Dagger Lord: A LitRPG Series

by Elliot Burns

  The blade drew closer to Sarna’s throat.

  The man stalked toward Elena, anger flaring in his eyes.

  Jack’s vision cleared, but his arm stung with pain. His head rang with what seemed like the din of a hundred church bells. He was lucky that he could still see.

  Taking a desperate gamble, Sarna summoned just enough energy to thrust her blade into her opponent’s side and found a gap the metal didn’t cover. The man gasped and dropped his sword. The life left his eyes.

  Sarna didn’t have the energy to push him off her. She flopped onto her back, buried under the dead man’s weight.

  Elena lashed out with her blade whip. Her weapon wrapped around his shatterblade. Elena went to pull her whip back, but the man yanked his sword back, wrenching it from her hands. In one giant step, he closed the gap between them and punched her on the temple, sending the tacher to the floor. Without wasting a second, he was above her and ready to strike.

  Jack charged forward with all his effort, but he knew he’d be too late.

  Suddenly, the man cried out. A squelching sound mixed with his scream of pain, and then the tip of a dagger pierced the skin of his throat.

  Mav stood behind him, one of his arms covered in blood and hanging limply at his side. He looked a sorry sight, and there was no way he could fight anymore. Luckily, he didn’t need to. Their enemies were dead.

  After the battle, he tried to collect himself. He gripped his dagger so tight in his left hand that it was almost glued to it. The handle was smeared crimson, and a single blood drop fell from the tip. He bent down and wiped it on the ground, but the stains wouldn’t come off.

  “Jack?”

  His heart still pounded and, damn it, the blood just wouldn’t come off. He forced himself to calm down, taking long, deep breaths. He gathered himself and turned around. Mav was on the ground now, and he was clutching his arm. His face so pale he could have passed for dead.

  With the fight over, Jack read his post-combat smoke-text.

  70% EXP gained

  [80% toward level 7]

  Dagger proficiency increased by 45%

  [78% toward level 3]

  Steel Baroque levelled up to level 2!

  Power Gained: Armor Break

  [In one focused, mana-drenched attack, you can pierce through an opponent’s armor, except where enchantments protect from it. Consumes 150 mana per use.]

  He was too tired to cheer out loud, so he did it in his head. He hoped Mav had seen him using smoke-twist; he felt like he’d started to get a handle on it.

  Sarna kneeled by the side of one of their opponents. “This fucker’s still alive,” she said.

  From the wound on his stomach, it seemed that ‘alive’ was just a temporary state for him. The blood oozing from the cut ticked away his life as if it was a clock. It’d take hours to die from it, but his fate was stamped.

  Jack bit back on the last remnants of horror thrashing in his mind. He wasn’t cut out for this. No matter how much training he did, how many monsters he killed, it would never be easy to take a life.

  Despite that, he was surprised to find that when he stood above the dying man, he felt no pity. This man had tried to kill his friends. Blood oozed from his wound, but Jack's sudden revulsion quickly turned to anger.

  “I’ll offer you a quick death if you talk,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t waiver.

  The man coughed. His teeth were stained red.

  “I have come to terms with death,” he said, then groaned with pain. “Whether it be fast or slow, I will greet it as an old friend.”

  Sarna pressed the tip of her boot into his wound. Blood oozed out onto her leathers. Jack forced himself not to look away.

  “Talk, you whoreborn scum. How did you get into the Troop? What the hell did you want?”

  His face was wracked with pain, but the man wouldn’t talk. Sarna pressed down harder, gaining only more blood stains on her boots for her efforts.

  Mav got to his feet. His arm was a wreck; jagged pieces of shatterblade had dug through his coat sleeves and into his skin. From the awkward way Mav’s arm was bent, it looked like it was broken. How was he still upright? Most men would have passed out from the pain.

  And then he saw the dust on Mav’s other hand. Teyroot. Maybe he’d used it to block the agony.

  Mav stumbled over to the man.

  “The son of a bitch won’t talk,” he said. He struggled to raise his dagger. “So, this is for my arm.”

  Mav plunged his blade into the man’s throat. He gurgled on his own blood, before letting out a raspy last breath. With that, the thief’s energy seemed to desert him. Jack knew it was bad when he dropped his mughal on the ground and then quickly fell beside it.

  Jack picked up the mughal so that it wasn’t lost. “We need a fucking doctor,” he said.

  Judging by the commotion coming from across the training yard, it appeared the shimmer wall had faded, and that Jack and co were in full view again. The clacking of training swords ceased when the rest of the Golden Troop noticed the corpses on the grass.

  “Hurry up, numbskulls,” shouted Sarna. “Fetch Quigley and tell him to bring every bloody herb he’s got.”

  Elena stared at Mav with concern. Sarna patted her shoulder.

  “We’ll do our best for him.”

  As Jack stared at the bodies of their would-be assassins, he noticed something on one of them. It was a strange mark below his collarbone.

  “Elena, what’s this?” he asked.

  It seemed that they all had red marks gouged into their skin, just below their necks. It was a star shape, with what appeared to be an eye in the middle. Elena examined one man, tracing her index finger along the marks on his skin.

  “The mark of the Last Rite.”

  “Those bastards,” said Sarna, with such venom in her voice that Jack could taste it.

  “They’re assassins,” said Elena. “A mercenary unit of men and women who are dying of diseases, with no hope of a cure. They take on suicidal jobs on the condition that their flek payments go to their families.”

  “Who paid them?” asked Jack.

  “Last Rites were banned by the Lord Council after they refused to pay flek taxes. Many rulers still use them, though. Notably, two that you will recognize.”

  “Lord Veik, by any chance?”

  Elena gave a grim nod. “Veik used them to clear a nest of swarmers on his lands. They’d burrowed thirty feet into a hill face, and they left their nests to hunt peasants working alone in fields. The Last Rites were the only ones who dared enter the nest.”

  “They seemed to know who I was,” said Jack. “And that I couldn’t die. I could have sworn they were going for you and Mav. Someone wants to weaken me by killing my friends.”

  By now a bunch of fighters had gathered and were peppering Sarna with questions. The Troop doctor, a man named Quigley, sprinted across the yard as if his own life depended on it. On his approach, the fighters moved out of the way.

  Quigley was an old man with short legs. A grey beard, trimmed to perfection, covered his mouth and jaw. He moved as if he heard a clock ticking above him and that using his medical knowledge was a race against time. Quigley unslung a leather pouch from his shoulder and opened it. Jack couldn’t help but notice that he was missing three fingers on his left hand. That didn’t seem to hamper him as he stared at Mav’s wound, and then fished through his pouch for something.

  “He’s peppered with metal,” said Quigley. “What the bleeding hell happened here? Did a tinker lose his mind?”

  “It wasn’t a bomb. Shatterblades,” said Sarna.

  Quigley waved his hand dismissively. “Warriors never cease to amaze me. What happens when you pick up a sword, do your brains turn to mush? Whatever it was, this man is a liter of blood away from the grave. The cut nicked two arteries. Not to mention that his bones are smashed to hell.”

  “Can you save him?” asked Jack.

  “Of course I can save him, you shitpouch! Who
do you think I am, a rubber neck pretending to know medicine? The question is, who is this man’s officer?”

  Mav was giving a worryingly good impression of a corpse. Jack wrung his hands.

  “What the fuck does that matter? Stop the bleeding.”

  “He’s yours then, I take it? I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. Tell me one thing: do you want this man cured?”

  “What the hell do you think?” said Jack. “What kind of question is that?”

  The blood oozed from Mav’s arm and formed a disgusting puddle on the grass. His pallor was pure chalk. The rise and fall of his chest was the only thing that reassured Jack he was alive.

  “I need to stop the bleeding,” said Quigley. “Ordinarily a stoptie would be sufficient, but judging by the dust on this man’s palm, he took Teyroot for the pain. The stupid damn shit you soldiers do. Teyroot thins the blood. I will need to use poulten to stop the tide.”

  Jack felt himself losing his cool. “So use it already,” he said.

  Quigley rubbed his beard, smearing his white hairs with Mav’s blood. He didn’t seem too concerned about it.

  “That will be a hundred flek,” he said.

  The words floored Jack. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Around them, some of the soldiers stared at Mav with all the concern of an audience watching a theatre troop. Others chattered amongst each other.

  “Don’t just stand there,” shouted Sarna. “Check the walls for breaches. Damn it, do you need to be told everything?”

  “Well?” said Quigley. “Do you want me to proceed?”

  Jack didn’t even need to juggle finances. Of course he’d pay it; what else could he do?

  “Just stop the damn bleeding, you flek-grabbing vulture.”

  100 Flek lost! [Total: 129]

  As Quigley got to work on Mav’s arm, Jack approached Sarna. When he touched her shoulder, she flinched. She spun around as if she was ready to strike him.

  “This guy made me pay a hundred flek to save a man’s life,” he told her. “What gives?”

  “Quigley doesn’t work for the troop. He’s freelance, and he’s been burned too many times by people not paying him after treatment. He’s a bitter old coot, but he’s good at what he does.”

  “His bedside manner could use some work.”

  “Just pray that your friend lives.”

  Across the training field, the man had finished writing on his billboard. Now that it was done, Jack could see that he had been writing a list of vacancies for mercenaries of the troop to apply for. One of them read, ‘Wanted: Patrolmen for Golden Troop walls.’ Jack looked at the dead men around him and thought, no shit you need patrolmen.

  After dealing with Quigley, they went to see General Vine in his office. Bordan spat fire after he learned of the attack. The heat of it still showed on his face when he debriefed Jack, Saran and Elena on what had happened.

  “I have to say, young lord, you have proven me wrong. I didn’t think you looked like much of a lord, but now I see I might have misjudged you. But poor Johnson,” he said, pacing his office. “Damn it. He used to stay hours after his shift and fetch me nibbles while I worked on my book. I never told him, but I was going to put him forward for officer training. If I get my hands around the necks of whoever ordered this…”

  After Quigley had patched up Mav, Jack and two soldiers had carried him to a wooden hut that served as a sick ward. With a day’s rest he’d be able to travel, but as soon as they got back to the castle he’d need to lay up in bed for a while. He’d live, but his arm was broken and would take a few moons to heal.

  “Bordan,” said Sarna, eyeing the general. “With your leave, I would like to accept a command post at Castle Halberd.”

  “Hang on a second,” said Jack. “I haven’t actually offered it you yet.”

  “I’m coming at a bargain price. You won’t find anyone else.”

  “Why the sudden change of heart?” asked Elena.

  Bordan sat behind his desk. “Sarna Lornthane comes with baggage,” he said. Jack noticed that the name ‘Blade Maiden’ were conspicuously absent from his words.

  Sarna glared at him. “Thank you, wise General,” she said. “It’s no secret around here that I’m always passed up for officer posts. Most lords think having something hanging between your legs makes you a better commander. I was going to tell you to go to hell, Jack, but what happened today interested me. And, well, I don’t really have options. I’m sick of turning to rust here. No offence, general.”

  “And I hope you don’t take offence when I say the air will taste fresher when you leave,” answered Bordan. There was humor in his voice. Jack got the impression that the two of them liked to joust with their words.

  “I’d expect you to command my army when I have one,” said Jack. “Castle Halberd isn’t just a side show.”

  “When I commit my blade, I keep my word.”

  “And the baggage that Bordan mentioned?”

  Sarna was silent for a second.

  “You might as well tell him,” said Bordan. “In fact, you are obliged to. Our young lord needs to know what he’s getting himself in for.”

  Sarna nodded. “Have you heard of my father? Teremund Lornthane?”

  “I have,” answered Elena.

  “Then you might know what a stubborn bastard he is. Wherever I go, he’ll come, eventually.”

  “We have room at the castle for your father if need be,” said Jack.

  “He won’t come for a visit, you dolt! My father has a hundred beds he could lay his flabby body on. He’ll come for me.”

  Jack sat up straighter. “You better tell me, then.”

  “The short of it is that my father, in all his wisdom, promised me to a lord. A political marriage, if you can believe that. The old git obviously doesn’t know me very well. I played along for a while since I had nowhere else to go. But the first time I met my suitor…something happened.”

  “I love hearing this part,” said Bordan.

  “He was your typical son of nobility. A corn-brained, floppy, weak-willed shell of a man who thought having a powerful father made him the golden king. We got into a little…disagreement... and it ended with my blade somehow sticking out of his leg.”

  Bordan laughed. “I always like to picture his face when he saw that you were to be his bride.”

  “The lord cancelled the betrothal and his son became a laughing stock. Father was so angry that he had me confined to my quarters for three months straight. I had to escape by knocking out a guard. It’s been sixteen damn years, he’s made it clear that he’ll have me taken back to our home as soon as he gets his hands on me. He didn’t dare do anything while I was in the Troop because he’s scared of Bordan.”

  “Me?” said Bordan. “I’m a gentle flower of a man.”

  “I get it,” said Jack. “When you come to Castle Halberd, Teremund Lornthane become my problem.”

  “That’s the short of it.”

  “I’m beginning to see why you’re so cheap.”

  “Listen,” said Sarna. “The old man, is he okay?”

  Elena nodded. “His arm is broken, but he’ll live.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Sarna.

  “Mavelin Coyne.”

  Sarna’s eyes widened. “Coyne? As in, Carrion Coyne?”

  “The nickname is new to me.”

  “The guy’s a legend! He took out Bylo Bombdar’s siege cannons with four men, didn’t he? What happened to him? He looked kind of scrawny, though. I always pictured him to be a little bigger.”

  “He’s on a Teyroot diet,” said Jack. “I need something to eat myself. I want to set out to the castle as soon as we can.”

  “I’ll say goodbye to the dicks in the yard and pack my shit, if we have a deal,” said Sarna.

  Slow footsteps crept down the hallway. They seemed to take an age to arrive, and then Tacher Allvem poked his head into the doorframe. When he saw Jack and Elena, he scowled.

  “The ta
cher is still here then?” he asked.

  Sarna turned her head toward Elena. “Wait. You’re a tacher?”

  Jack detected a subtle hostility in her voice.

  “She is,” he said. “Why?”

  “You could have told me.”

  “All lords have tachers, apparently. I thought that was common knowledge.”

  Sarna nodded in acknowledgment. “Of course. It’s just…father hired a tacher when I was young. She was a wicked excuse for a woman.”