wolves are our enemies,” Finn politely pointed out, one eyebrow cocked as he swirled his mug.

  “That sure is true, ya know,” Sphinx bobbed her head in acknowledgment, “but I think that makes it even better. It lets everyone know they’d better not cross us unless they want more trouble than you can shake a stick at. Plus, we saw a pack fight today. They almost killed us and probably would have under any other circumstances. They worked as a team, and they weren’t afraid to protect what was theirs. They weren’t gonna let anyone push ’em around, right? It reminded me a lot of us, today, taking out the Hardcores. Those fur boys fought fierce, and they fought smart, but they’re still just overgrown dogs. Imagine us, having that coordination, but with the smarts and leadership to back it up.”

  “Dude,” Kai intoned solemnly, as though the single word were some great proclamation. “That’s like… super deep or whatever. I totally agree with you. There are a thousand worse examples for a team to, like, model themselves after. You’ve got my vote, pack sister.”

  “The Wolf Pack,” Dizzy slowly tested how the words felt on the tip of her tongue. “Wolf Pack. Yeah, I like it. Sam, Finn, Arrow? Any thoughts?”

  “I, for one, am just happy to be here,” Finn deflected with a wide grin. “I’ll add that I’m also in favor of the name; though full disclosure, I’m more than a little bit biased since the crest of House Laustsen is a lunging wolf on a field of gold and black.”

  “Well, that has to be a sign, right?” Sam added. “For what it’s worth, I think it’s cool too.”

  He thrust his hand into the center of the table. “So, can I get a ‘Wolf Pack’ on three?”

  They all piled their hands into the center, one on top of the other—Finn looked utterly lost but added his palm to the pile without comment—then broke after a brief three count, followed by a ‘Go~o~o Wolf Pack!’

  “Now,” Sam stood from the table, “if no one has anything else, there’s a party out there! Since this is my only day off for a week, I fully intend to take advantage of it! Who’s with me?”

  Bellies full and alcohol working through their systems, they ambled back out into the common room. Sam was more than a little surprised to see Dizzy grab Finn by the hand and pull him over to the dance floor, a grin on her face and a blush in her checks. Sam just stood there letting the intoxicating atmosphere wash over him like the incoming tide, taking in the shrill cry of the stringed instrument, the pounding of the drum, and the sultry voice of the lead singer. Trying to enjoy the scent of pipe smoke and roasted lamb in the air the instant before it all switched to smelling like… body odor. At least he could enjoy the good-natured laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the tinkle of silver coins as they changed hands or were shuffled across tabletops.

  This… this is what Sam had been missing since coming into Eternium. Right then and there, he decided that he was done playing by other people’s rules. He loved his class and wanted to see it through, but he wasn’t going to let those goobers at the College walk all over him anymore. He needed to perform his chores and attend his classes, but the second he got some free time tomorrow, he wa
s going to pack up his meager belongs and find somewhere else to hunker down. Staying at the College was convenient—especially considering the hours he worked—but he refused to let Octavius suck the fun out of this awesome world.

  Arrow slipped up beside him and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s really something, isn’t it? Hard to believe that this is all just part of some massive video game. I’ve only been here a few days, but I’m already starting to think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay here forever.”

  Sam choked. “Wait, is that possible?”

  “Not officially,” the man replied, thumping the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Word on the street, though, is there are a handful of people who are going perma. Mostly folks that are terminally ill but have heaps and heaps of moolah to throw around, but enough of that; leave it me to rain on your good time.”

  Arrow fell silent as though unsure how to proceed. After a moment, he asked, “Hey, don’t suppose you play cards, do you?”

  The only cards Sam had ever played was Enchanted Gathering, but he doubted that was the card game the Ranger meant. Still, he was in great spirits and was more than happy to lose a little silver if it meant more time with his new friends.

  “Nope,” Sam replied, “but I’d love to learn! Lead the way…”

  The rest of the night passed in a blur of too loud music, free-flowing booze, and one hand of cards after another. Sam had never played Texas Hold ’Em before, and he lost twenty silver and forty copper as a result, but he hadn’t had that much fun in ages. It seemed that there was a secondary benefit to playing games of chance as well.

  Characteristic point training completed! +1 to luck! This stat cannot be increased further by any means other than system rewards or lucky encounters for twenty-four hours game time.

  Eventually, Sphinx pulled him out onto the dance floor, where he cut a rug for nearly half an hour. He’d honestly never had more fun in his adult life. Sam was genuinely sad when a mostly sober Finn wrapped an arm around his shoulders and practically dragged him into the street.