by Kevin Murphy
“Well let’s not jump—” Dakkon began to say before he was cut off by a resolute glare from his friend on the ground.
“Dakkon,” Cline said again. “I’m done experimenting with the amulet.”
Dakkon could only bow his head. It seemed that he might have to wait to experiment with Nightshade and saddlebags. He wouldn’t give up on something so powerful so easily, but that didn’t mean he needed to put his friend at risk to do so. “All right,” Dakkon said. “I was hoping we’d get you a mount, too, but I now see we’d be better off depositing a trained horse rather than trying to conjure up a wild one.”
“I’d say so,” Cline said. Fortunately, his shaking had already stopped—but it was clear that his jump from one place to another had been a taxing experience. Since Dakkon couldn’t be sent, he could only speculate that maybe Cline could go because he was an NPC. Dakkon hoped the rough transfer from place to place was a side effect of sending an NPC person when the medallion was made to send NPC horses and that Nightshade wasn’t suffering every time he summoned the animal. Nightshade certainly never seemed too shaken up by the sudden summonings—most recent occasion, aside.
Regardless of how the medallion worked, the ability to trap NPCs in some strange pocket space only seemed powerful if he was trying to have them be trampled to death by thousands of pissed off horses. As a safe zone or storage area, it certainly had its flaws.
“Do you want to take a little longer, or hit the road?” Dakkon asked his friend.
“Let’s get moving,” Cline said. “I want to get my blood pumping.”
Chapter 24: The Envoy
The road which Dakkon and Cline were looking for was nearby and easy to locate. Once they were on it, they traveled eastward toward enough civilization to gather new supplies without the issues that might arise from visiting a bigger city. Though the air grew colder the further north they found themselves, the open road’s promise of direct sunshine made walking far more pleasant than through the scattered woods.
After roughly an hour of travel, the pair spied a hard-to-miss, burly figure moving westerly—toward them—while guiding a monster of a white horse by its reins. The large, approaching shape glistened as its armor caught and reflected the sun. Travelers were no rarity to the roads. Because of that, neither Cline and Dakkon nor horse and man showed any sign of stopping. All parties walked forward confidently, though Dakkon stealthily wrapped his fingers around the Polypoison Dagger—his new weapon of choice for a preemptive strike—just in case any trouble should arise.
It was at the stranger’s first words, when the large man wearing plated armor was close enough to see clearly, that Dakkon’s composure suddenly broke. The man wore metal armor which had been polished to a mirror-like sheen from his neck down, covering everything save for his bare hands. His head was bald except for a short, blond mohawk. He wore a rather big grin.
“You’ve got a lot of balls to walk down a road with your tournament sigils on full display,” the big man barked in a full, resonate voice that matched his size as he pointed at them.
Dakkon and Cline’s hands both darted to their foreheads. They had grown used to living with the glowing red marks that marked them as participants in the tournament. Velana hadn’t so much as mentioned their markings.
That they had let their guard down so readily surprised them as much as what the large man did next.
“Ahahahaha!” the big man laughed heartily. “The looks on you boys’ faces. If it was supposed to be a secret, then you really ought to try hiding it better!”
When no immediate hostile actions were pursued, the pair looked somewhat relieved, and Dakkon released the grip he held on his new blade.
“You aren’t gonna sell our bearing, are you?” Cline asked, as the stranger and his horse approached to a comfortable conversational distance.
“Now there’s an idea…” the large man said, pausing only long enough to ruffle Cline’s feathers. “Nah, I’ve got better things to do. Still, you’re the first two people outside of a town I could immediately identify as players. The sigil really gives you away on that front.”
“Ah,” said Dakkon. “I suppose it does.”
“Say, have you two seen or heard anything about a little old vagabond who travels around with a dog that looks more tired than death itself?” the stranger asked.
Cline glanced over to Dakkon as if unsure how to answer. By chance—or rather, because of the old man’s hunger—they had run into a pair that matched that description—an old man named Gnokki and his dog, Laz—just before they’d arrived at the mining town of Klith.
“Oh?” said the stranger, noticing their reticence to immediately speak. “Oh!” he said again. “Please tell me what you can of them! It’s for a noble cause, I assure you.”
“And… just who are you?” Dakkon asked.
“I’m Vance Lightwin,” the stranger said while puffing out his chest, “paladin of Daenara, humble servant of the throne—ahem—" then cut himself off abruptly.
“The throne, huh?” Dakkon asked. “I thought I’d heard that only NPCs could serve the throne. Are players that high up the pecking order already?”
“What?” said Vance. “How did you know that I was a player? What gave me away?”
“… You mentioned players before we did,” said Cline. “So, you know… logic.”
“Ah, so I did,” Vance said, seemingly unfazed by his lapse and by Cline’s pointing it out. “Well, since you know that, know that there are very few of us in the king’s employ. It is both a great honor and a greater responsibility.”
“That’s impressive,” said Dakkon. “How long did it take you to pull that off?”
“Haha!” Vance bellowed triumphantly. “The crown sought me out, actually. In times of great ordeals, the Paladins of Daenara may be trusted to serve the crown discreetly. It’s through the deftly-woven threads in the tapestry of fate that I find myself here, now, speaking with you—friends who will set me on the right path once more.”
“In times of great ordeals—so, there’s been a great ordeal?” asked Cline. “What sort?”
“Ehm—” for the first time, Vance seemed to falter. “Well, you see, it’s not something I’m really supposed to talk about.”
“Sounds interesting,” Dakkon noted. “I think a little context is in order. We wouldn’t want to betray the traveler we’d met to the wrong sort.”
“Hmm,” Vance paused—likely just for dramatic effect. “Very well, I shall confide in you—but only if you can give me the traveling man’s name.”
Cline looked to Dakkon, who nodded.
“Gnokki and his dog, Laz,” Cline said, confidently.
Vance bobbed his short mohawk in validation, accepting their answer. “Good,” he said. “Now then, did you notice anything strange about his dog?”
Dakkon thought back to his encounter with the traveler. The dog had seemed very old and tired, but it was happy and seemed normal enough. It acted like any old dog… well, perhaps any old dog with a touch of narcolepsy. It did seem to fall asleep at odd times—like when it had eaten some of the disastrous food he’d made and unwittingly set on the ground.
“It… kept falling asleep?” Cline suggested.
“Hmmm,” Vance grinned conspiratorially. “No, as I understand it, that dog hasn’t really slept in at least 50 years.”
“50 years?” Dakkon said, skeptically. “Dogs can’t even live that long.”
Vance’s grin broadened as he nodded his head. “Yes, go on.”
“Wait, what?” Cline asked.
Dakkon, too, was confused.
“Gnokki is renowned for a very particular gift which is the envy of everyone who knows about it,” Vance said, holding up one, massive finger in front of his face as though he were about to relate some particularly juicy morsel of information. “And he received care of that dog along with the gift from his master, and that master’s master before him.”
“What sort of gift?” Dakkon asked,
more curious than ever.
“I thought it would be obvious with that much!” Vance boomed, happily. “Gnokki can bring back the dead!”
“What!” Cline yelled. “He can?”
Dakkon thought back to the dog getting stuck—motionless—in the bushes, followed by the old Gnokki casually bending down and touching him. After that, the dog seemed right as rain. Then, the dog had gotten to Dakkon’s soup from hell…
Dakkon placed a hand over his mouth. His eyes widened in surprise. “I killed that dog with my food?” He was somehow horrified by the idea.
“Oh, don’t sweat it too much, lad,” Vance said, slapping Dakkon’s shoulder with a weighty hand. “Everything kills that dog. Meals, stairs, sitting down, standing up, you name it. That dog’s older than me and you combined, and it’ll be around long after we’re gone, I’d wager.”
“Why does he keep bringing it back?” Cline asked. “That sounds awful.”
“Nah, it’s not so bad, really,” Vance said. “The dog is happy to be alive—it just needs a little help from time to time. The real mystery is why Gnokki won’t use his power to resurrect people.”
“He has the power to defy death, and he doesn’t use it on people?” Dakkon asked. “Why?”
“That’s what I’m trying to say, I’ve got no clue,” said Vance. “He can’t be swayed by money or power, either. He acts entirely based on his own desires—and his desires seem to be traveling with that dog and not a lot else.”
“That is rather odd,” Dakkon acknowledged. “So then, if you can’t get him to raise the dead, why are you chasing after him?”
Vance sighed, looking properly uncomfortable a second time. “My employer doesn’t care through what means, but I need to have the old man perform.”
“Your employer, you mean the king?” Cline asked.
“What! How did you know that?” Vance exclaimed in surprise.
“You’ve only just told us that you serve the crown a few minutes ago—that’s what got us to this whole conversation,” Dakkon said.
“Oh? Did I?” Vance said as he rubbed his chin between the crux of his thumb and forefinger. “I’ll have to be more careful of what I say in the future, I suppose.”
“So, who died?” Dakkon asked. “It must’ve happened recently. I can’t imagine a body can be resurrected after too much time has passed.”
“True, but the body is being cared for by priests and priestesses of Daenara—my order,” Vance said. “Should they wish it, they can keep the poor boy fresh for as long as is necessary.”
“The boy?” Cline asked.
Vance’s face scrunched into a pained expression, as though he were reluctant to say more, then he sighed. “Look, I’m going to level with you two. I’m not supposed to tell anyone about anything, but you are the first two players I’ve had a chance to talk with about this. I mean, this is a really big deal, right?”
“Oh, is that why you let tidbits slip?” Dakkon asked.
Vance narrowed his eyes then slowly nodded. “It’s a huge matter and I’ve been utterly silent about it—then you two show up and have not only seen the guy I’m looking for, but know him, too. I had to say something, didn’t I? I mean, it’s a lot to bear alone!”
“Mmhmm,” Dakkon said, encouraging the large, shiny man to get to the point.
Vance sighed again. “Have you guys heard about prince Rickert’s absence from meetings as of late?”
Cline’s eyes bulged and Dakkon unconsciously leaned in closer.
“The crown prince is dead,” Vance said. “Worse, they suspect he’s been murdered. Losing a royal family member is a tragedy that must be avoided—but losing a royal family member to treachery? That’s not something that can be tolerated.”
“So, you’re trying to resurrect Rickert, find out who killed him, settle the score, and keep it all hidden from the public eye?” Dakkon asked.
“Pretty much, yeah,” said Vance. “Now do you see why it’s hard to keep bottled up? I mean, it’s the biggest thing I’ve ever heard of as far as world politics go since the game went live.” He punctuated his words with his palms for emphasis. “Royalty slain. Resurrection. Retribution. I’ve been worked up for a solid week now, and nobody knows. Not one word from the ChronCast or anything!”
“There’ve got to be a few other players you can talk to on the same quest, right?” Cline asked.
“Yeah,” Vance said waving the idea away with his large left hand, “but those guys are so boring and duty-bound. I mean, don’t get me wrong, they’re all right—we’re all in the same order—but they’ve gotten to where they are now through wheedling and keeping their head low. I got here by kicking ass and I plan on continuing to see where that’ll take me.”
Dakkon smiled at the paladin standing before him. “When last we saw him, Gnokki was headed toward Thelasidonna.”
“Then I’m on the right path,” Vance said with a nod. “Good, I’d been wandering around in the east for days. There’s nothing quite so dull as traveling alone—and I’ve made myself so large that not even a horse can carry me in my armor for long stretches.”
“Why are you wearing your armor on the road?” Cline asked.
“It’s like a second skin. I never take it off,” Vance said. “This way I’ll never be caught unprepared.”
“You’ll never be comfortable again, either,” Dakkon said. “Does armor chaff in Chronicle?”
“Ah, the chaffing’s not so bad,” said Vance. “I mean, you get used to it. Plus, the armor looks pretty cool, right?”
“Yeah, I guess it does,” Dakkon said, nodding.
“Well, look boys, this is the first proper lead I’ve had in some time. I’m glad to have met you, but I’d like to find the little old wanderer before he runs too deep into cold, elven lands,” said Vance. “If I’m lucky, maybe I can be done with royal affairs for another week and actually hit up some dungeons!”
Vance then sent Dakkon and Cline friend requests, facilitating the basic requirement for any future long-distance communication.
“Safe travels, Vance,” Cline said.
“Same to you,” responded the large, metal-clad man. “Make sure you let me know if you hear anything else—though you’re headed the opposite way.”
“Will do,” said Dakkon. “You tell us if anything particularly interesting comes about. We’ve seen our fair share of surprising things, but we’re happy to tackle another.”
Vance smiled. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
Then, with a wave, they parted ways. Though their meeting had been a brief one, Vance had bestowed upon Dakkon and Cline some surprising information. There was a man who could cheat death, the prince had been murdered, and even high-quality plate mail tended to chaff. It was potent data should they find a way to make any of it actionable.
Chapter 25: Shift
Brett craved independence. Only now, after Suresh’s most recent victory, was he able to find an opportunity to think without interruption. Control of events had been wrested from his grasp what seemed like ages ago, but what had been worrying him most was that he was slowly getting used to it. Since he’d first experienced it, Chronicle had always been the one place where his actions were his own. Sure, he’d modify the plan to accommodate Savior and Arden, but if there was anything that Brett didn’t want to do, he wouldn’t. Taking orders from Suresh was becoming the norm. Each day, the game was beginning to feel more and more like the outside world. His freedom to make his own choices—wise or foolish—was being slowly eroded away. He felt like he was being swallowed by Suresh’s authority.
Brett wandered around the outskirts of yet another small town in the middle of nowhere, under the pretense of keeping an eye on the surroundings. Really, he’d just wanted some time to be alone. It seemed like he rarely ever was truly by himself anymore. His buddy, Savior, always seemed to be around. It had begun to feel like both a blessing and a curse. Brett loved the time he’d spent with Savior in the past—but, for whatever reason,
his friend’s constant presence had started to feel crowding. Savior was beginning to feel like Brett’s attendants in the real world—always trying to keep him on track and usher him to the next lesson or appointment. Brett couldn’t even remember the last time that Savior had needed to report to his job. Perhaps he’d quit it to focus on the tournament. Stranger things had happened.
Though he had grown to loathe Suresh’s command, Brett had felt incredibly lucky that his real-world obligations never separated him from the band of players he traveled with. That hadn’t been the case for all of the tournament participants. Of the seven others Brett had traveled with, only four remained, and many of the recruited non-participants had changed faces during the band’s erratic northerly march. Brett knew that staying with the group was ideal—staying with Savior—but, he couldn’t shake a budding sense of suspicion.
When Brett was much younger—before he was required to live by his father’s timetable—he lacked perspective of other people’s choices and circumstances. Like many children, he could only see the world through his own eyes, and because of that, he had always just assumed that everything centered around him. That juvenile theory went away the first time he tried to blow off a geography lesson. Brett’s father made him do thrice the work before he was given anything to eat, and no matter how he wailed, no one would break his father’s rule to feed him. It was the first time he could ever recall having been punished, and it was when Brett realized that the world didn’t cater to his whims, but to his father’s.
Brett’s father had never struck him, but Brett didn’t suspect that the act was beneath him. His old man simply knew more effective ways to get people to cooperate. He had built his place in life by making difficult choices with a wise, but cold, sense of detachment.