The Mists of Erantia (Realm of Arkon Book 7)

by G. Akella

  She looked for an available spot, took me by the hand, and led me to a table occupied by a diverse group of players: a bald warrior, likely a tank by the nickname Evil Engineer, a dark-skinned priest named Khan who was dressed in a hospital-style robe decorated with red lace, and opposite them a thin and short-haired mage named Kitsum. Next to the mage sat a bald paladin with a face full of red tattoos and the nickname Weave. At the head of the table sat Reader, a rogue with high cheekbones, a trimmed beard, and a small scar on his right cheek. He wore a hooded camouflage robe. All of the fighters were in the low two hundreds. They had finished lunch by now—nothing but a small potbellied keg remained on the table. The guys were sipping beer lazily from clay mugs, listening to the story the rogue at the head of the table was telling.

  "Right here." The girl nudged me toward an empty seat at the table. "Sit here with these drunkards while I go tell the bosses about you."

  "Drinkers. Who's this?" asked the warrior calmly.

  "Drinkers, drunkards, what's the difference? He's here to talk to Fenrir. Just let him sit with you, all right? I'll go tell the big man about him."

  "We call our party the Drinkers," Evil Engineer said to me as he watched the girl leave. "You got a mug?"

  I smiled and pulled my mug from my bag. He filled it from the keg.

  "You a new recruit?" the priest asked.

  "No. I'm here to tell your clan leader about a unique raid boss. Assuming we come to an agreement."

  "What level is it?"

  I shrugged. "Over four hundred."

  "Whoa." The paladin in front of me sobered up at the sound of that. "You'll definitely come to an agreement. Gene loves adventures, but level 400, that's serious." He smiled. "But no sense interrogating you. Come on, Georgy, tell us the rest of the story."

  "Not much left now," the rogue resumed. "In that siege, we had taken out four outposts. Only Rus Clan fortifications were left. So there we were, huddling near our tower, with the assassins running to and fro, on the lookout for theirs."

  "Is that when they nabbed Hidel?" the priest cut in.

  "Yeah," Reader nodded. "We sat on the hill, dug ourselves in pretty comfortably, and waited. For an hour or so, until finally Devolver yells into the channel, 'I see them! The Rus!' So Fenrir mounts that white horse Akella had brought him, looks around at all of us, and dramatically points his sword northwest, screaming 'Onward! To Rus!'"

  The rogue stopped, took a swallow from his mug, and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

  "Well? What happened then?" demanded the mage.

  "Don't know much Russian history, do you?" The rogue laughed. "You Americans don't study much in school but your Civil War between the North and South and all. Thomas Jackson, Ulysses E. Lee, all those types. I bet Weave is the only one who knows who Batu Khan is."

  "Any relation to Khan here?" Kitsum chuckled. "Anyway, is that when you captured Hidel?"

  "That's right," Reader nodded. "And what a sight it was! Our flag flew over that city for six whole months!"

  A silence spell had indeed been cast over our table, so we couldn't even hear what the guys at the neighboring tables were saying. I sat and listened, drinking the bitter beer, and wondered whether I should regret having never played these games before. Oh well, It's too late now, anyway. And this game we now call life sure makes up for all the others.

  The tattooed paladin piped up. "Georgy, tell us about that dungeon in the Misty Hills. They say only you and one other survived the boss fight."

  The rogue smiled. "Looks like I should change my class to bard."

  "Isn't it already?" said the warrior, grinning.

  "No, let Weave tell us why he hasn't bred himself a unicorn yet," Reader deflected.

  The priest laughed. "Ah yes, so your mare let you down again, eh? What happened?"

  "The hell do I know," Weave shrugged. "I cast that scroll on the steed and fed them both just like the book said. Three hundred gold pieces wasted on the feed alone!"

  "So what tender magical words did you use to serenade them while they, uh, did the deed?" Khan struggled to keep from laughing. "I think you were supposed to pet them or kiss them or something while—"

  "Give it a rest," Weave barked, but he was laughing just like the others. "You just got yourself a rare steed out of blind luck, so shut up."

  "Blind luck? I chased after that rare ram of mine for four months straight," the priest jabbed back, still laughing. "And after I got him, I realized I didn't need him. I'd been working out so hard as I pursued him that now I can climb any mountain and leap over any obstacle on my own two feet!"

  Reader laughed and smacked his hand on the table. "All right, guys, are we going to the gorge to do some grinding or what?"

  "I mean, as long as no one's going to miss the raid this time, we will," said the mage with a glance at Evil Engineer. "We can't have our tank calling out for a bathhouse visit."

  "Don't give me a hard time for that," the warrior protested. "Me and the wife and kids go to the bathhouse every Saturday. Brought the habit with us from the real world."

  "Ah, with the wife and kids on Saturdays," nodded the mage sagely. "But with just your wife, you went again yesterday, the fourth day in a row. I mean, I know you get yourself unspeakably filthy, but something fishy is going on here."

  "Oh, you're just jealous," said the warrior with a wave of his hand and a smile in my direction. "They're all a bunch of liars. Pay them no mind. More beer?"

  I wanted to accept, but Alata came to the table that very moment.

  "Come on, newb." She grabbed my sleeve. "The big boys are waiting for you."

  "Thanks for the beer and the stories, guys." I got up, shook hands with the whole cheerful crew, and followed the girl towards the staircase up to the next floor.

  The meeting room she led me into was on the second floor, fifty feet or so down the hallway at the top of the stairs. I stepped into the waiting room, where another girl—this one red-haired and snub-nosed—studied her painted nails in utter boredom. Alata nodded at the tall oaken door across the room.

  "Well, happy negotiations, Krian," she said, calling me by my displayed name for the first time, pulling the bronze door handle towards her, and literally shoving me inside.

  The spacious, well-lit room looked out onto the backyard behind the clan house. It was furnished in the style of the offices of the world we had left behind. A huge oval meeting table with a few dozen chairs around it. The Ferat Clan coat of arms over the leader's chair. A map of the mainland on the right wall and a model castle in the left corner. A long leather sofa far to the right, plus eight wide armchairs and a low, rectangular darkwood table, at which four people sat. Fenrir was a level 237 ranger—blond with a broad nose, firm chin, and an intricate earring gleaming in his ear. In the armchair to his right sat a priest in a light mantle decorated with angular ruins. It was Osiris, level 228. She was the "Oatsy and Rice" Alata had mentioned. Opposite her sat Yar, a level 234 warrior. His face was open and manly, his strong will depicted in his chin and short haircut. It was the perfect look for a superhero. Next to the warrior sat a short, ashen-haired level 207 sorceress nicknamed Chin-Chin. She sported a beige mantle, shoulder-length hair, huge green eyes, and symmetrical features. In real life, she must have been a fan of anime. All four looked over at me with subdued interest.

  Still on the threshold, I nodded. "Greetings, Fenrir. And greetings to you all."

  "Lord Baron Fenrir," the warrior corrected me.

  "My mistake," it wasn't worth arguing about. "Greetings, Lord Baron Fenrir."

  "Stop it, Yar," the Ferat Clan leader said with a frown. Returning his gaze to me, he nodded almost imperceptibly, pointed to one of the armchairs, and continued in the same calm tone. "Greetings. Come, sit down, and tell us why you're here."

  I walked along the soft carpet, took the chair they had offered me, and looked around curiously.

  "Not a bad place!"

  "Why are you camouflaged?" asked
the priestess, not a scrap of warmth in her voice. "Got something to hide?"

  I smiled and looked her in the eye. "I bet everyone here has something to hide. Some more, some less. I just happen to be in the former camp."

  Fenrir made no attempt to hide his irritation. "Come on, get on with your business. We don't have much time, and Alata said you have some information. So we'll talk about that, and only that. You tell me exactly what you've got, and I'll decide whether it's worth buying."

  "Who told you I came here to sell something?" I grinned at him. "No, I just have a proposal for you all."

  "Interesting," Yar cocked his head. "So there's no level 400 boss?"

  "Oh, there's a boss," I shrugged, "but not level 400."

  "Can you please just tell us in a few words what it is you want?" Fenrir said, enunciating as carefully as he hoped I would in reply.

  "Wait a moment, commander," Chin-Chin said gently, raising her left hand. "Krian, who are you?"

  Our eyes met. The next moment, the sorceress gasped and fainted. She had not attempted any control magic on me, and her HP bar did not drop, nor turn red. What happened? I knew that in moments of rage my gaze had a, well, harmful effect on sentient beings. But camouflage had always stopped that. And I wasn't enraged. Not one bit.

  Two of the clansmen acted without hesitation. Yar was on his feet, a knife drawn from his belt and pointed straight at my face. Osiris' hand was shrouded in blue flame. Fenrir, however, made no move. Only his eyes shifted, becoming saturated with attentive calculation.

  "What did you do to her?" the warrior spat between clenched teeth.

  "Nothing!" I looked calmly into his eyes and shook my head. "You're the ones who should be explaining. Explaining what she tried to do to me. And whether this is the kind of hospitality the Ferat Clan practices," I said as I turned to Fenrir.

  "Sit down, Yar," replied the clan leader coldly. Once the soldier obeyed, he continued. "She's a medium. The talent appeared just after the patch. She was making no aggressive moves, you should know. Sometimes, though, she can read the essence, the nuance, of the thoughts of sentient beings. I have no idea what—"

  "He... he is nothing!" the sorceress whispered as her consciousness returned. "He is a blank sheet of paper, full of emptiness. I... I don't know who he is." Shaking her head, she pulled a handkerchief from her bag to stem the flow of blood from her nose.

  "All right," Fenrir continued, as coldly as before. "You take off your camouflage so we can see who you really are. Then we talk. Otherwise, no conversation will occur. You will leave, and no one will touch you. You are here as our guest, and your life will not be threatened on clan territory. So, which will it be?"

  "As you wish." I shrugged, assumed my demonic combat form, and looked calmly into their widening eyes. "Satisfied?"

  Something black flashed along the edge of my vision. I turned and saw huge webbed wings emerge from the darkness behind me.

  Now this is kind of fun, I heard Lita giggle. Look at those humans cower! You can't really fly, of course, but they don't know that.

  I kept standing. Sitting was getting uncomfortable, anyway, what with my tail getting in the way, and the chair being absurdly small for me. I waited ten seconds before returning to my regular form.

  "Satisfied, yes." Fenrir shook his head. "A demon player. Are you from the Steel Wolves? The most mysterious player clan of all. You are the ones who found the mallorn seeds just recently, and killed Nerghall a few months back?"

  "And Rgharg," I nodded. "And that is precisely what I wish to speak with you about, Lord Baron."

  Fenrir grinned. "Drop the title. Yar just decreed the whole clan use it so that the newcomers can get used to the local laws. Just try calling a noble NPC by anything other than their honorable title when you're out in the city! Our castle is out in the Borderlands—here, we are just a brigade following some provincial baron. Not exactly the highest status. Clan members can only enter the city after undergoing thorough instruction. Otherwise some idiot will misbehave and—"

  "What about the Azure Dragons?"

  "What about them?" the ranger waved his hand. "Ksenjhuan is a baroness, too, with a castle two hundred miles from ours. We needed a place in Vaedarr, and a level eight clan house on city property is more influential than a level eight castle out in the Borderlands." The ranger fell silent for a moment, looked at his clanmates, sitting motionless in their chairs. "Wait, you said you killed Rgharg? Another companion of the God of Torturous Death? But we didn't get any messages about that."

  "He perished in Cathella, the spectral city between realms, so no message was broadcast to this world." To eliminate all doubt, I displayed the title I had earned for slaying Rgharg up above my head.

  "At the beginning of our conversation, though, you mentioned a boss. I doubt that the clan responsible for slaying two companions of the Twice Cursed God needs help!"

  "My clan remained in Demon Grounds and must remain there for a whole year," I explained with a sigh. "Here in Vaedarr, I have fewer than a dozen people with me, and most of them below level 200. Another dozen are in the Great Forest, dealing with the mallorns. But we only have nine days left."

  "Nine days until what?"

  "In the catacombs of Vaedarr, in the tomb of the Forgotten God, Teiran is assembling an army of undead. No NPC can go there. I have a key to the tomb and a quest for five hundred level 200 players. The beast must die within the time set by Champion Sebastian. I have no guide on how to kill him, nor any additional information. Also, Nerghall and Rgharg were slain more thanks to favorable circumstances than anything else. So, besides the people, we'll need a good raid leader. I'll tank the boss myself."

  A deathly silence settled over the room, interrupted only by the ticks and tocks of the dwarven clocks hanging on the wall. Fenrir slowly pulled a massive bronze ashtray out of his bag and placed it on the table, lit up, and looked back at me at last.

  "Why is he assembling an army in the catacombs? And why can't any NPCs enter the tomb? Is it a dungeon?"

  "Yes, it is." I shrugged off the disapproving glances from the women in the room and lit my pipe to join the smoking session. "That's not the issue, though. Arkam, the Forgotten God, found something in the Dark Ocean. Something that made everything around him die. He himself wished to die, as well, and so Myrt buried him. The tomb is a deadly place for any living creature born in this world. The army is being assembled because the master of pandemics and deferred death, Teiran, is about to inflict some terrible plague on Vaedarr as Vill's army invades Erantia, in the learned opinion of Father Sebastian."

  "He speaks the truth," Chin-Chin whispered. "Or at least firmly believes that he does."

  "At first, the quest said I could take a hundred paladins from the Order of the Forgotten God. But then the order's residence was destroyed by two fallen gods summoned by Vill from the Dark Ocean. I have encountered the two before. No one survived from the order, and so it falls to us to kill Teiran."

  "What is this Dark Ocean?" asked Osiris, staring at the smoking ashes in the tray.

  Myself exhaling a stream of smoke, I shrugged. "I don't know. Some sort of entity that washes away all plans and intentions."

  "How do you think this will work?" Fenrir said after a moment of silence. "I only have three hundred and seven players over level 200."

  "I have seven who will come with me. I doubt I'll be able to dissuade them. The Night Blades will send another forty, with the rest supplied by you and Ksenjhuan. All united into a single raid."

  "Wait a minute." Fenrir placed his pipe into the ashtray and massaged his temples. "You can unite several clans in a single raid?"

  "No problem," I nodded, sending him an invite.

  Fenrir froze for a second, his eyes clouding over, then exhaled loudly, shook his head, and reached for his pipe once more.

  "Krian, Prince of Craedia, Captain of the Order of Punishing Steel, legendary warlord, 84% boost to clan damage output," he muttered, stunned. "How did you manage all t
his?"

  "Life gave me no choice," I shot back with a grin. "The elves and my guys will add another seventy to seventy five percent."

  "What elves? How?" Yar interjected. "They're—"

  I cut him short. "The demons and undead have departed from the borders. The demons headed back to the Netherworld, while the undead have most likely been recruited by Vill. A great war rages in the Gray Frontier. Several gods have been vanquished, the stronghold of the goddess of death was destroyed, and Vill now rules the roost. The Twice Cursed One has amassed tremendous power, and is setting his sights on Karn."

  A crash came from the waiting room, followed by the terrified scream of the secretary. The door flew open, and an armored figure appeared where it had been.

  Two o'clock. Right on schedule. I turned and nodded to the knight, exerting all of my willpower to restrain the smile threatening to conquer my face. But even had I unleashed a maniacal laugh, I doubted anyone would have noticed. Ferat Clan's leaders stood there with their mouths open. The knight-commander surveyed the room ominously, walked up to our table, tossed a scroll fastened with a wax seal onto it, and calmly left.

  "The hell was what?" Osiris whispered, stunned.

  I tried as hard as I could to sound serious. "He's with me. Champion Sebastian gave me Brother Tukkard as my escort. He thought his presence might add a little extra weight to my words."

  "Extra weight?" Fenrir gave a nervous smile. "We were having trouble bearing the weight of your words already." He gave the scroll a look not entirely free of suspicion. "What is this?"

  I broke the seal, unrolled the thin parchment, and placed the scroll on the table. "Map of the Tomb of Arkam." A six-hundred-foot-wide hallway stretched a third of a mile, stopping at a massive pentagonal hall. The design was much too simple, but it played to our advantage—shepherding half a thousand people down narrow tunnels and stairways would have complicated things.