by J. T. Wright
Next, was a mace that appeared too small, until he pulled it out. Then, it grew much like the staff had. Three feet long and absurdly heavy, Trent groaned as he examined it. It was like the one Tersa was currently using but four times heavier. Trent couldn’t imagine wielding the silver-grey monstrosity, personally, but Tersa would faint with delight.
The final item caused Trent’s eyes to narrow in thought. It was a Spell Stone that glowed with an internal light of white and yellow. Tersa would forget everything else when she saw it. This Stone, containing the tier 1 Spell, Shocking Touch, could either fulfill a long-held dream or crush her. It could potentially rob her of the excitement her new chainmail and mace would bring.
Trent clicked his tongue as he considered whether he should even show it to her. Whatever force controlled the rewards of a Trial could see what a challenger needed and what he was ready for, but that didn’t mean that entity tailored rewards to every individual. And Tersa had just specialized as a Brute. The title of her new Class didn’t scream magic user. Maybe this Spell wasn’t hers.
Trent tossed the Stone up and down a few times before it went into Storage. Ultimately, it wasn’t his decision. He couldn’t protect Tersa by keeping her from trying.
The last box must be his box! With eager hands and a grunt, Trent pushed the lid open to inspect the contents enthusiastically. Three items: two pieces of armor and a Skill Stone. He activated Appraisal without even thinking. That Skill hadn’t been useful for the first two boxes but, perhaps, because these items were meant for Trent, it would have value now.
Appraisal didn’t reveal too much about the first item. Scale Armor, a common item of high quality. The metal shirt looked ridged and heavy before Trent lifted it out. Made of fine, dark-colored, metal disks, attached to leather, and enchanted with the Perfect Fit Spell, the scaled armor was more flexible than the chainmail, though Trent didn’t see how that was possible. When he put it on, it would hang to his mid-thigh, and the sleeves would cover his elbows. It was heavy, but he was stronger now.
But Trent didn’t put it on. It joined the rest in Storage. Trent was certain this armor with its rating of 35 was meant for him, but he would still wait to consult the others before claiming it. He lifted out the second piece of armor.
Spiritual Vambraces
Rare item
Soul-bound/will grow with user.
Armor rating 20
Soul-bound equipment! The Spiritual Vambraces were forearm guards made of leather, reinforced with metal strips and covered in metal disks, much like the scale armor. Like the armor, the vambraces were much more flexible then they looked. Trent turned them over and examined them from every angle.
He was, simultaneously, drawn to the forearm guards and a little disappointed. In comparison, his knives and cowl were much more impressive than these vambraces. He was tempted to bind them immediately to see if they would reveal their secrets, but he resisted and put them away with a sigh.
The Skill Stone was all that remained in the box. It was different from any other Skill Stone he was familiar with. The size of a fist, the stone pulsed with a deep blue light. Skill Stones were made from Beast Cores; Trent absently wondered what kind of Beast produced a Core like this one, as he picked it up.
Sword Technique, Ocean Meets the Shore.
Trent’s jaw dropped. Not only was the Core a higher quality than he’d ever seen, but the Skill it contained was entirely different. Should it be called a Technique Stone? What were Techniques? There was one way he could find out right now.
Trent again reminded himself that it wasn’t his right to decide if this was meant for him, without consulting the others. All three of them were potentially capable of using any of the items he had found. The others had as much right to the beautiful stone as he did. Though he was the one who found it.
The temptation in stone form took longer to join the rest in Storage, but it did find its way there. Trent shuddered and shook himself. He stood from where he knelt and stretched. He checked his Status as he splashed his way back from the island to the shore. Still, nine hours until the Safe Zone would disappear and at least three hours until his friends would wake up.
He stood on dry ground in sopping wet clothes. He could explore more. It was unreasonable to think there might be more treasure, but there was probably lots to see and plenty of herbs to collect. Right here along the bank of the pond, there was soapweed and mint; he could hardly pass that up.
He had never seen soapweed before, but he had read about it in one of the books on Herbalism he’d studied. Combined with mint, certain Professions like Alchemists could use the herb to make a cleaning solution a lot like the soap from which the plant drew its name. Even unprocessed, the herb could be used to clean oneself.
Gathering a handful of cleansing herbs next to sparklingly clean water, it occurred to Trent he hadn’t washed in over a week. Not since the day before they entered the Trial. Since then, he’d sweated and bled. He rolled in dirt and filth. He was filthy! He couldn’t smell himself, but he was sure the others could.
Those two knew the Self-Clean Charm. That Spell cleaned the body and coverings of the caster. Orion used it religiously every day. Tersa was less fastidious, but she cast it on herself when she remembered.
Orion claimed it was almost as complicated as a tier 1 Spell. They didn’t have the time for him to teach Trent the proper visualization it required, and Trent accepted that. Tersa consoled him by saying the Charm wasn’t as satisfying as washing with hot water and soap. That statement was harder to accept, coming as it did from a person who was clean.
With time on his hands and water nearby, Trent didn’t waste any time stripping down and jumping back into the pond. White sand squished beneath his toes as he shivered in the cool water. He scooped up handful after handful of the clean abrasive and scrubbed himself thoroughly. Handfuls of mint and soapweed were crushed, bruised, and applied next. For the first time since he’d been drawn into this Trial with its Undead occupants, Trent felt all his muscles relax.
He spent quite some time scrubbing and splashing. He couldn’t swim, but he immersed himself to his chin and hopped around. It was the closest he’d come to playing in his short existence. Not that he realized that was what he was doing, it just felt nice to be unguarded.
Another hour passed as Trent explored the joy of simply being relaxed. He climbed out of the pond, more focused and more confident. His mood soured when he caught sight of the tangled pile of weapons and clothing he’d left on the bank.
If you could even call the sweat and blood-stained rags clothing anymore. Trent’s nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of the pungent smell coming from the pile. Now that he was clean, he could no longer ignore the vile scent of his possessions. Fighting and traveling naked wasn’t a very attractive thought, but neither was climbing back into those rags.
The Spirits that made the cavern their home flitted and zipped around the Summons as he stood with hands on hips, dripping water and scowling. Sensitive to the mood of the Awakened races, these elemental beings picked up on the source of Trent’s discontent and quickly went into action.
Water Spirits pulled his belongings into the pool. Trent yelped. He might not want to wear them, but he didn’t want his clothing stolen or destroyed either. The Spirits had even taken his Cowl and weapons belt! Before Trent could take action to stop them, the Spirits created a small whirlpool in the pond. Trent paused, with head tilted and eyes narrowed.
Except for a few changes of clothing still in his saddlebags, which were currently far away with the apple-loving mare, almost everything he owned was circling furiously in the pond. Spirits darted about gathering herbs and kicking up sand, all of which ended up joining Trent’s clothing in the swirling water. Faster and faster the water twirled until Trent could no longer make out what was happening and had to step back to avoid being splashed.
Things continued like this for several minutes, then one by one, his things floated out of the pond. They h
ung, soaking wet in midair, but before Trent could reach for them, more Spirits joined the Water Elementals. Spirits of Wind and Fire worked together to create a hot breeze that tussled and blew the sopping wet fabrics.
Part of the breeze washed over Trent, and he closed his eyes, murmuring in appreciation. Unlike the hot, muggy air outside the cavern, this warm breeze was soothing. It dried Trent’s hair and whispered meaninglessly in his ears, carrying a message beyond his comprehension.
All too soon, the breeze ended, and Trent’s clothing was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. Trent drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, regretfully, as his eyelids lifted. He dressed in the ragged remains of Master Taylor’s efforts.
He picked up his hide armor and examined it. There was the hole where Krip’s claw had pierced it. That slash was from a Skeletal Warrior’s blade that he hadn’t been able to block. The tear in the shoulder was caused by Zombie teeth that had thankfully missed his throat. He put the ruined hide in Storage, unwilling to drop it to the ground. He wouldn’t leave the thing to spoil the serenity of the cavern.
He arranged his cowl around his shoulders and buckled on his sword belt. Dressed and armed, he offered a bow to the Spirits and murmured his thanks. It was time to get back.
The red Fire Elemental that confronted him, flashing angrily, thought otherwise. It buzzed and sparked as it spun circles in front of his nose so close that Trent almost went cross-eyed trying to observe it. Had he done something wrong?
The Fire Elemental looked just like any other, and it was alone in its assault. How could he have offended it? It wasn’t until he realized the Spirit was just a bit bigger than the others that he remembered the one who had taught him Ember and then perched itself on his head. He still didn’t know why the Spirit was upset, but he was certain he’d done something. Had it still been in his cowl when he threw it on the ground?
Trent held up his left palm and summoned a Spiritual Flame. The red dot ceased its spinning and hovered. Trent almost lost control of the flame when the Spirit flashed forward to bop his nose, and then shot towards his palm.
The Fire Spirit nestled in the flame contentedly, and Trent decided he was forgiven. He was almost back to the entrance of the cavern before the tiny creature had enough and returned to its perch on his head, allowing him to release the Charm.
Chapter 31
The birds were singing, and the sun was shining. Or rather, they weren’t. No birds, or sun in this Trial. But Sergeant Cullen’s enemies were dying, and lightning strikes reflected off his massive battle-axe, Peacemaker. That was pretty much the same thing as birdsong and sunlight to him.
A week had passed in this place, a week of running and battling, the likes of which Cullen hadn’t experienced for years. He and Alistern had faced wave after wave of beasts and Undead, and the XP was finally starting to add up. Cullen needed a frightening amount of Experience to level up his Dread Naught Class and, while this Trial was lacking in high leveled opponents, it made up for that with numbers.
Al’drossford was the Sergeant’s home, not the place he had been born, but the place he had chosen. It was where his closest friends lived and where everything he took pride in existed. He did not regret settling down there, but as Cullen separated the head of a Screaming Terror from its body with a singlehanded swing of his axe, while at the same time pulling a Skeletal Knight from its mount by grasping its lance with his free hand, the Sergeant had to admit, he missed this. His life in Al’drossford was quiet; he hadn’t met a true opponent or test of his skills in years.
He ground the head of the Knight under the heel of his heavily armored boot, absently robbing it of life without even accessing a Skill. He still hadn’t met a true opponent, but the Trial was starting to pick up speed. Soon, he thought, as Peacemaker mowed down three Infernal Imps, soon this place will send a real challenge.
Alistern wasn’t having such an easy time of it. Two Lesser Devils were taking turns clubbing at him with ugly looking maces that were all rusted hooks and spikes, and it was all Alistern could do to parry their attacks. He was good with a sword, but he preferred the subtleties of the knife or the range of a bow. This close-up hack and slash nonsense was for people like Cullen, people without stealth, who lacked any sense of poetry.
Traveling with Cullen meant these melees were unavoidable. The pace the Sergeant set didn’t leave time for proper scouting or ambushes. At some point, Cullen decided that Alistern was wasted at providing support. As their enemies grew stronger, he insisted the Lieutenant’s ranged abilities were no longer effective.
Gone were the days of cleaning up behind Cullen. The few times Alistern had tried to hang back to use his bow, Cullen had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him along, shouting, “There’s only 50 of them Lieutenant, no need for your hiding and skulking.” Actually, the word he used was “sulking,” but Alistern was certain that was just a slip of the tongue.
Over the course of the last seven days, Cullen had molded Alistern into a completely different kind of fighter. Gone were his Scout’s leathers, replaced by heavier armor. They were not quite the full plate that Cullen preferred, but close enough as far as Alistern was concerned. His current armor was better than what he had been wearing, but the Trial had provided light armor of which the same could be said.
Alistern never got close to the loot from their drops, though. As soon as equipment the Scout Lieutenant preferred appeared, Cullen swooped in and grabbed it like magic. He left all the Skill Stones to Alistern as “compensation” and treated Alistern’s complaints as just hot air.
How Alistern longed for his leathers and bow right now. The two Lesser Devils, with their fangs, horns, and hoofed feet, bleated and screeched as they hammered at him. Alistern twirled and parried, slashing to wound and disable them, as he kept his distance from the fast-moving, goat-faced horrors.
His sword and all the Skills he’d learned lately were more effective against the Undead than they were the Infernal. He was forced to rely on more general skills to battle these two, and they were pressing him. His sword was barely capable of cutting the Lesser Devils despite their nearly naked bodies, and it was a tossup who would fall first, the Devils from damage or Alistern from exhaustion.
Alistern heard Cullen bellowing gleefully as he battered the forces arrayed against them. The man was inhuman and inhumane. He had the Skills to draw all these creatures to himself and the Ability to hold them at bay, while Alistern stayed back in the shadows, cutting throats and tendons. But somehow, a few beasts always slipped by the Sergeant’s crowd control Skills to directly attack Alistern.
The Lieutenant maneuvered his opponents carefully. The beasts were fast but not quite as quick as he was. He could outmaneuver them to some degree, and he did so now. As the two crashed into each other in their haste to reach him, Alistern craftily let a small pouch fall out of his sleeve into his waiting left hand.
After the two Lesser Devils sorted themselves out, they came for him again. A flick of his wrist opened the pouch and sent its contents directly into the open mouth and eyes of the creature on the right. Poison wasn’t fatal to Infernal Beasts, but the Devil still reeled backward with eyes burning.
Alistern leaped forward. The Devil that had not been struck by his powder stepped back warily, and Alistern’s shoulder convinced it to fall back further. Literally fall, in this case, as its hooves tripped over the lifeless body of one of its kin that had been cut down by an unforgiving axe earlier and forgotten. One Lesser Devil was falling with a scream, as Alistern’s blade was aimed toward the eye socket of its panicky, slightly poisoned partner.
The tip of Alistern’s sword found its mark. It sunk into the eye of the Infernal creature about a quarter of an inch. How high was the Constitution of these Devils? They were the same Level as Alistern; he should be able to injure them. And he had! Being stabbed in the eye will always hurt, but it was far from a life-threatening wound.
Instead of pressing his attack, Alistern took several steps back
. If he moved too far forward, the second Devil would be at his back when it regained its feet. Speaking of which, shouldn’t that second beast be up by now? The now single-eyed Devil lifted its hooked mace and snarled. It was preparing to charge again when a sickening, crunching noise drew its attention.
Alistern also dared a look. The second Devil had never managed to get back to its feet. Cullen had buried the creature’s own mace in its skull, and it was now very clearly dead.
Cullen lit his pipe. “Playtime’s over Lieutenant, finish that one up. We have work to do and miles to traverse.”
Alistern and his Devil foe regarded the puffing Sergeant, slack-jawed. Hadn’t the man been dealing with the rest of this Lesser Devil’s battle group? He had, and now he was done. Only the lifeless bodies of what had been a good portion of an army now remained.
If the Lesser Devil, the last surviving member of the not-so-small troop, had been a natural creature, it would have run. It would have run and never looked back. It might even have sworn off battle, sworn off violence and meat, to live a life of peaceful contemplation.
But that wasn’t a choice for a monster that was bound and created by a Trial. With a terrified bleating scream, it leaped for Alistern, the lesser evil. Alistern may have half-blinded it, but his blade was only doing what you might call glancing damage.
Alistern met its attack with a snarl. Facing one opponent, the Lieutenant was now unconcerned about conserving his Stamina, Alistern was able to frequently deliver the Skilled Strikes that cut deeply into the Lesser Devil.
A single Thrust, after many, many, cuts, slashes, and stabs, saw the Infernal Beast fall. Alistern stood over its corpse, chest heaving. He wiped his blade clean on the Devil’s body before slowly, deliberately, sheathing it. He turned to Cullen just as slowly, his eyes burning embers.
“Sergeant,” he said, with a deep breath in and out, “you are not Level 67!”