by RW Krpoun
“Because you guys are getting stuff done. You sold a barrow-sword in the City-State for chump change, which means you were skillful enough to take it but had no idea what it was worth. You grabbed six months’ worth of whitestone in record time. And the stuff at the Fist.”
“The Wraiths had a detachment at the Fist,” Jeff pointed out.
“They don’t have any Bards,” Sam said with a touch of pride. “Besides, they’re locals-they won’t pick up on the cues I do. Nobody I’ve heard of came in and set out kicking ass left, right, and center, so they wouldn’t immediately focus on a hard-hitting group. Instead, they would be looking for a group skulking about looking for easy jobs, which they proceed to do extremely efficiently. Who the hell are you guys, anyway?”
“We all served in Iraq,” Shad shrugged. “Together. Our greeter said that was why they grabbed us four instead of our entire gaming group.”
“It’s like the Army is screwing us one last time,” Jeff shook his head.
“OK, I get how you tracked us. And the ‘why’ is that you have a plan to get back?” Shad looked skeptical.
“Yeah. And I know it works-I helped the last group to leave with some detail work. They’re home, now,” Sam tapped his stomach. “What did they tell you about the tattoos?”
“That they are spells, and that when all the intruders are dead they’ll send us back,” Jeff said.
“Did they mention how this place is made up of the descendants of peoples and things that were banished?”
“Yeah.”
“And that there are rules to this place?”
“Yup.”
“OK. Here’s the thing: we weren’t banished, just borrowed. We don’t belong here, and by the rules we have to be given back. Our tattoos have an expiration date of twenty years local time, and then we go home, or quicker if we die. That’s the best the Council can do to get around the rule. The intruders got here by basically banishing themselves, but they still have the same statute of limitations hanging over their heads, just like any outlander.”
“Why is anyone still here, if there is that twenty-year rule?” Derek asked.
“The original people banished here got the uber-banishment, life without parole sort of thing. Some were even changed in physical appearance for good measure, or so I read. The twenty-year rule is for outlanders who get summoned or banish themselves. Think of it as a tourist visa.”
“Well, that’s good news in one sense, but I’m not eager to spend twenty years here,” Shad scowled and took a long pull at his mug.
“Neither am I. The point is that the Council lied: the tattoos are not spells to send us home, they are wards to keep us here. When the last ward is removed by an intruder death or the wards expire after twenty years the laws of nature, so to speak, send us home.”
The Black Talons pondered this. “So what if we cut off the tattoos?” Derek asked.
“Won’t work. You might try cutting off your arm, but I’m not sure that would work, either.” Sam pulled a scroll from a case and unrolled it. “The way to do it is to nullify the wards. You build a device, and activate it at a specific time and place.” He pointed to a design drawn on the scroll. “The wards pop off like fireworks, and you’re free. Like shorting out a magnetic lock.”
“What stops them from just kidnapping us again?”
“They can’t. The time difference is one point, and there is other mumbo-jumbo stuff, but basically its one trip per, no refunds. Unless you’re banished by the real power that created this place you can’t come here a second time. It’s the reality basis for a Greek legend about a guy who goes into Hades to rescue his girlfriend.”
“So why are you still here?” Jeff asked.
“Because it’s not like making a trip to Home Depot, or even to an alchemist shop,” Sam stowed the scroll. “The devices require specialty items which are either prohibitively expensive or dangerous to get. Plus we have to be careful because if the Council gets word about what we are up to they’ll try to stop us. A group I met had worked out some of the details, and I helped them finish it up in return for the entire data package. I confirmed they made it out, and have been double-checking the procedures ever since. There’s good reason to believe they’re not the only ones who have made it back.”
“So you need a group,” Shad nodded. “Well, go sing a song or something and let us talk.”
When the Bard was out of earshot he leaned in. “What do you guys think?”
“He really is one of us,” Jeff stroked Blackwand’s hilt. “I’ve talked to a lot of locals since we’ve been here-he’s really one of us.”
“The ward idea makes a lot of sense,” Derek agreed. “Working off class knowledge, I would say it fits perfectly.”
“Anyone think he’s setting us up?” Shad asked the others. “Some sort of con game?”
“No one around here to turn us over to,” Fred pointed out. “The Ultimate Master is dead, and the rest are a long ways away. We don’t have enough money or good stuff to make stealing worth the risk.”
“Any way we can confirm his story?” Shad glanced at the Bard, who was across the room leaning against the bar.
“Brad,” Jeff said. “Make him lead us to Brad.”
“Good idea,” Shad nodded. “He was right about a couple things, like the line around the tattoo. And he looks like third level from the thing over the left shoulder. Anyone object to our running with this, see if it amounts to anything? OK, let’s get some supper and start working on a plan. But keep an eye on our new little buddy.”
“Brad backed him right down the line,” Jeff reported later that evening. “We checked the background Sam gave, the details since they got here…it all matches. Brad saw two party members killed, and his version has the usual viewpoint differences that you get when it’s real life and not an agreed-upon story, but they match on all the high points. I gotta say that they got a much better initial briefing than we did. Sam has tried to get Brad involved in various things, including the group who got out, but the guy is spooked hard. He’s planning on staying put for good and getting home on the expiration date.”
“Not so much fun when the pixels fight back,” Shad observed. “So you guys are convinced this deal is legit?”
Fred and Jeff nodded.
“Then let’s see about blowing this popsicle stand.”
Chapter Nine
“The key is a leather harness holding a black fire sapphire against each tattoo, with a fitted bar of grayscale iron connecting each sapphire,” Sam indicated the salient features on a diagram. “We activate them at the proper time and place, and we’re back in the land of HBO.”
“How do we activate them?” Jeff asked, leaning forward to study the diagram.
“Speak the words,” Sam shrugged. “But that’s a long way down the road. I know a leatherworker who will make the bracers for you guys-he made my belly harness and the leg wraps for the group that left. There’s a Dwarf who will work the grayscale to the specs as well; both are simply money issues, and not large ones at that. The key is getting the sapphires and grayscale.”
“Expensive or hard to come by?” Shad asked.
“More the latter. The sapphires aren’t really gems, they’re faceted gullet stones of a creature that’s a cross between a moray eel and a hydra. The grayscale is just iron with dragon’s blood mixed into the forging. Tough to make, and more expensive than an equal weight in gold.”
“So at our level, capturing it is out,” Fred observed.
“Yeah, the morays nest in groups and are really deadly. The upside is that dragons sell blood on occasion-it’s used in a number of powerful magic applications and they like wealth, and a single one of the moray-things has a dozen or more gut stones, so the stuff is available.”
“If not gold then what, missions?” Derek asked.
“Yeah, payment for services,” Sam nodded. “We’re lucky-the death of the Ultimate Master saved us five sapphires and some grayscale.”
“We still need twenty between us,” Shad shrugged. “How much grayscale?”
“A pound,” Sam said after checking his notes. “A pint of blood.”
“Any idea how to get them?”
“Some. I have gotten a reputation as a barrister-Bards often act as legal representation. The Ultimate Master wasn’t really interested in administration, so it was safe.”
“Nothing personal, but how does a low-level Bard get a rep in a city this size?” Shad asked.
“A couple hundred episodes of Law and Order on top of class knowledge,” Sam shrugged. “It’s strictly amateur hour here, lawyer-wise. The locals aren’t all that organized as individuals or groups, and the study of anything but magic is pretty sketchy.”
“I’m surprised they even bother with trials,” Jeff said. “Just cross the right palm with gold.”
“For the rich, sure,” Sam nodded. “Or for property crime and stuff like that. But for commoners facing the heavy stuff like murder, treason, rape, and robbery they have Magistrates. Honest ones, by the way. The Ultimate Master left ‘em in place and alone; in fact, there was a lot less general corruption under him than before. His attitude from back home, I think. Anyway, the new boss has left them in place, too.”
“What do you need us for if you’re the Clarence Darrow of Middle Earth?” Fred asked.
“It’s been a way to gather information. People in trouble do what they need to-if they can’t pay, they’ll agree to something else. There’s no public libraries here, but a lot of people have books. I’ve gotten a lot of access to information, and I’ve gotten a good name for myself. As a result of this I’ve got the groundwork done-the how, where, and whys, so all we have to do is pull a mission for the stones and another for the blood. A little cash to pull it together, and we’re off to the races.”
“What do we have to throw into Mount Doom?” Derek asked.
“More the other way around,” Sam shrugged. “We stop something from starting, not end something, and we recover something else. Two jobs. The point is that with five of us and a good mix of skills we can accomplish a lot.” Sam took a pull from his mug and made a face. “The thing about the locals is that they just aren’t motivated the way we are. I dunno, their culture is just a lot more…self-absorbed. The guys I know who have gone native are doing great in business because their attitude makes them predators in a field of sheep. Even Bob is doing well, and he only had one year of community college.”
“So, what do we stop and who pays to stop it?” Shad asked.
“There’s some mages here who will pay, a consortium if you will. A connected group who are worried about how things are going, and who do not like what the Council is up to, particularly their habit of shanghaiing outlanders into here. They call themselves the Ebon Assembly.”
“OK, what is the gig?”
Sam sighed. “Fu Hao, the last sorcerer-warrior princess of ancient China, wife of the first real Emperor. She was banished here around 1200 BC, and got entombed. Seems most of China’s monsters and magicians got bumped around that time and a bunch of her old enemies ganged up on her and got her boxed away when she wasn’t ready for them.”
“Popular, I take it?” Jeff grinned.
“She won at least sixty battles,” Sam said. “A real badass. She was a big reason an Empire was born in China.”
“Which means that she was a big reason for the banishing in China,” Shad pointed out. “Order dispels them, right? She hoisted on her own petard.”
“Yeah, apparently she didn’t know about that. Anyhow, she gets entombed, imprisoned, pick your term. Over the last few thousand years all her enemies get clipped one by one, and she’s largely forgotten. Lately, though, it seems that a group has decided to free her.”
“And these mages, the Assembly, want her to stay locked up? Why? What’s one more magic-user?” Derek asked.
“She’s not really a magic-user, more of a ‘mancer like you, at best. What’s dangerous about her is that she has the spark, the drive like we have. Most everyone here are the descendants of groups and individuals who put no value on organization and ambition beyond the individual level. There’s no company men, no factions beyond maybe following a specific leader. Moreover, a lot of those who came through did so with a hatred of order, organization, science, nations, that sort of thing. A few groups came through with more of an ambitious outlook, but they mostly burned out from constant fighting. All the major points, the City-State, the Fist, and that sort of thing trace their roots back to those few organized groups. Fact is, the locals are status quo people.”
“We noticed,” Shad nodded.
“Exactly. The geek intruders grabbed power, but they haven’t done a huge amount with it, world-wise, although if you get past their blather you’ll find that is exactly what both the Council and the Assembly fear about them the most: the toxic ideas they carry like a disease. Let one of those goobers start hammering out a new Roman Empire and everything will come crashing down, society-wise.”
“Makes you wonder how many locals the Council have clipped for the crime of showing initiative,” Jeff observed.
“More than a few,” the Bard nodded. “Lucky for the Council the intruders are losers and slackers who suddenly found themselves rich and surrounded by plenty of booze and hot babes, and they really haven’t affected the status quo much. Taken objectively the Ultimate Master’s tenure here wasn’t all that disruptive. A few niceties such as the horse collar, a touch of organization, less corruption, but nothing much outside the locals’ comfort zone.”
“Still, with the lack of central governments it wouldn’t take much for one of the intruders to start playing Age of Empires for real,” Shad nodded.
“Exactly. And Fu Hao isn’t a gamer geek with a cheat code: she is the real thing. If she got loose she would not only have the ideas, but the experience and skills to make it work. There hasn’t been anyone with that resume here in thousands of years. It was rare for team players and organizers to get banished.”
“I don’t really want to kill her,” Derek observed. “She sounds like progress.”
“First, we wouldn’t kill her, just lock down her tomb,” Sam shook his head. “And secondly she wasn’t Joan of Arc; she was more like Field Marshal Walter Model, Hitler’s fireman, sent where things were the toughest.”
“Not Miss Manners, then,” Jeff observed.
“Not at all.”
“So what is the Assembly’s political line?” Jeff asked.
“Well, firstly they don’t like the Council-they think the Council is getting too powerful, and too interested in permanency; in short, of becoming the thing they all fear. Plus they do not think the Council’s method of fighting the intruders by importing outlanders is a good idea; in fact, they think its counterproductive because some of the outlanders being imported are more capable than the intruders. So they make an effort to help outlanders get home; they’re not doing it out of love, of course, but because it’s more effective than hunting us down. Its like a quarantine in reverse.”
“But we still have to pay our own way,” Shad observed.
“Yeah. They have figured out that making us pay causes some to be killed off and the rest to enrich the Assembly, so they weaken the Council’s efforts while strengthening themselves.”
“So they’re fighting each other while the intruders dig in?”
“Sort of, except that the Assembly thinks the Council are a bigger threat in the long run. Remember, the intruders are operating under the same deadline we are-twenty years and out. The Assembly figures the best method for dealing with the intruders is to get people close to them to encourage partying and projects like the Ultimate Overlord’s massive build-up of Havenhall.”
“Keep them from changing things too much until the expiration date rolls around,” Jeff said thoughtfully.
“Exactly. Much simpler and safer than importing even more outlanders. And it is working: the intruders have been here for a third of their allotted span
and they haven’t done much.”
“So we do this thing,” Shad tapped his mug thoughtfully. “How do we ensure we get paid? We make the trek to Mount Doom, seal her down, and get back, none of which I expect will be fun or easy, and these powerful mages say, ‘thanks, now get lost’. What then? We’re fourth level.”
“There’s a gimmick for just this sort of situation. It’s a container-they put the payment inside, and we take it with us. It unlocks when we fulfill our obligation. Or if too much time passes, the container and its contents zip back to the mage. They use it for just this sort of thing; the key is the enchantment, not the container itself. Naturally there’s anti-handling devices involved, but it keeps everyone honest. Plus what we’re asking is reasonable-its like a hundred grand transaction with a billionaire: more than most people could raise, but peanuts to him.”
“What’s the other job?” Derek asked. “Killing a Cyclops? A pesky dragon run off some Dwarves?”
“Loot job,” Sam shrugged. “Go into bad territory and find an item, then swap it for what we want.”
“That sounds deceptively easy,” Jeff observed.
“The target area is a site of the last campaign fought with the Old Powers,” Sam said uneasily. “A place they call the Great Field. See, some of those who were initially banished had really heavy mojo. As in Archmage level stuff, what they now call the Old Powers. A big war a few centuries ago ended with nobody left who could use the heavyweight stuff. The final battle was in a valley, and it ended up being kind of like Virginia in the Civil War: back and forth, up and down for weeks. By the time it was over all the heavy-weights were dead and the place was…hot.”
“Hot?” Jeff cocked an eyebrow.
“Magically…radioactive,” Sam admitted.
“How does that work?”
“Well, the place is pretty much untouched from the last days. I mean, the campaign was fought centuries ago, but there’s still bones, not much rust, stuff still lying in the open. The weather and season is stuck where it was in the final days, although the edges are cooling off and creeping in, but you still have a big area wide open.”