by James Hunter
I simply stood there, flabbergasted by Cutter’s words. Just when I thought I had him figured out, he somehow managed to surprise me. Not for the first time, I found myself wondering if he was real or not; he was an NPC, but maybe that was a term that didn’t really fit. I’d done a lot of late-night reading lately, and there were a lot of rumors flying around the various game wikis and forums about the uncannily realistic NPCs. Some very smart people—governmental computer scientists, groundbreaking physicists, and engineers of all stripes—seemed to think the NPCs were self-aware. After all, they reasoned, V.G.O. had millions of IRL human brains mapped out in exquisite detail, so why wouldn’t the Overminds just replicate the same layout for NPCs? If that were the case, they would essentially be as “real” as any of the downloaded players, even if they were unaware of the greater world outside V.G.O.
“You’re welcome,” I finally said, trying to fight off the laundry list of existential questions running through my head. He gave me a curt nod as I turned and headed for the hidden chamber secreted away in the back of the library.
It took me another twenty minutes to collect the remainder of the hundred pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore I needed for the quest, but Cutter had been right about stumbling upon the motherload. The hidden chamber—formerly the lair of the Void Terror Drake—held at least another four or five hundred pounds of the stuff, and that was assuming the ore deposits didn’t replenish over time. The chieftain had said the Void Terrors lived off the metal, munching on it like snack food, so maybe the giant stock of ore was the reason my new pet, Devil, had grown to such a hefty size.
Unfortunately, there was no type of teleport, so we had to trek all the way back to the entrance, which cost us another hour, but thankfully this time no Void Terrors tormented us along the way. Now that I had the ability to capture Void Terrors, though, I was silently hoping the creatures would eventually respawn. I’d never really enjoyed the summoner classes in general, but having a few creatures like Devil in my arsenal could be a game changer.
We exited through the same shimmering portal we’d entered through, and quickly backtracked up the gloomy mineshaft to the surface.
“What the bollocks?” Cutter exclaimed, shielding his eyes against the glare of sunlight as we stepped through the dilapidated mineshaft entryway and into the forest beyond. He squinted, blinking sporadically, working to adjust his eyes to the bright noonday light. “But …” He paused, glancing up at the blue sky above, then back toward the mine. “But we were in there”—he waved a hand toward the cavern—“for hours. Five or six at least …” He paused again, lifting a hand as he counted on his fingers. “It should be close to dark, but I’d say we haven’t lost more than an hour or two. What the bollocks?” he asked again, confusion evident on his face.
I looked around, studying the sky above. He was right. Given the amount of time we’d spent below, the sun should’ve been dipping below the horizon, but instead it was looming almost directly overhead.
“It is the Shadowverse,” Amara said nonchalantly, as though stating a truth so self-evident any five-year-old would know it. She glided forward, moving for the trees. “The time, it moves differently in that place,” she said, halting for a beat and staring at us. “It moves faster. Sometimes much faster. An hour in there may be only minutes here. This is a thing everyone knows.” She fixed me with a level stare, canting her head to one side. “You of all people should know this, Shadowmancer. Now, you said time is of the essence, so let us move.” She turned without waiting for a reply and quickly picked her way into the thick foliage, slipping through the forest on silent feet, leaving us no choice but to follow in her wake.
Amara set a demanding pace, not giving us a chance to talk or do much other than chase after her through the woods, but we did make spectacular time. It was just after 1:00 PM when we stumbled back into Yunnam, sweaty, out of breath, and grimy from the day’s work. Despite being relatively early—at least according to my user interface—I was weary to the bone. Exhausted down to my core. We headed into the city via the west gate and made our way through the town in search of Chief Kolle. Even after spending several days here, I still hadn’t gotten used to the strange buildings or the irregular, sprawling layout of the place.
Instead of being built in any sort of organized grid like most towns or cities, Yunnam was constructed among twisted, hulking, moss-covered trees. And the structures themselves were odd things, each sitting high above the ground, precariously perched on wooden stilts: a safeguard from the monsoon rains that came in the late fall. The homes and shops were constructed from an amalgamation of wood, mud, and palm fronds, all cobbled together with bits of leather, swatches of luminescent moss, and gobs of silvery spider silk, which still gave me the chills whenever I saw it.
I’d never forget the giant spider that tried to cocoon me alive.
We received friendly nods from idle clansfolk as we meandered through the town. They’d distrusted me and Cutter at first, but their wariness had faded after I’d managed to slay the Moss Hag, earning myself the title of Maa-Tál in the process. Strangely, the townspeople had also taken a certain shine to Cutter even though he wasn’t Dokkalfar, a Dark Templar, or even a generally decent human being. As far as I could figure, they’d sort of adopted him, and now they treated him like a bumbling, incorrigible, but loveable village drunk.
It was a genuine mystery to me, but a useful one.
It took us another ten minutes of walking, and a few quick conversations with the locals, to track down the chief. We found him on the east side of the village, speaking with a hunched, white-haired Murk Elf with a bad limp, named Som. Som was also the name for a type of lumpy, extremely sour pink fruit that grew in the swamps. Som the man was lumpy and extremely sour too, so I thought his name was spot on. The old elf held an unfurled sheet of parchment with intricate building schematics sketched out in painstaking detail, which he glanced at as the chief talked.
Som—aside from being old, lumpy, and sour—was also Yunnam’s chief architect.
“I understand your reservations,” the chief was saying, his arms folded behind his back, “but we need to have it done, Som. And fast. I don’t care what it takes.”
“But two weeks!” the old elf grumbled, glancing between his blueprints and the palisade wall in turns. “No, sir. Nope. We don’t have the manpower, and even if we did, we don’t have the resources—”
“Enough,” Chief Kolle said, holding out one hand as though to halt the onslaught on protests. “You’ll figure it out. You always do. And I have someone working on the resources. Ah”—he turned, catching sight of us as we approached—“speak of Thanatos and so he shall appear.” He waved a hand at us, his eyes narrowing as he took in our dirt-caked skin and blood-covered armor. His lips quirked into a faint smile. “I take it the ‘ore grind,’ wasn’t quite as easy as you were anticipating?” His barely-there smile grew just a smidge.
“There were a few complications I hadn’t planned on,” I admitted, glancing away as red crept into my cheeks. “But we got the ore,” I finished, “and I also managed to bind my first Void Terror.” The last, I added with a slight shrug, as though it was hardly worth mentioning.
“Excellent,” he said, coming over and clapping me on the shoulder, not even trying to hide his smile now. “The Dark Conclave will be pleased with your progress, Grim Jack.” He stepped back and rubbed at his chin thoughtfully. “I was right about you,” he mused after a time. “There’s a lot of raw potential in you, boy, if only I can train you to unlock it.”
“Here,” I said, reaching into my sack, selecting the Raw Darkshard Ore, then triggering a transfer with the chief. He accepted gratefully, and a new notification appeared before me:
<<<>>>
Quest Alert: Gather Raw Darkshard Ore
You have successfully gathered the 100 pounds of Raw Darkshard Ore needed to construct several Arcane Shadow Cannons. In return for your effort, you have received 15,000 EXP, schematics for the Arcane Shadow
Cannons, and increased reputation with the Dark Conclave and the Shadow Pantheon.
<<<>>>
“There’s more, Father,” Amara piped in. “The woman, Abby, has sent a message. She will be porting to the edge of our territory sometime today. In the interest of our people, I’d like to assemble Baymor and the others for an escort mission.” She paused, her violet eyes flashing in annoyance. “We would hate to have our long-awaited guests end up as food for the Mairng Mong.”
“Yes, of course,” the chieftain said, waving a dismissive hand at her. “See the woman safely here. Now, Jack.” The chief turned back to me. “You and Cutter look quite ...” He paused, lips stretched into a thin, disapproving line. “Disheveled. You also stink worse than the pigpen. Perhaps you should bathe and rest before your guest arrives—I have a feeling we have a very long night ahead of us.”
NINE: Reunion
A sharp bang, bang, bang, which lingered in the air like an unanswered question, jarred me from an uneasy nap. I blinked my eyes open against the low firelight filling the small room Cutter and I shared. Slowly, I propped myself up on my elbows and surveyed the room through a sleepy haze as I fought to get my thoughts in order. I smacked dry lips, shook my head, then sat all the way up and rubbed my palms into my eye sockets. After a few seconds, my vision adjusted to the sparse light. Cutter was asleep on a small pallet in the corner, his limbs splayed out like a starfish while he snored contentedly.
I wasn’t sure when he’d gotten back—last time I’d seen him, he was at a tavern, throwing down glass after glass of mead, drunkenly delighting the townsfolk with tales of his derring-do. “Celebrating,” he said when I asked what he was doing. What exactly he was celebrating, however, was a bit unclear.
Hastily, I pulled open my user interface and glanced at the time—it was creeping up on 6:00 PM, which meant I’d been asleep for a little over two hours. Still early, then.
After getting back from the mines, I’d cleaned up in the communal bathhouse—furiously scrubbing away the dirt and blood with a thick bar of soap—before venturing over to a local crafter to get my gear looked at. Most of my armor was well above average, but that didn’t make it immune from the ravages of everyday wear and tear, not to mention ferocious battles with fire-breathing shadow dragons. Well, shadow Drakes, I suppose. After turning my Night Blessed Armor in, I’d grabbed a bowl of sticky rice—a Murk Elf specialty—for a little snack, then headed off for some well-deserved shuteye.
Two hours was not nearly enough sleep.
The knock came again, this time louder and more insistent. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. “Grim Jack,” came the chieftain’s deep voice. “Amara has returned with your friends. They’re currently eating a meal over at my dwelling.” He paused thoughtfully. “If you’re too tired,” he said, “I can see them to guest quarters and you can meet in the morning.”
His words came like a sharp punch to the gut, and I was on my feet in seconds, my weariness forgotten in a flood of excitement. “Just a second, Chief,” I called out as I hustled over to Cutter. For a heartbeat, I considered just leaving him be, but then decided against it—he’d be pissed to high heaven if he thought I was trying to cut him out of the new faction. “Let me just wake up Cutter and we’ll be right out.”
I nudged the thief in the ribs with the toe of my boot. “Cutter,” I said, prodding him insistently. He snorted, mumbling something about bollocks and morons before turning onto one side, offering me his back. “Cutter.” I planted a sharp kick in his exposed kidney. He shot up in an instant, hands going for his twin daggers as he instinctively searched for threats.
When he spotted me looming over him, he visibly relaxed even while a deep frown crept across his face. He glared at me and held up one hand to shield his eyes from the sparse light. “Gods, my head,” he grunted, reaching up and rubbing at one temple. “Might have overdone it a bit with the drinking. It’s that damned Law-jiu these Murky bastards drink. Doesn’t even taste like alcohol, but a couple pints’ll knock you arsewise quicker than a pissed-off Risi.” He paused, massaging his temples more thoroughly. “Also,” he continued, “not sure where you hail from, friend, but word to the wise: here in Eldgard it’s bad form to wake a man who’s sleeping off a bender. It’s a good way to get shivved.”
I crossed my arms and tapped a foot impatiently on the floor, unmoved by his threats. “They’re here, Cutter. Abby and Otto are finally here, so pull yourself together.” The words sobered him up rather quickly, and in next to no time, he was on his feet and slinking toward the door, muttering “we’re gonna be filthy, filthy rich” the whole time.
The chief was waiting patiently for us at the bottom of the wooden staircase, leaning casually against the trunk of a twisted surgham tree. “Good to see you both up and ready,” he offered tersely. It only took us a few minutes to make our way to the chief’s tree—a fat, gnarled thing with giant boughs branching off from the trunk, clawing at the sky like an army of withered fingers. Great ropes of moss clung to every branch and twig, pulsing with a soft light.
We mounted the stone steps winding their way up the tree’s face and followed the chief through a squat door situated in the tree’s enormous trunk. Although the outside of the tree was rather—let’s say rustic—the inside was surprisingly comfortable: The furnishings were all lovingly made of dark wood and polished to a dull glow. There were lots of bookcases, loaded down with ancient tomes, a handful of weapon racks, and a spattering of glass display stands, holding a myriad of interesting artifacts. At the far side of the room was a low, intricately carved table, surrounded on all sides by pillows, which served as seating for the Murk Elves.
I still hadn’t gotten used to eating my meals while seated cross-legged on the floor, but maybe I would someday.
Amara and another Murk Elf Ranger—a lean man with whipcord muscle named Baymor—lounged on the pillows, their terrifying hunting masks sitting next to them as they sipped on large glasses of the popular Law-jiu. The distinctive mango scent of the drink gave it away in an instant. Another man, a beefy Risi warrior in gleaming plate mail, likewise sat on the pillows, mug in hand, seemingly lost in thought: Otto, Abby’s traveling companion and NPC pal.
It was the woman leaning casually against the wall, staring out the back window, who drew my eye, though.
She was short and curvy with dark skin and an intricate pile of brown curls bunched on top of her head. Last time I’d seen her, she’d been sporting an elegant bloodred robe studded with shimmering jewels, but now she wore a frumpy brown dress that looked like novice starting gear. She turned and broke into a wide grin, dimples blossoming in her cheeks as she saw me. Then, before I could get a word in, she was dashing across the floor with her arms outthrust. She barreled into me, hitting me hard in the gut, then threw her arms around me in a bear hug, which was surprisingly forceful for someone so small.
“Jack, you have no idea how good it is to see you,” she said.
“Good to see you, too,” I wheezed as she hugged me even tighter. “But maybe you could reduce the enthusiasm of your hug—I think you’re breaking bones.”
She chuckled into my chest, gave one more perfunctory squeeze, then loosened her death grip, sliding back a step so she could get a good look at me. She smiled, then reached up and wiped a tear track from her cheek. “Sorry,” she said with a tired, lopsided smile, “it’s just been a really shitty couple of weeks. I was so happy when I got your message, but it’s not the same as seeing you.” She reached over and poked me with a finger as though double-checking to make sure I wasn’t some figment of her imagination.
“Seriously,” she said, reaching up and tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear, “it’s so good to see you. You have no idea.” She paused, eyeing my gear, her gaze lingering on the warhammer before passing on to my specialty vambraces. “You look good, Jack. I mean it. More grown up somehow.” She reached over and patted me on the chest. “But enough of that. As much as I’d love to get drunk and celebrate, we’ve
got some business first. So much has happened,” she continued, “and from what I’ve gathered from our gracious hosts”—she gestured at Amara and Baymor—“you’ve been making some serious waves around this little slice of paradise.” That last word practically oozed sarcasm.
She was going to be in for a heck of a shock when she realized Yunnam was where we were going to be living from here on out.
“The Firebrand is right,” the chief piped in from behind me. “You have much to discuss, I think. Amara, Baymor, let us give our honored guests some privacy.” He shot me a knowing look, then dipped his head as the Murk Elf Rangers gained their feet. Amara and her friend offered us curt goodbyes, before disappearing through the door and into the night. The chief, though, lingered at the entryway.
“Jack,” he said, staring at me through squinted eyes, his forehead creased with worry, “should you and your friends decide on a course of action, please let me know. I have a queasy feeling in my gut that time is running out, and it would be best to move as soon as possible. Just intuition”—he patted at his stomach—“but I have learned to heed such feelings when they come.”
With that, he turned and pulled the door shut behind him, leaving me, Abby, Otto, and Cutter to our own devices.
“That was weird,” Abby said, quirking her head and pointing toward the closed door. “What did he mean?”
“Where to even begin?” I said, running a hand over my short beard.
“Why don’t I start?” Abby asked, sliding next to me and hooking her arm through mine. “Things are turning into a real shitshow out there, and I’d rather you heard everything from me first.”
TEN: Wanted
Abby, Cutter, and I plopped onto the cushions surrounding the low table, joining the taciturn Risi warrior. “Otto,” I said politely with a bob of my head.