Durability: 110/110
Class limitation: only mages
Minimum level to use: 26
They were pretty good items, though I didn’t need them in the least. It was a shame; I would have been happy to wear the ring. The extra wisdom would have been nice if it weren’t for the class limitation. I didn’t have any of my own, after all.
The battle with the witch exposed how weak my mana was, as the two abilities I used spent nearly half of it. The ring would have helped.
“Ah well.” I sadly sighed and spent all five of the points I had on wisdom. It was a shame, but I had to do it.
That out of the way, I looked the herbs over thoughtfully. They were obviously for a quest I hadn’t gotten. I decided to walk around the city the next day and figure out who gave the quest.
As for the chess piece, it was obviously trash, but it sure looked nice. I decided to leave it in my bag for the time being.
By the time I had thought through everything and checked it all out, I realized we were almost to the city. Gunther’s mind was also occupied, though he sometimes wriggled a bit in his boots; that birch tree had apparently done a number on him.
We walked into the city and went our separate ways.
“Where are you off to?” I asked Gunther.
“The order mission. I have to inform the master of what happened, give him a full report of the journey. I’ll tell him about our battle, too.”
“I’m going to stop by tomorrow. I’ll tell him what a hero you were and how well you fought.”
“You don’t have to do that…” Gunther blushed and stuttered. Once again, I was stunned by the good work the developers had done; he could have been a living person. “What did I do—”
“The samurais said something else,” I interrupted, and Gunther perked up. He was obviously fascinated by the samurais, and he could barely hide how excited he was to hear what I was about to say. “True bravery is living when it’s time to live and dying when it’s time to die. You proved your bravery, you live fairly, and you were ready to die for a cause you thought was right. There isn’t anything wrong with me telling that to your direct supervisor.”
“To who?”
“To the master.”
The knight walked off in the direction of the mission, his badly mangled armor clanging with each step, and I set off to talk with the mayor.
“Well?” He waited on pins and needles, and his eyes kept flicking over to my bag. “Did you kill the witch? Did you?”
“Yes, yes, I did. Here.” I gave him the glasses and book.
“Oh, you even got her glasses! That’s very nice of you. Or do you have to use them to read the book?” The mayor put them in a desk drawer.
You completed a quest: Kill the Forest Witch.
Reward:
600 gold
700 experience
10% to your reputation in Fladridge
There was one more surprise.
You unlocked level 24!
Points ready to be distributed: 5
What a day!
“Well, thank you. The city is in your debt.”
The mayor stood up, handed me a purse full of gold, shook my hand vigorously, and started pushing me out the door with his ample midsection.
“Hey, do you really need those glasses?” I had a sneaking suspicion dawning, and I wanted to check it out.
“You want a souvenir?” The mayor playfully jabbed a finger into my chest. “To remind you of your great feat?”
“Something like that. I’ll hang it on the refrigerator like a magnet.”
“Where?” The mayor’s face looked exactly like Gunther’s.
“On the door to the icebox,” I said.
“Well, aren’t you the art lover!” The mayor waved a sausage-like finger.
“Pretty much.”
“Eh, here you go. Whatever.”
He opened the drawer, pulled the glasses out, and tossed them to me.
“And now you’ll have to excuse me. So much to do! The city awaits.” The mayor’s face turned serious.
“Agreed, lots to do. Send me a letter if anything comes up.”
I walked out and thought for a bit.
“You know what? Tomorrow’s another day, and I can think over everything then.”
I headed over to the mailbox, sent the greaves to Oygolinn, and sent the ring to Rodriguez. Maybe they could use them. I knew I wouldn’t get much if I sold them, so I was better off helping out a couple of friends.
Then I walked to the hotel, smiling at Lubelia as I went in.
“See? Never believe a word I say.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I promised I wouldn’t be coming to spend the night, but here I am. Anyway, make sure no one bothers me before morning.”
“No one at all?”
“No one.”
I climbed the stairs to my room and tossed the chess piece into the chest. Then, after adding two points to my strength, one to my intellect, and another two to my wisdom, I logged out of the game.
Chapter Sixteen
The Hunter and the Hunters (Part Three)
I pushed my chair back from my desk, stretched happily, laced my fingers behind my head, and surveyed my handiwork. There was a folder open on the screen in front of me, and it held four files where, just four hours before, there had only been two. I had churned out two more articles. Well, I’m not positive “churned” is the right word—they had practically written themselves. One had been bouncing around inside my head since the road from Fladridge, and all I’d had to do was put it down on paper. (Okay, type it up in my word processor.) Its sequel popped out of me like a champagne cork. The first looked at game mechanics: items, quests, magic. The second described the world itself: geography, history, fables, and folk legends. Regardless, the job was 65 percent done, and I was only a bit more than a week in. That gave me pause to think. I had a whole month, and at my current rate, I would be done in another week. What was I supposed to do with the last two weeks? There had to be some way I could turn that to my financial advantage. A thought popped into my head…
Anyway, I sent the files to Mammoth after a quick internal discussion regarding whether I should send them both right away or stagger them a bit. In the end, I decided to make his day, picturing his gray mane quivering in happiness as I did. Maybe he’d even do a little dance.
Now, the articles were making waves; I’d checked the Capital Herald’s website, and the forums were abuzz. I was surprised to see that everyone, from kids to retirees, was reading the first two articles, especially the middle generation.
All the older progressives were putting up a united front against me, as the author, and my findings. I’d made my position fairly clear: there was nothing wrong with games themselves, but they shouldn’t be used to escape from real-world problems. They’re just a quick breath of fresh air.
The older generation and some of the middle generation accused me and the gaming industry as a whole of brainwashing young people, trying to keep them away from civil life, misleading them, and just about everything else under the sun. I think I may have even been blamed for the burning of Rome, not to mention working with Grishka Otrepyev[11], the runaway monk, to seize Moscow and assassinate Archduke Ferdinand. It wasn’t anything I hadn’t seen before, and I was just happy to see that my work was getting traction.
I was surprised to see that the younger generation read newspapers, to begin with, though one of them may have happened upon an article and shared it on a forum; I’d have to check into that. However, they and the rest of the middle generation were standing up for me and the gaming industry. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with just doing what they wanted to do. The older generation screwed the country up and then turned on them. Civil life? Give them raids and dungeons!
That all had to have Mammoth jumping for joy. There was traffic, there was noise, and ratings were climbing. The perfect storm.
I was really excited, too, of course. A
quick search showed me that my articles had been shamelessly copied onto twenty or so other sites—needless to say, all with blatant disregard for copyright law. But the popularity was what had me so elated. It was at that moment, however, that my stomach interrupted my reverie.
“I’m hungry!” it told me in no uncertain terms. I stroked it reassuringly.
“Let’s get a couple sausages into you. Maybe even three. With some pasta!”
My stomach growled back its satisfied response. A second later, that response turned sour, however, when it discovered that I’d misled it. The refrigerator was a cold wasteland populated by nothing more than a jar of mustard and a shapeless piece of something that looked like it might have been cheese in a past life. A sickly sprig of dill rounded things out.
I looked at the clock to see that it was 9 p.m. Still, there was nothing for it—I had to make a trip to the store. Fayroll had wreaked havoc in my apartment. The refrigerator was empty, there was chaos everywhere, and, I realized, it was getting awfully stuffy.
With the windows open, I put on a coat and headed for the nearest market, putting the next day’s problems out of my head for the time being. They weren’t helping my digestion.
***
I woke to the sound of my phone ringing. No surprise, it was Mammoth. The fact that it was 6 a.m. didn’t surprise me either.
“Nikiforov, what do you think about writing eight articles after all?” He jumped right in without so much as a “good morning” or “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, Semyon Ilyich, not happening.”
“Why not? Everyone loves them—go online and see for yourself. The paper’s owners are patting me on the back for a job well done. And really—”
“Really, Semyon Ilyich, the perfect is always the enemy of the good. We don’t want to overdo things. Let’s just wait six months and come back for another cycle following up on this one.”
“You may be right,” Mammoth grunted and paused. “Now that I think about it, that’s a great idea. It looks like you still have some brain cells left! Oh, and head over to accounting once you’re done with this cycle. The owners said to give you a bonus when you’re done. Our numbers are up. Not just thanks to you, of course; don’t flatter yourself. We’re all doing a great job under my excellent leadership. You just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Did you see that I sent you two more articles?”
“Yep, one’s being published tomorrow, the other two days later. So, in five days, I’ll need another one.”
“Sounds good.”
“See you.” Mammoth hung up.
What a guy! He calls, wakes you up, insults you, and gets you all worked up over work. I paused to be happy I had such a great boss and jumped in the shower.
When I logged in two hours later, Fayroll met me as it always did—with great weather and birds singing outside the window.
I walked down the stairs and winked at Lubelia. “Good morning, beautiful!”
“It isn’t good at all!” The lovely girl answered me with a haggard and gloomy look on her face. “Someone killed Yanka, our shepherd, during the night. Who would do such a thing? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“How was he killed? With a knife? Or did they crack his skull open?”
“If only! It’s like he was fried. His clothes were all scorched, and he was covered in burns. Harry Budochnik says he saw lightning flashing during the night.”
“Well, maybe he was just struck by lightning?”
“What lightning, sir? We haven’t had a cloud in the sky for two weeks now. No, there’s some kind of black magic afoot. You got rid of one witch, and now there’s another one.”
“Looks like it.” I was thoughtful.
The suspicions I’d had the day before took on new meaning.
I left the hotel and walked quickly in the direction of the Tearful Goddess Order mission.
“I need to speak with Master Hugo immediately!” I stepped through the door and barked at Brother Tsimiskhy, who was sitting behind the same desk drinking what looked like milk or kefir.
Service in paramilitary organizations is enough to change even the most inveterate clerical workers. Brother Tsimiskhy sprang from his stool, reminiscent of Jackie Chan springing to his feet from a prone position. A second later, he was back and had flung the door open wide. “Master Hugo is ready to see you.”
“Good day to you, Sir Hagen.” The master greeted me from his chair by the fireplace, nodding his head in my direction.
“It’s good to see you, master. I suspect I know who the witcher is.” I had barely crossed the threshold when I gave him the news of the day.
The master stood up and walked over. “You suspect, or you know?”
“Oh, that’s just a phrase from a bad novel. I have a few facts and a few small details that all point to one person. I’ll give them to you, and we can decide what we think. Okay?”
“Go ahead.” Von Shlippenshtain crossed his arms over his chest.
“Yesterday the local mayor gave me a quest that had me kill a witch in a nearby forest. You know, kidnapping people, dark rituals, all that.”
“I’m aware. Gunther von Richter told me about how you killed the creature in a desperate battle.”
“Me? No, it was Gunther who killed her. We fought together, but he landed the killing blow. He really did a fantastic job. I doubt I would have been able to do it alone.”
“Still, he probably wouldn’t have been able to do it alone either. You both did good work. Continue.”
“You should give Gunther some kind of appreciation or acknowledgment. He’d like that.”
“We well, we will. Please, continue.”
“Anyway, the mayor said that I had to bring him the witch’s book of magic to prove that I’d killed her. There’s nothing out of the ordinary there—you did the killing, now prove it. But here’s the thing: all I got from the witch were her glasses. And I think that’s what I was supposed to use to prove that she was dead.”
“What do you mean?”
Whew boy. How was I supposed to explain to an NPC what was written in the quest?
“There was an engraving. ‘Witch Glasses.’”
“Okay, and?”
“There was nothing like that for the book. It looked like it had been in the witch’s family for ages, handed down from generation to generation. And that’s what the mayor wanted. He didn’t care about the glasses, but he’d need them to justify the expenditure to the city council. They’d want proof, too, after all.”
“Yes, that is strange. Is there anything else?”
“There is. The book contained all the spells Frida knew. The strongest and most effective was the lightning she cast from her hands. And did you hear that the shepherd was killed last night? Did you hear how he was killed? The mayor even mentioned how much he didn’t like the shepherd; I heard him myself. That’s all circumstantial, but—”
You completed a quest: Witcher in the Shadows.
Task: Find out something about the witcher living in Fladridge or its outskirts and get the information to Hugo von Shlippenshtain.
Reward:
600 experience
“That is circumstantial, you’re right.” Hugo walked around the room and rubbed his temples. It struck me that if he didn’t have a mustache and you stuck a pipe in his mouth, he’d be the spitting image of Sherlock Holmes. “Still, it paints a picture.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he continued, “but a lot of people in the city have been saying that the mayor has changed over the past six months. He used to spend time chatting with the people in the city, and he took charge of the feasts for all special events and especially weddings. They even used to joke that your marriage was only valid if the mayor was at your wedding. He always made sure the roads were in good repair. But in the last few months he’s been unwilling to leave his office, he doesn’t go to feasts, and he always says he’s too busy for anything. I think it’s fai
r to say he’s the witcher.”
The master stopped. “We need to hurry.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He got what he needed, and he was only living here until he could find that book. Witchers are different from witches. While witches live with the knowledge handed down to them, witchers are always trying to find new spells. He has the book so he could take off at any moment.”
Hugo opened the door and shouted into the other room. “Von Richter! Where are you, you lazy, good-for-nothing imbecile?”
Thirty seconds later, a sleepy Gunther tumbled down the stairs leading to the second story. He was still just in his long johns, but his sword was in his hand.
“Well, look at that. And you, Laird Hagen, were telling me this walking mistake we somehow let into the order is a great warrior?” Apparently, I was already a “laird.” The old master had promoted me.
“At least he has his sword!”
Gunther stood there, blushed, blinked, and looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.
“Yes, though he won’t need it to kill his enemies—they’ll die of laughter as soon as they see this sorry excuse for a knight.”
“Good morning, Master Hugo. Good morning, Laird Hagen.” Gunther managed to choke out some mumbled words.
“A good morning for some, the last morning for others if that’s how you’re going to be behaving in the future, von Richter. We’re going to spend all night training—get dressed, get undressed. I even have my supply of switches.” Master Hugo said that last part in what could only be described as a fatherly tone.
Wow. The game may have been virtual, but the army is still the army. I almost mentioned the burning match and my sergeant, but I decided against it. The poor guy was already in an unenviable position.
“You have two minutes to get yourself ready. I’m going to hunt the witcher, and you, of course, are coming with me. Laird Hagen, I have a question for you.”
“Yes, Master?”
“Would you give this lout and me the honor of your company? You’re a good fighter and an honorable comrade. That creature is bound to be pretty strong, and I don’t have much hope for this cephalopod.”
You have a new quest offer: Kill the Witcher.
More Than a Game Page 21