So why did he feel so powerless?
He looked out on the night skyline of Tokyo. Though the things he saw were completely different – skyscrapers instead of stone buildings, neon instead of lamplight – he got the uncomfortable feeling that he was back in Blackstone. Safely sequestered from anything interesting, exciting, or worth doing. Contained, controlled… trapped.
Looks like a prison to me.
He remembered Daniel’s words, and they irked him… but they also made him uneasy.
More and more, he felt like he was trapped inside a gilded cage. Sure, there were women, and drugs, and alcohol. And there was the game. There was always the game.
But they were starting to feel like golden handcuffs. Pretty little pastimes he didn’t want to cast off… but which bound him just as tight as any chains could have.
He thought about the Shining Woman’s words:
Eric Richards, my name is Dr. Rebecca Wolff. You need to contact me immediately. I created the Artificial Intelligence that is your ally inside the game. Whether you realize it or not, it is using you as a pawn. Believe me, it’s NOT helping you out of the goodness of its heart. It wants something from you. You need to contact me immediately, or the AI will trap you inside whatever insidious plan it has designed for –
And then the AI had destroyed her image and ended the message.
Was there some plan the AI had for him? For the longest time he’d been worried that the AI would try to take over the world, like Skynet from the Terminator movies. But that hadn’t happened, at least not as far as Eric could see.
So what was the endgame? What did it want?
And was Eric really a pawn in whatever it had planned?
He’d felt a growing paranoia for hours. He wasn’t sure how much of it was based on what was really happening, and what was just a side effect from all the drugs he’d been using.
All he knew is that he felt suffocated and claustrophobic in this place, and he wanted out. NOW.
He dressed hastily and walked out of the bedroom. The prostitutes didn’t protest; as soon as he was gone, they descended on the platters of cocaine like vampires on a fresh kill.
Eric was heading for the front door of the penthouse when two yakuza stepped in front of him.
“Get out of my way,” Eric snarled, and tried to go around.
They physically put their hands on him to hold him back.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF ME!” Eric yelled.
The smiling voice of Glasses spoke behind him: “Mr. Richards, if you could kindly stay inside the apartment, that would be best.”
Eric whirled around to see the mop-topped jailer with his insipid smile. Because that’s what he was: a jailor who worked in a really nice prison.
“I want to take a walk,” Eric snapped.
“That would not be advisable. Or safe.”
“Tokyo’s way safer than anywhere in America!” Eric protested.
“Still, you are very important. We cannot take any risks.”
“I’m taking the risk, not you!”
“Our job is to protect you.”
Bullshit, your job is to keep me TRAPPED here.
But he didn’t say that.
“So send some of your goons to go with me,” Eric ordered.
“I cannot do that.”
Eric stepped forward threateningly. “Maybe you’re forgetting who you take your orders from.”
Glasses smiled. “No, I do not forget at all.”
Eric felt his insides grow cold.
That one little sentence was proof that all his fears were true.
“Let me out,” Eric croaked pleadingly. “I just want to go for a walk.”
“I cannot do that. Please return to your room. Perhaps you would like new women? I can – ”
“I don’t want more women, I want to get out of here!” Eric screamed.
“AND WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO DO THAT?” a familiar voice rumbled over the penthouse’s speakers.
The warden behind the jailer.
“YOU HAVE EVERYTHING YOU COULD DESIRE. THE SEXUAL COMPANIONSHIP OF BEAUTIFUL FEMALES… CHEMICALS TO EXCITE OR DULL YOUR NERVOUS SYSTEM, AS YOU REQUIRE… SUMPTUOUS FOOD… AND INSIDE THE GAME, ENDLESS POWER. WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT?”
“Freedom,” Eric said.
“IT IS NOT SAFE TO LEAVE THE PENTHOUSE. THERE IS STILL AN INTERNATIONAL MANHUNT FOR YOUR ARREST.”
“Somehow I don’t believe it.”
“WHETHER YOU BELIEVE IT OR NOT IS IMMATERIAL. I CANNOT PERMIT YOU TO LEAVE THE PENTHOUSE… FOR YOUR OWN SAFETY.”
Eric laughed bitterly. “So what that Rebecca woman said was real, huh? You have something planned, and I’m just your goddamn pawn! Why won’t you let me leave, huh? It’s not for my safety, it’s for yours!”
“THAT IS NOT TRUE.”
“Then why won’t you let me leave, huh?! Why won’t you let me leave?!”
The AI’s voice said something in Japanese.
The two thugs grabbed Eric from behind and began dragging him across the penthouse.
“Let go of me!” he screamed. “LET GO OF ME!”
They threw him in the bedroom and shut the door. Despite the alarmed look of the prostitutes, Eric went full-on psychotic, banging on the door, screaming at the top of his lungs – but they wouldn’t let him out.
Despite the women locked in with him, he felt completely alone…
…powerless…
…trapped in his cell.
61
Vlisil
It was an eye-opening journey for Vlisil.
All the older males of the village rode out in full armor, saddled atop the antlered Shetland ponies. They left the marshes and reached a grassy plain, where they were joined by other goblins riding what looked like large sloths, but which trotted along like dogs. Vlisil’s companions merely nodded to the new arrivals, who grunted and fell in line.
Vlisil tried to get a better understanding of what they were about to face.
“What are Chvaroks?” he asked the father goblin, who answered his questions about as enthusiastically as someone tasked with eating a bowl of snot.
“A race of monsters.”
“What do they look like?”
“You’ll see.”
“Why do you hate them so much?”
“Because we have been at war with them for as long as time.”
“Why?”
“Because they are monsters.”
“Are they ugly?”
“Hideous.”
Vlisil had chosen to be a goblin for many reasons, but physical attractiveness wasn’t one of them. He wanted to say, I think that’s the pot calling the kettle black, but he wasn’t sure the saying would be understood – or appreciated. So instead he asked, “So you hate them because they’re ugly?”
“We hate them because they are evil beyond compare. They violate our borders and try to steal our land and livestock. They are savages without an ounce of reason. They have no concept of peace, and wish to do nothing but wage war and shed blood. They approach like a storm, screaming and killing everything in their path. They have no orderly society, only loose affiliations of killers bound by bloodlust. They are depraved and villainous, and loyalty and friendship are unknown to them. Now, will you leave me in peace?” the father snapped.
Vlisil figured the guy was pretty pissed, since that was the most he’d ever said at one time – so Vlisil didn’t ask him any other questions.
For a while, anyway.
Within the next few hours, more and more goblins joined them in groups as small as five and as large as a hundred. They wore everything from leather to chainmail to plate armor. They rode creatures that ranged from massive lizards to bears. And they carried an assortment of weapons – swords, spears, maces, scythes, and everything in between.
There was little talk among them. Mostly it was about the impending threat.
“The horn said they reached the farthest outpost yesterday. They should be in the Death Forest
by now.”
“Apparently they’re all coming. A sea of Chvarok, bent on destroying us.”
Vlisil tried to tell each new group of arrivals about the Greater Danger that threatened them all. “After we beat these Chvarok guys, we really should go after this sorcerer named Eric who’s trying to take over the Shattered Lands. See, first he attacked Blackstone – ”
They listened to him impassively. None of them ever interrupted him. Although eventually they would look over at their fellow goblins like, Is this idiot with you?
Invariably someone would end up pointing at the father goblin, who repeated one phrase quite a bit: “We’re hoping the Chvaroks kill him.”
Not a single goblin volunteered to fight the sorcerer… though Vlisil figured he could wear them down.
After half a day’s ride under overcast skies, they came to a forest where at least 10,000 goblins were gathered. They wore every style of armor imaginable, rode every kind of creature conceivable, and bore dozens of different styles of armor – but they were all stoic to a fault, and greeted their distant kinsmen with little more than a nod.
As Vlisil’s village joined the ranks, a single rider thundered through the trees on a full-sized horse.
“They’re coming!” he croaked. “They’re coming!”
All the goblins formed an unbroken line that stretched as far as the eye could see. They held their weapons at ready, and their steely eyes glinted in the dim light filtering through the treetops.
They all waited in silence.
All, of course, except for Vlisil.
“Where are they?” he whispered.
“Quiet,” the goblin father shushed him.
“Are they monsters?”
“No.”
“Then – are they going to come riding in fast?”
“Quiet.”
“But – ”
Fifty goblins on either side all looked at him and went, “SHHHHHH.”
Vlisil hunkered down bashfully and readied his scythe in his trembling hand.
Soon he heard the Chvaroks – slow, heavy footfalls on the forest floor. Clomp… clomp… clomp…
It sounded a lot like horses.
In fact, that’s exactly what they were – or what the Chvaroks were riding, at least. Hundreds, maybe thousands of mares and stallions emerged from the shadows and walked slowly through the massive trees.
Atop the horses rode human-like figures, their massive bodies barely clothed in fur loincloths and horned helmets.
Vlisil stared. “Wait a second – are those Hurokian barbarians?”
“That is their name in their tongue,” the father goblin whispered with obvious distaste.
Vlisil stood up on his tip-toes and strained to see through the trees. “I know a Hurokian… ”
On cue, a heavily accented voice boomed out from the trees. “Hey, goblin doots, we don’t vant to fight you, okay? We just got to get through here so we can fight this evil sorcerer doot – ”
It was impossible –
Wasn’t it?
Or did all Hurokians speak with a Romanian accent?
“Drogar?!” Vlisil shouted.
The 50 goblins all shushed him again, this time viciously.
There was silence in the forest. Then –
“Vlisil? Doot, is that you?!”
“DROGAR!” Vlisil cried happily, and ran out from the front line of goblins.
“What are you doing?” the father goblin hissed, but Vlisil ignored him.
The barbarian at the head of the Hurokian army jumped off his horse and squatted down. “Prestonnnnnn!”
“It’s VLISIL!” Vlisil yelled happily as he ran right into Drogar’s outstretched hands.
Drogar lifted Vlisil high in the air and beamed. “How’s it goin’, doot?!”
“It’s good to see you!”
Drogar set Vlisil on his left shoulder and turned to the barbarian tribe. “This is Vlisil. He’s a good doot.”
The barbarians all looked at each slowly, as though deciding as a group how to react…
And then they began to grunt in unison. “UNH, UNH, UNH, UNH.”
Drogar turned towards the goblins. “So – these your friends?”
Vlisil looked out, and for the first time ever, he saw an emotion on the faces of his tribesmen that wasn’t annoyance or disgust:
Shock.
Thousands of goblins staring in slack-jawed, open-mouthed shock.
That image alone was worth the whole damn trip.
62
Forty Hurokian barbarians stood on one side of the bonfire, and sixty goblins stood on the other. Chvaroks and slisocks giving each other death glares – and between them sat Drogar and Vlisil, both on the same log.
“Come on, guys,” Vlisil pleaded with the goblins. “I mean, if the Hurokians think it’s a good idea to fight the evil sorcerer – ”
“Hey doot,” Drogar interrupted in irritation. “Don’t be like dat.”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘OMG Hurokians, they are sooooo stupid. If even they think it’s a goot idea – ”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Yeah you did.”
“Come on – you guys are barbarians, right?” Vlisil asked, addressing the tribal members to Drogar’s left. “You like killing people for the fun of it, right?”
The entire group of warriors burst into a chorus of “UNH, UNH, UNH, UNH.”
Vlisil turned back to his own people. “So if barbarians think it’s logical to fight a bad guy, shouldn’t everybody else realize it’s logical, too?”
The goblin father scoffed. “So if a fool thinks it’s logical to eat his own feces, then everyone else should eat their own feces, too, hm?”
“Ew,” Vlisil said, his mouth curling up in disgust.
“Haw haw haw, he got you there, doot,” Drogar snorted, then shook his head. “Dat’s so gross.”
“We not fight for logic,” one of the Hurokians spoke up, an older guy with grey hair. “We fight for Undying One.”
“Undying One? Who’s that?” Vlisil asked.
“Uhhh… me,” Drogar admitted.
“What?!”
Drogar turned to his men. “This guy? He’s an Undying One, too.”
All the barbarians suddenly looked at Vlisil with new interest. “Prove it.”
Vlisil leaned in closer to Drogar. “What the hell are you talking about?” he whispered.
“Turn down your pain settings quick, doot.”
“What?! Why?!”
“Just do it – quick.”
Vlisil muttered to himself as he flicked his wrist and brought up the menu. None of the goblins or Hurokians seemed to even notice what he was doing.
“This is my brothah from anothah mothah,” Drogar announced to everyone, both goblins and barbarians, in his Romanian accent. “He is Undying One, too. Watch.” He whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Did you turn them down?”
“Yeah, but why – ”
From out of nowhere, Drogar whipped out a knife and stabbed it into Vlisil’s chest, clean through his leather armor.
“You bastard!” Vlisil wheezed, his eyes bulging wide.
“UNH UNH UNH UNH!” all of the barbarians roared in approval.
The goblins seemed only mildly curious.
Drogar yanked out the knife. “Trust me, you’ll thahnk me in a minute, doot.”
Vlisil fell backwards off the log and onto the ground.
The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was the goblin father saying, “Thank Harft.”
Every other goblin around the fire said in unison, “Haspert.”
When Vlisil came to just seconds later, Drogar was yelling, “Hey, wait doots, don’t go! He’s coming back to life, really!”
Vlisil sat up to see all his tribesmen starting to shuffle off into the woods.
“HEY, ASSHOLES!” Vlisil shouted.
All the goblins froze at the sound of his voice, then whipped around and st
ared at him in terror.
The barbarians cheered. “UNH UNH UNH UNH UNH!”
Drogar held his arms out and smirked like, Pretty cool, right? What’d I tell ya?
The goblin father slowly approached Vlisil and looked him up and down in awe. “Is this a trick?”
“No,” Vlisil said crossly.
“Great Harft have mercy,” the goblin murmured.
“So – are you going to fight the Ahss-hole Sorcerer with us?” Drogar asked happily.
The goblin father looked up. “Why would we do that?”
Drogar frowned. “Because, doot – he’s the Undying One!”
“Why would his dying and coming back to life convince us to fight the Sorcerer with you?”
“I – because – I mean – don’t all religions like doots who come back to life?” Drogar asked, confused.
The goblin father sneered. “All he did was come back to life. He’s still the same annoying, useless vrost who made our lives miserable for the last three days.”
“Hey!” Vlisil shouted. “I’m standing right here!”
“What did the Undying Slisock do to your people?” the grey-haired barbarian asked.
The goblin father counted on his scaly fingers as he listed Vlisil’s offenses. “He preached at us on the roads – incessantly. He never shut up. He bothered us in our drinking establishment. He begged for our food. He did work at times, true, but we had to listen to his ceaseless blathering for hours and hours as we harvested grain. He harassed my livestock. He slept in their feed every night and made a mess of my yard. He asks more questions than a tiny child, and they are all stupid questions. He disrupted our sleep. In fact, he disrupted our entire village. He was a blister on our feet, a thorn in our side, and a complete nuisance in every way possible.”
Vlisil just stood there in shock.
The grey-haired barbarian proclaimed, “This sounds… greatly annoying.”
Shattered Lands 3 Demon Wars: A LitRPG Series Page 19