War of the Posers

by Eric Ugland

  “The drain spell?”

  “Yes. That is the one I have never seen.”

  “So you want me to drain something?”

  “Yes. I need to see what happens, both to see the magic as it happens, to try and get some notion of why it is occurring, but also to see what you get from it. How things change on your character sheets.”

  “Um, I guess that’s something I can do. But, it’s not like some orphan child is it?”

  “I may be old and cantankerous, but I am not a monster.”

  “Was Elizabeth the Demon a monster?”

  “Well, she was a demon. So. Well. I suppose a lot of that depends on if you consider demons monsters or demons, right?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I knew of her. I was one of the ones who confronted her after the truth was discovered. I tried to save the woman, the Empress, but I fear she did not want to be saved. She thought she was doing the right thing. And getting into whether or not she was in the right, well, that is just opening up a cavern of kobolds.”

  “Maybe you can give me a little more insight into the history of the country, though.”

  “It is not quite time for that sort of a lesson, I fear. Which is a shame — once you get me talking about history, it is hard for me to stop. Regardless, you have an issue we must address. So, will you drain this creature?”

  “I’m not going to say yes or no until I know what it is you want me to drain,” I said.

  “A good point. I got a bit ahead of myself there. But do not worry,” he said, “I have chosen a creature I have had quite a few issues with over the past few years. Not sure how they keep sneaking into my home, but they are horrible beasts bent on eating poor Snickers. And anything else living.”

  He unlocked one of the doors and disappeared inside. I heard some rambling about inside, a few things falling over, and a litany of curses. Then I saw a bright spark and a small explosion.

  “Everything okay in there?” I asked.

  The door swung open and the old man’s face popped out and looked around.

  “Are you talking to me?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I heard—“

  “I am fine.”

  He disappeared back into the room, but almost immediately returned, pulling a small wheeled cart loaded down with a heavy metal cage. Inside the cage was a horrific, writhing mass of green tentacles with purple tips, topped with a bulbous green head. The creature had a purple face, three eyes, each of a different color, and a large mouth full of small, conical teeth.

  The creature writhed and pulled at the bars of the cage, snapping at the old wizard until it saw me. Then it started snapping at me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It is an oreiðuotur,” The Fayden said.

  I paused, trying to figure out if I wanted to try to pronounce it myself.

  I did not.

  “Okay,” I said. “What, uh—“

  “Is is a beast out of the gloom,” The Fayden said, peering at the creature. “Very fond of sneaking around and eating things. And poisoning things. Vile, really. They kill as many things as they can, even if they are not hungry. They just like violence, and death. I have to say, not exactly sure how they are getting into my hall, but they are, and they have disposed of a few little furry friends of mine. So there is no love lost between me and these oreiðuotur. So, acceptable to drain?”

  “I guess, yeah.”

  “Splendid,” he said, and gestured that I should go ahead and try.

  I was a little hesitant, because I wasn’t exactly sure if drain worked on just any creature. I’d really only used it on, well, sapient creatures. And some undead, so that might be a clue it could work on anything. Still, this was a place for experimentation, so I got closer to the cage. Each step I took, though, the creature thrashed about harder and harder, trying to get to me. There was no fear in it, only rage and violence. It was almost palpable, and it made me feel better about killing the thing.

  The big problem was going to be figuring out how to touch it without getting my hand bit off. The oreiðuotur was not keen on cooperating in that regard. So I did the ol’ toddler trick.

  I snapped my fingers on my left hand, and waved it about, and while the monster focused on the left hand, I snuck my right hand in and grabbed a tentacle.

  The oreiðuotur roared with disapproval, and I felt a horrible sharp pain in my right hand. I looked in time to see a spine come out the back of my hand, followed by a generous spurt of my blood.

  “Mother fu—“ I started, but then another tentacle wrapped around my right arm, and spines shot through my forearm in several places. It felt like my arm was on fire, and pain just radiated everywhere, electric agony. It robbed me of the ability to speak, and I just started breathing heavy. My eyes watered, and I could barely remember what it was I was there to do. I could feel the spines in my arm, vibrating and undulating.

  “Concentrate,” The Fayden roared out, his voice not at all matching his tiny frame. “Remember what you are doing here!”

  It was like being hit by a physical wave of sound, and immediately my spell came into my mind. I managed to tamp the pain down enough that I could think. I pulled mana into my arm, and even though my eyes were only partly open, I could see the mana leaking out into the world through the holes the oreiðuotur made.

  I think it felt the magic welling, and it tried to pull back, to get away from whatever I was doing. But I wasn’t about to let the oreiðuotur get away.

  In a flash, I cast Lesser Drain. Despite the incredible pain, I could feel something coming into me.

  Whizz-bang! You’ve absorbed the following from the oreiðuotur: +3 Dexterity, -50 HP. And you have gained the at-will ability Darkness.

  GG! You’ve killed an oreiðuotur (Lvl 16 monster)

  You’ve earned 0 xp! What a mighty hero you are!

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  I woke up to the sound of people yelling.

  “I did not know he had to touch the thing!” I heard The Fayden shouting.

  “But why that poisonous—“ Mrs. The Fayden said.

  “Because did not know he had to touch the thing!”

  “Why not a rat?”

  “Why kill a harmless rat?”

  “Because they carry diseases and eat our food.”

  “We have more food than we need.”

  “A rat would not have done this!”

  “It might have bitten the lad.”

  “But not poisoned him.”

  “They are disease vectors.”

  “Still would not have poisoned him.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “He will be, eventually. But that oreiðuotur venom is terrible stuff.”

  “The holes in his arm?”

  “Should be closing...”

  Pain in my arm again.

  “See?” Mrs. The Fayden said. “All better.”

  “Wake up, Clyde,” Maximus The Fayden said, giving me a firm shake.

  “I’m up,” I mumbled.

  “Open your eyes.”

  It hurt to open them, and it made my head spin.

  The The Faydens were standing over me, both looking a little concerned.

  “You made it out alive,” The Fayden said, a big smile spreading under his drooping mustache.

  I nodded, and pushed myself to a seated position.

  “That sucked,” I said.

  “I take full responsibility,” The Fayden replied. “I should have asked how that spell worked first. It might have, uh, kept me from using that particular monster.”

  “I feel like I might need to supervise your lessons, dear,” Mrs. The Fayden said with a disapproving tone.

  “Nonsense,” The Fayden said. “I am a master wizard!”

  “Who clearly has not taught a pupil in several hundred years.”

  “Just like riding a horse,” he quipped. “I am picking it all back up.”

  I looked
at my arm as the two bickered. It had certainly looked better. It was currently covered in red welts that looked an awful lot like new skin. It was a testament to just how many holes the oreiðuotur had made. A lot.

  “Did you get what you needed from the experiment?” I asked.

  “Experiment?” Mrs. The Fayden asked, her voice going up an octave. “This was an experiment?!?”

  “Now, I am not sure that I would use that particular term for the thing we were doing,” The Fayden said very quickly. “It was, well, we had to examine how a spell works, what the effects of the spell were, and how that might alter the young elf here.”

  “What word might you use, then, to describe it?”

  “Experiment is actually rather accurate, if you can, um, remove some of the negative connotations you seem to be placing up on it.”

  “Foolish, dangerous, and reckless?”

  “It was none of those things. Except maybe the second. And third. But at no point was it foolish.”

  I looked at the remains of the oreiðuotur in the cage. It was hard to believe that thing had done as much damage to me as it had, all things considered, because now it looked mostly like a deflated balloon. A balloon of nightmares, but more like a balloon than a murder-machine.

  “Are you listening, elf boy?” The Fayden asked.

  “No,” I said, noticing that Mrs. The Fayden had left our little room. “I was, uh, looking at the oreiðuotur.”

  “The thing we are not admitting is an experiment actually gave me some good data points. Again, I apologize for not realizing it was a touch spell. Which I really should have. A spell like that would naturally involve some contact. Too much to just pull in out of the air, you know?”

  “What were you looking to figure out? And what did you figure out?”

  “Nothing definitive as of yet. I fear we still have a little work to do on that front, but I am cautiously optimistic I can figure out what is wrong with you.”

  “I didn’t think anything was wrong with me.”

  “There has to be a reason you’re still at ninth level.”

  “Oh, that. Yeah.”

  “Rather large problem. That oreiðuotur is not too robust a creature, and yet, you very nearly died. Were it not for Sila, here, and the fact that she has studied quite a bit more healing than I have, you would have been off to another adventure elsewhere.”

  “Are you trying to say I almost died?”

  “Yes. And you should not have. Your hit points are worrisome, especially if you continue in your current career as a, well, whatever it is you do.”

  “Guild leader.”

  “It is not a guild though, is it? A guild has some trade in common, typically a commercial endeavor. But not your Skull and Thrones.You do not seem interested in making money. You are more a society. A brotherhood. An organization. Maybe even a charity. Of course, saying you are the Skull and Thrones charity is just going to confuse everyone. And probably make them think you are ripe for being taken over. But in any case, probably a better idea to get a little tougher if you are going to continue. Now, back on your feet. Lessons are done for the day. Get a little food in you — you will likely feel better with some ballast in your belly. Oh, and best not use that drain spell any more. Not until we figure it out. Something is happening with it and you, something I do not like at all. I hate to do that — I rather detest limiting the spells one has. I think it foolish. Magic is a tool. But if you do not know what a tool can do, it will hurt you. Or others. So—“

  “No drain spell,” I said.

  “Bingo,” he replied with a wink. Then he helped me up, and I was reminded once again that even though he looked old and frail, he wasn’t frail in the slightest. Nor was he incredibly strong — there was just a stability to him. He even helped me walk along the large open hall until I got to the stairs leading up. Then he didn’t exactly shove me inside, but as soon as I was on the other side of the door, he shut it.

  I was exhausted, both from all the spells I cast and the near-death experience. The prospect of climbing all those stairs was daunting. I stared at them for a second, then promised myself I’d refrain from puking until I got to the twentieth flight.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  As soon as I stepped outside into the harsh autumn sunlight, I stretched and my stomach growled. I wanted food.

  “Master Clyde,” a growly voice said softly to my left.

  I glanced over to see a kobold peeking out of a sewer grate.

  “You have not seen me,” the kobold said, in Kobold. I think he meant that I should pretend not to see him. He was trying to remain hidden. “I have message to give you.”

  I knelt down, and was about to pretend to tie my shoes when I realized I was wearing boots. With no laces. Instead, while kneeling, I pulled out my dagger and pretended to scrape something off the bottom of my boot.

  “Give me the message,” I said, in Kobold.

  “You are to meet Mister Titus and Master Lothar at the Grumbling Grundling.”

  “Where is that?”

  “The Bright. Tenthford and Waterson. You get?”

  “I understand.”

  He nodded once, then dropped out of view. I was left looking at my boot.

  I sighed, and looked around for a food cart of some kind, but no such luck. Instead, I hailed a passing hansom carriage, something new I had started to see around the city, and got a ride over to the Bright.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Thankfully, the Grumbling Grundling was a pub. It wasn’t the best pub — the food was nowhere near as good as what I got at the Heavy Purse — but then again, I’m rather biased when it comes to pubs in Glaton. I was so hungry I felt like I was going to faint, so I didn’t even bother to look for my comrades. Instead, I just went straight to the bar and ordered a meal.

  Most of the lower-class places in Glaton just offered meals, you got whatever they were cooking that day. Only the posh restaurants let you choose exactly what you were going to eat. At first it bothered me, but I got used to it. There was a certain freedom in it, not having to make a decision beyond, ‘am I eating?’

  Today’s meal was a hunk of grilled meat on top of piece of flatbread, warm and fresh out of the oven. And while it came with a mug of mead, I asked for milk. It got me a certain look of derision from the patrons, but I knew milk was cheaper than mead in the city at the time, so I was actually doing the tavern’s proprietor a favor.

  I scarfed the food down in an assuredly unpleasant and unhealthy manner.

  “Rough morning?” Titus asked, taking a spot at the bar next to me.

  “Yes,” I said, trying to keep the meat from falling out of my mouth.

  “Chew with your mouth closed, you barbarian.”

  “Hungry,” I replied. I swallowed a large bite. “Why am I here?”

  “Besides the food and company?”

  “I mean, obviously. What else?”

  “I trailed the man who runs the Gilded Garden here. You know, the building your uh, friends own.”

  “To a tavern in the Bright?”

  “He’s got a house, a bit closer to the wall, just east of here.”

  “Okay, and?”

  “Lothar and I were thinking of paying him a visit. Seeing if we might, well, encourage him to tell us about his friends and co-workers. I thought you might be a good one to have along, seeing that you know more about his fellows than anyone else.”

  “This encouragement you speak of — what exactly does it entail?”

  “Oh, friendly conversation with a little light touching.”

  “Blood and guts?”

  “Probably not the latter. Are you concerned about your outfit? Because you shouldn’t be. I don’t know what’s on it, but you look disgusting.”

  “Explains the look I got when coming in here,” I said, finally looking at myself and realizing that I did have quite a panoply of blood and other fluids on myself. Plus, the right sleeve of my shirt and jacket was closer to fishnet than full cloth
at that point. Stupid oreiðuotur. “Clearly clothes are not something I worry about. If we get into the light touching and affectionate caresses I think you’re talking about, we’re headed in a direction I’m not sure I want to go.”

  “Run that by me once more?”

  “Doing that, being people who get— romantic. To me that crosses a line, and we become the sort of people I’d never want to be.”

  Titus thinned his lips and shook his head. “Having those sorts of nice interactions with people is a key aspect of getting information from them.”

  “First of all, it’s not as effective as everyone says it is.”

  “If someone doesn’t think it’s effective, perhaps they don’t have the kind of gentle touch that I do.”

  “Perhaps, but many people smarter than I am have studied the topic. And the general consensus is that it’s not very useful.”

  “I humbly disagree,” Titus said, a little tired of the conversation.

  “That’s fine. But the other half of this, uh, should we kiss and whatnot, is the kissing and telling aspect.”

  “I’m getting lost in the metaphor.”

  “If we have an “intimate” time with the man you followed, even if we do get some reliable, uh, intelligence from him, what’s to stop him from chatting with someone else about the, uh, well, “intimate” times we had with him?”

  He bit down on his lip, and tapped a coin on the bar. The bartender came over, Titus ordered an ale, and I waited. It was clear Titus needed time to think, so I returned to shoveling food into my mouth.

  After a few sips, Titus nodded a little.

  “I may disagree with you on the first point,” he said, “but the second point is quite salient. We would have to enter into a forced relationship with the man.”

  I nodded. “And I don’t think we’re ready for that sort of commitment. It’s quite a long step between getting to know his friends and dealing with those friends.”