A World Called Memory

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A World Called Memory Page 27

by M J Sweeney


  I realised the final notice meant he would in fact respawn. That was good. I didn’t actually want him permanently dead—just wanted to knock the winds out of his sails. Then I thought, ha! Level twenty versus level seventeen. The fool had no way of knowing I’d levelled a lot more than him the last few weeks. I did wonder how he got the charge ability before level 20, however. That didn’t seem fair. Perhaps a magic item? Or maybe a dwarf ability? I also hadn’t used Stoic, so would need to experiment with that ability later.

  As I turned him over, no inventory screen popped up, so I was going by look and feel. I guessed rogues would have an advantage with their various looting skills. I saw that he had a money pouch tucked in to his pants under the chain shirt, but I decided not to touch that. If he had been desperate for my money, he was probably empty. Instead, I took his axe. It looked like silvered-steel, so was probably worth a bit.

  The weasel-faced dwarf came over and stood by the body a moment. “You know, it would have been better if you’d let him kill you. That’s gonna cause trouble.” He was slight and short, even for a dwarf, maybe two heads shorter than me, and had lighter coloured skin; but with his pointy nose, pursed lips, and receding hairline, he was not a very attractive sort. I had a suspicion he was also likely a player from Earth, but I had no way to tell. He didn’t introduce himself and calmly walked off.

  “That would be another rodent-fucker,” Big Nose murmured.

  “Or is he the rodent that the rodent-fucker fucked?” I said this more loudly than intended, and the gold dwarf paused for a moment, stiffening, but then continued on walking. The group around me laughed. Out of the corner of one eye, I thought I saw someone familiar at the back of the crowd of dwarfs. Pale skin, dark hair. I rubbed my eyes a moment and tried to peer through the gaps, but didn’t see anything further. My elbow leaves even twitched once, but then nothing.

  “How’s about a drink?” one fellow exclaimed to a few cheers. A drink? I thought. No, I’m too charged up. I started running on the spot to try and release the tension. That kind of fight and subsequent death was not something I was capable of casually shrugging off. It was intense and disturbing and all too real. Killing undead was a lot easier by comparison.

  Big Nose had dragged Hagard’s body off to one side, looking at it sadly. For a tough old warrior, the fellow definitely had a big heart.

  “Fight was a bit short,” one of the dwarfs commented. I could agree with that. “Looks like you’re still rarin’ to go,” said another.

  “Gotta release this tension.”

  “Erilesse doesn’t like watching the fights, dryad, so that kind o’ release ain’t possible,” Big Nose commented.

  I laughed. “Okay, okay, a little too much information,” I smiled.

  One of the miners started swinging his arms. “All roight, let’s do it. You ‘n me, trainin’ bout.” He picked up a hammer, then went in the tavern to fetch a shield.

  I laughed, and not a few dwarfs clapped. The bookies packed up, as it was considered rude to be betting on a friendly match.

  The rest of the morning I spent trading blows, mostly with dwarfs of various descriptions. Some I won, some I lost, and most were fun, all good-natured. A few of the dwarfs took their own bouts while I took a breather. Hagard’s body also disappeared after the timer went off, so that was that.

  At one point, the large wolf-man came up and congratulated me. “You’re fast, elf-kin, and smart. The name’s Alginan Chorasson.” He offered a paw.

  “Cordaen of-the-Forest.”

  “And this is my littermate, Elgenarr Baenirsdottir.”

  She looked just as fierce as her brother, if more slight and curved. She had similar grey and black fur, darkening in places around her face and wrists and ankles. We shook as well, and the lot of us retired to go into the tavern. It was lunch time by now, so everyone ate, drank, and talked.

  At one point a group of dwarfs started to sing one of their mining ballads, a song about the God Durdain being lost in the Darkwood, trying to chop the trees down to make a path out, getting cursed by elves, going on a quest to remove the curse, rescuing a lost elven princess, returning the lass to the forest, and receiving her blessing on safe return. The dwarfs kept shouting and laughing at the end, singing and chanting “her blessing!” multiple times. It took me a little to realise what the euphemism really meant.

  When Big Nose put me on the spot and handed me my lute, I got another cheer. “Play, dryad, play! Give us a song. Something woody!”

  Shit. I didn’t know what I could do. Idly I plucked at the strings, the two wolf-kind pushing back their chairs to give me room. “Listen now,” I began, and plucked a few chords. “I cannot sing worth a damn, but I can tell you a story.” I plucked a few more chords and made the sound climb and wail a bit.

  “Shall I tell you a tale?”

  “Yes!”

  “Shall I tell you a tale of the risen dead, a tale to shrivel your privates, nay, to shrivel the very curl out of your beard?”

  “Yes! Yes!” they cheered.

  “Then I shall tell you the tale of the Warrior Marcus Polldrang, his encounter with the dwarf known as ‘Rodent-Fucker,’ and the dire quest to slay the Necromancer King!” To that, there was much applause and cheering and beard stroking. And thus, the “Ballad of Marcus Polldrang and Cordaen” was born.

  I told of the slaying of the skeletons at Olde Alfar, of the descent into the ruins to defeat the evil that spawned at its heart. If I made a few minor adjustments, like giving Marcus a more prominent role, with the wood elf as a mere support piece and the noble warrior of Aras having grown a bit of a bushy beard and much shorter legs, it was poetic license—and a stirring epic! The dwarfs approved of a proper dwarf hero, and that was kind of the point. Even the wolf-girl Elgenarr clapped approvingly at points, and all cheered upon the vanquishing of Exxator the Evil Elven Overlord—I made that part up, but sounds good, no?

  I dragged the big axe back to my room later that evening and simply left it there.

  Chapter 21

  The next day, despite a splitting hangover, I made my way to Whistle-blowers’ Avenue. This area was a whole training ground for the Unity, and so the name made sense when you understood that they were basically policemen. On one side of the broad avenue were various offices, quarters, and training grounds for the Unity patrols. On the other side was a series of buildings with a number of forges and construction areas, with large rows of stacked lumbar, metal ingots, and all sorts of other hardware. Hammering and sawing and all the usual clamour that went with such places made it a little disorienting. I saw a front office and approached.

  When I asked about gaining status and influence with the Elven Armourer’s Guild, I was first asked to sign up. This was fairly simple, with one of the nearby Unity asked to witness. He took my details, writing onto a clipboard. Ding.

  / Member of Elven Armourers Guild / Lay member

  Guild Standing: Friendly

  [To Become an Associate Member Requires 20 Armourer Skill]

  To gain access to a Master Craftsman to make me Master-level armour, I would need to move from merely “friendly” to full “liked,” and to gain access to a Grandmaster, I would have to be “beloved” by the guild. I looked up the scale for that.

  / Social and Cultural Dispositions /

  / Beloved - Liked - Friendly - Accepted - Neutral - Distrusted - Unfriendly - Disliked – Hated /

  / Seelie Racial Disposition / General

  / General Liked Races /

  [Gnome—Wood Elf—Pixie]

  / General Disliked Races /

  [Wild Folk—Dark Elf— Burrow Dwarf— Dark Dwarf—Goblin—Orc—Asura]

  I was currently on friendly terms with the guild, partly due to my good relationship with Alhain in Ell’Escow, and partly because I was a wood elf, and on friendly terms with the high elves.

  I asked about repairing my armour, and they told me it would take a week for the whole set, or two days per piece. Damn, a week without arm
our. I didn’t have a spare set. Double damn. I didn’t want to buy anything like that right now, as I was saving my cash. Out of interest, I looked up their catalogue on Light Armour.

  High Elf Leather

  Journeyman Reinforced Leather +10% Bonus:

  +1% DR, +3% ER, +2% MS (per piece)

  Master Albino-Leather +20% Bonus:

  +1% DR, +3% ER, +2% MS (per piece)

  Grandmaster Shadow-Leather +30% Bonus:

  +1% DR, +3% ER, +2% MS, +1-2 Greater Attributes (per piece)

  I had to check my interface for the descriptions: DR was Damage Resistance, ER was Elemental Resistance, and MS was Movement Speed. As DR and ER were both “global” resistances, they actually added up if you had a full set; ER included Fire, Shock, and Cold. DR included Slashing, Cleaving, and Crushing. Also, you could only wear the master armour at level 20 and the grandmaster at level 40.

  I decided to risk the exposure, hoping Hagard had learned his lesson, and put my armour in for repair. Like going to the dry cleaners, I thought. I handed over my set, was given a wooden token with the number sixty-two on it, and had to pay one zorb up front. Almost choking on that price, once again I realised why adventurers would easily stay poor. What was the cost of repairing the armour sets? I looked all that up too.

  / High Elf Leather Cost / Friendly (10% discount applied)

  Costs increased/reduced by 5% per rank of disposition

  Journeyman: 4 zorb 36 dran per set (from 5)

  1 zorb repair

  Master: 54 zorb per set (from 60)

  8 zorb repair

  Grandmaster: 540 zorb per set (from 600)

  20 zorb repair

  I was already on a ten percent discount, so by the time I got to beloved disposition, if I ever did, the costs would drop another ten percent. At least the repair costs topped out at twenty zorb, even though that was still expensive. The guild must be really wealthy, plus the king would get his cut from all the guilds. Sheesh.

  Lastly, I asked about increasing my reputation with the guild. I was told there were three ways. Firstly, I could gather and provide materials via skinning, tree-lopping, and mining to increase the guild’s production, or find a location to an untouched mine—adamantite being the best, but also really, really rare. Secondly, I could work for the guild producing certain mid-level gear for free. Last, I could improve by helping guild members increase their production, such as finding new members for the guild, improving member status, and improving my disposition with individual guild smiths.

  I had much to think on, as usual. I walked out of there feeling quite naked, and was back to worrying about money again. Sheesh.

  Chapter 22

  I spent the next few days going back and forth from the Bard’s College and the Church of Aras. Ascard assessed my skills and abilities, merely commenting that I “would have some work to do.” He suggested focusing on my deficiencies first—namely music theory, music practice, and the Lore of Memory. My other skills he would encourage me to practice later. As it was a long walk each day, Ascard offered me a room in the College, but I declined, preferring the area I had gotten used to, plus being nearer to the Popina and some of the new friends (mostly dwarfs) I had made.

  The music theory I found a bit of a trial (things such as scales, consonance, dissonance, and rhythmic composition), but I battled through slowly. Book learning in the past had never been my forte—part of the reason I’d flunked out of medical university. I had the ability, but was not good at applying myself when the theory and rote learning got tough. I was determined to push through this time. I found learning Lore much more interesting, as it was more like storytelling than actually applying my brain too much.

  When I reproduced a few of the runes I’d transcribed and showed Ascard, he was very pleased. And when he saw and read the label on the vial of pickled eyes, he seemed a little saddened. He pointed at that one first.

  “Dizz tir-olbar, 9th Moon of the Year 2040.”

  “These,”—He held up the vial—“are all left eyeballs from a male goblin.”

  “Oh, damn. I think we have the right side ones too,” I said.

  “From the same ruins where you got this?” He pointed at the cloak.

  “Yes.”

  “Sad. You killed the creature that possessed these jars?”

  “No, it never appeared.” I briefly described some of the ruins off Eragdas.

  “Creatures of Ulgorrim. Her sphere is on the rise these last years, as Maor is waxing with greater potency each season. I fear we are in for some difficult times ahead.”

  We decided to destroy the alchemical parts that were from seelie beings, as it would not have been right to sell them for profit. There were still other parts that could be sold, so once we translated them, Drognad set about valuing the rest, telling me most would go to his father, and his da would need to decide what he wanted to charge for them, so we wouldn’t see coin on those straight away.

  After carefully unrolling Marcus’s once white cloak, Ascard nodded approvingly at my care, but stated it might be difficult or even impossible to get an accurate translation. But that shouldn’t stop me from trying. Ascard made me carefully transcribe the elven script from that onto parchment, both to learn something of the language, and so he could see it in total. He didn’t deign to try and translate it outright for me, and so wanted me to learn from the process from a little bit of hard work. As it was, some runes were not really legible, so I still needed Ascard’s help to guess at some of the meaning and possibilities. He seemed to enjoy me fumbling my way through the language, but was also encouraging and offered some tips and books that he thought might help with the translations.

  So much for me coming to this world to avoid book-learning. Sheesh. Strangely enough, given the subject matter, I found myself actually enjoying it. Life was strange, what with all the changes I was going through.

  I spent most of my evenings at the Popina, but was drinking less in order to keep a clear head for my morning classes. I was asked to tell the tale of “Marcus and Cordaen” more than once, which was a little gratifying. I tried to improve on the music I played while telling it, but wasn’t sure if it made a difference.

  I also quietly told Big Nose the real story behind it, especially what had happened with Hagard. “Aich lad, that ‘un be a bad sort. If he has support of the divine as you say, and is resurrected, then I’d be watching me back real careful like, eh?”

  “I’ll not be hiding in my room all day either, but I will be careful. No sense inviting trouble.”

  “Yer a good lad!” he responded, slapping me on the back with one meaty ham-hand. I almost coughed up my dinner, but appreciated it anyway. “We’ll see if we can’t make it a bit easier for ya, eh?” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but readily accepted.

  As a result, some days later I found that Hagard Hagstrom had been banned from a whole string of dwarven pubs within Geras Anandiel until he “made amends, by-the-beard!”

  On another occasion, while eating dinner at the Popina, I was again interrupted from my meal. “Marcus Polldrang the Mountain Dwarf? Really?” I looked up to see Marcus standing there, and I laughed.

  “Sit, sit,” I said with a gesture. “Pull up a chair and eat something with me.”

  He obliged and ordered some food, shaking his head.

  “By Aras, do I look like a dwarf? Do I have a beard?”

  “Yeah, kinda,” I replied with a chuckle, “If I squint a real lot… besides, you do have that slab of a hammer. What’s more dwarfish than that?”

  “Gods! You’re mad. You have me slaying a non-existent necromancer that we never met! Single-handedly, I might add, while the dryad simply cheers and writes down the battle? That’s not what I recall.”

  “It’s called poetic license.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.”

  We ate companionably after that. Marcus told me he could get me in to see the High Bishop the next day, but I told him I’d found someone else to help with the translation,
plus that I was studying at the Bard’s College.

  “Really? A bard? Wow. That’s great.”

  “Actually, not really. A divine knight of Anthul, one day when I qualify.” I smiled at him sheepishly; it wasn’t unlike his own desire to become a divine knight of Aras. “Just studying and training and learning a whole lot. But I did dedicate my service to Anthul; its official.” I showed him my holy symbol and he smiled.

  “That’s also great, Cordaen. Anthul’s a cool deity, if a bit mysterious. The singer of the wind, the knower of life.”

  “Yeah.”

  When Big Nose came over, I introduced them. “Marcus Pollonius?” he said. Big Nose was looking at me with a wry grin, but addressing Marcus.

  Marcus nodded yes. “That’s me.”

  “Your parents must love you,” Big Nose added, “Being named after the great Dwarf Hero Marcus Polldrang, eh?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” Marcus replied, glaring at me.

  “But can I give yer some advice?” Big Nose asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Marcus replied a bit warily.

  “Yer better grow a real beard rather than that bum-fluff yer currently have sproutin’ on yer face. It’s disrespectin’ yer namesake, and that just ain’t right. Right?” Going from the scowl on Big Nose’s face, he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  “Oh… yeah, right. Sure, I’ll do that.”

  “Yer a good lad!” He slapped Marcus’s back and gave me a wink as he strolled back to the bar, chuckling.

  “What the hell?” Marcus complained, rubbing his sore shoulder. “This just gets better and better.”

  I just laughed some more. “You’re a legend!”

  Chapter 23

  I retrieved my repaired armour shortly after that, and Ascard started giving me some training pointers with the quarterstaff and spear. As it turned out, the half-elf was a master duellist, having trained with some blademasters in the past. And boy, could he kick my ass. He was faster, taller, and stronger, and greatly skilled—with most single-handed weapons, his reach almost matched mine with my staff-spear. When he squared off against me with another staff—which wasn’t even his weapon of choice—well, it was embarrassing at first. He knew full well how to capitalise on the weapon’s damage, accuracy, and deflection characteristics.

 

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