“Idiocy is quite the disease,” Brother Mikh said, looking at me sympathetically. “You want to die beautifully and heroically, as well?”
“Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer,” I replied in a huff.
I wasn’t really sure why I did what I did. It could have been the inquisitiveness inherent to my profession, it could have been the player in me wondering what was going on, or I may have just not wanted the collection of code that went by the name of Gunther von Richter to die alone.
“Well, if we’re all staying, then we’d better hurry,” Brother Mikh muttered. “If I know anything about sieges and assaults, they’re going to burn the bridge soon, and if we find ourselves in the middle of what’s about to happen… You get my drift.”
The bookkeeper was right. The city’s last defenders and the remains of the inquisition were collapsing back along a wide drawbridge that led to a castle looming above the dying city.
“Go, go!” His sword in one hand and his robe hitched up with the other, Mikh dashed off toward where we were going. “Don’t fall behind.”
Gunther and I glanced at each other before setting off after him.
“A-a-arg!” Two wild-looking, tattooed hulks stripped naked to the waist and wearing nothing but skins wrapped around their waists appeared out of nowhere. They had rings in their noses. “The prey is getting away—there goes our dinner!”
Brother Mikh’s curved blade sliced clear through one of them, the bookkeeper not missing a step as he swung. He was like a tiger as he ran, and his sword slipped through flesh like a hot knife through butter. The second found his chest skewered by von Richter’s sword. That was followed by a shot to the side from me, and he rolled along the cobblestones, screeching in pain.
“Katalagga!” I heard from behind us. Turning, I saw a gigantic savage back on the square next to the burning houses where we’d ported to. He was bare-chested, too, though there were necklaces around his neck, and he was waving an oversized axe above his head. “Gr-r-r, they killed our brothers. Bring me their heads, and I’ll boil them before I eat their brains!”
Message.
Your relationship with the Gruukkh, a barbarian tribe living on the border between Trokkh Plateau and the Great Steppe, is now hostile. Be very careful if you find yourself in those parts—the tribe’s warriors never forget those they have sworn to avenge.
I was at the point where I didn’t even blink an eye at a few more enemies so that barely phased me.
“There’s another one!” I heard the chieftain call, and I looked back once more to see a player archer dashing toward the bridge from the other side of the square. He wasn’t going to make it, however; four of the wild men cut him off, waving clubs and axes. Sorry, my friend, but we’re not going to be able to help. He should have sat that battle out…
The player, whose name was Sly, had time to fire off a few arrows into the charging beasts, and even flashed a curved blade, but that was it. He had no chance against the four giants.
He wasn’t the only player who’d been unlucky that day, either. I saw other cocoons littering the ground to mark the final resting places of those who’d been caught in Kadrans. Some marauder was going to have a field day, just so long as they lived long enough to tell the tale.
We ran up to the bridge, met by the spears and pikes of thirty identically dressed warriors. They were wearing red doublets with a hand flipping an hourglass over their hearts. I figured that was the symbol of the city, or maybe even the Inquisition itself. Probably the remains of the guard.
“Okay, boys, let us through,” Brother Mikh practically ordered. “Those bastards are about to charge, so let us through and cut out the bridge supports!”
“Who are you?” someone called from the other side of the row of spears. “What right do you have to come through?”
“I’m a guest of your fabulous city,” Brother Mikh roared. “May it live forever!”
“I’m Junior Master von Richter of the Tearful Goddess Order, and I have Thane of the Western Mark Hagen and his companion with me,” Gunther said. “Let us through to help you.”
A vociferous roar broke out from the buildings behind us, and I suddenly felt sick to my stomach when I looked back. All kinds of different beasts had lined up together—most of them I had never even seen before. There were wild men from the Gruukkh tribe; werewolves; some creatures that looked like enormous lizards; muscular orcs dressed in rags and wielding clubs; and something else in black leather outfits with frog-like heads. In a word, it was the kind of thing that would have kept Hieronymus Bosch busy for a good five years.
“Sweet mother—let’s figure out who’s who later.” I was feeling awfully nervous, realizing full well that the thirty poor guys on the bridge were about to get squashed by the horde. Of course, they weren’t my primary concern; I wanted to get into the cozy, stone fortress. “He’s the knight, I’m the thane, and this is actually a bookkeeper. Let us through and destroy the bridge?”
“Yes, he’s definitely a knight,” some deep-voiced character said, apparently paying me no mind. “Let him through. The others can come, too.”
The guarded parted, opening a path onto the bridge, and Brother Mikh and I sighed in relief at the same time.
“Du For, why is the bridge still in one piece?” asked a thin, short guy wearing a red cape and doublet. He was talking to a tall guy with a mustache, most likely, the same one who had given the order to let us through.
“All in good time, Master Bonne,” the mustachioed character replied. Yep, that’s the one. “The torches are ready, and we’ll burn the bridge before they can get here.”
“So, what’s stopping you?” screeched Bonne. “Why can’t you do it now?”
“Because,” Du For replied calmly. “These three just got here, and maybe we’ll get someone else. The fortress is practically empty—who’s going to man the defense with us?”
Three warriors wearing chainmail and holding bloody swords ran through the ranks of spearmen.
“Du For, they’re all dead on the walls,” one of them, an older guy, said. “Things are bad.”
“We can see that,” Bonne shot back. “Of course, they’re bad—they’re all standing right over there.”
The warrior pulled off his helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. “No, Master, they’re not just bad; they couldn’t get any worse. We saw a Lord of Death.”
“They don’t exist,” Master Bonne said, lips pursing and his mouth turning into something that looked like a chicken tail. “Everyone knows that! You’re just sowing panic, you coward. You’re like all mercenaries, just trying to inflate your price.”
“Even if that’s true, they’ll get their money,” Du For boomed. “There’s the Lord of Death right there. My grandma was right—they really are scary-looking.”
I leaned over the railing on the side of the bridge and looked toward the square. What are they talking about?
Congratulations, Hagen!
You saw Torg, a legendary Lord of Death. There are four Riders of Terror, once referred to by the simple folk as Dark Lords or the Lords of Death. For a long time, everyone living in Rattermark was sure that the Riders of Terror were just a fable of the Dark Times, though, well, that’s one of them in front of you.
They sounded like some kind of Nazgûl.
You unlocked Scary Stories.
To get it, see all four of the Riders of Terror—Torg, Krinos, Ritor, and Kristuanus—and live to tell the tale.
Reward:
+5 to wisdom
+7% chance of finding treasure hidden in ancient times
Title: Mr. Clean, Dry Pants
To see similar messages, go to the Action section of the attribute window.
“Does he have a body?” I asked the warrior who’d brought news of the Lord of Death. “I mean, is he a ghost or something?”
“No, he’s made of the same meat and bones as you and me,” the warrior said before wiping his brow one more time and donning his helmet. “It’s just rea
lly hard to kill him. Almost impossible. He’s incredibly fast and agile, his body is protected by spells, and his armor is made out of Maykong steel. Eight of my men took him on, and none of them were able to even get a sword in him.”
“That’s really him,” Bonne hissed, his voice laced with fear. “One of the four. Ah-h-h, we’re all going to die!”
He jumped in place and dashed toward the castle, howling and clutching his head.
“That coward,” Du For’s bass voice called, and he spat at the retreating figure. Then, he glanced back at our besiegers, frowned, and yelled an order. “Everyone off the bridge—to the castle!”
I didn’t wait for him to repeat himself, sprinting along the well-worn boards and hoping to make it to the finish line first. Something told me I was going to regret how attached I felt to von Richter, especially given how loudly and horribly the crowd in the square was yowling.
“Ah-h-h!” came the shout as the horde of undead and unclean started their rush toward the castle.
“That’s not the Lord of Death; it’s the horns sounding outside the walls of Jericho,” I panted as I neared the double gate. To be fair, it looked more than secure.
“What do you mean, horns?” Gunther asked, his armor rattling next to me. “And where is Jericho?”
“They’re just really loud,” I explained. My gaze was fixed on the closed gates. “The mouthpiece was tin…”
“I don’t think that guy’s actually human,” Gunther said, looking back at the square. “Oh, boy, they aren’t going to have time to burn the bridge.”
“That pale coward was right,” Brother Mikh spat. “We’re all going to die today. That idiot with the mustache killed us with that delay.”
The attackers were just running too fast. Certainly, the bridge looked ready to be burned, but they should have poured oil, gotten torches ready… The guards were just starting work on the first spans, though the werewolves, the fastest of the foes we were facing, were just about on top of them.
The gates scraped open, and we heard an old voice call out.
“Bernier, my son, push harder. And you all out there, get inside. Hurry!”
“Father, what are you doing?” the familiar voice of Bonne cried. “They’re going to get in!”
“No, they won’t,” Du For barked. “Okay, guards, to me—it’s time to die.”
The giant had apparently given up hope of burning the bridge down. I couldn’t help but agree, as the torches had flown off into the water, and the bodies of the guards sent to light it were being thrown around by werewolves unwilling to charge onward without the rest of their comrades.
Du For rushed toward them, boots pounding the wooden planks, and his battle axe whirled above his head. The rest of the guard followed suit. Just before Gunther ran back after them, I shoved him into the castle—Brother Mikh had already gotten inside. We threw ourselves against the gate, him against one side and me against the other. Bolts crashed, some chains rattled, and we finally found ourselves safe from immediate danger.
You entered the fortress of the Rattermark College of Inquisition, an ancient order and one that is…
I didn’t have time for stories right then.
“Hello,” a short, gray-haired old man said to us. “I’m Florence Martin, head of the Rattermark College of Inquisition, or, at least, what’s left of it. If I could ask, who are you? Young man, you’re clearly from the Tearful Goddess Order, since I recognize the symbol, but your companions…”
“This is Thane Hagen of the Western Mark,” Gunther said, bowing his head to Martin. “A renowned warrior and friend of our order. Next to him is his companion, Brother Mikh—”
“I’m in the service of Thane Hagen,” the bookkeeper cut in. “I protect him, do his writing…”
“I see,” the old man nodded to von Richter. “And what is your rank, young man?”
I was stunned by his poise. On the other side of the gate were the kind of beasts you wouldn’t see if you were in the throes of delirium tremens, and there he was making small talk. Or maybe he just has a few loose bolts?
Gunther introduced himself, and the old man nodded, fell silent, and then asked another question.
“And what brings you here?”
I was about to tell him about the witch and the spell, but I was interrupted by a shout from above us.
“Du For is dead, and the accursed beasts are about to charge the gate!”
Rest in peace, my mustachioed friend, even if you were a fool…
“The gate?” Martin sighed. “Then this is it… All right, let’s go watch.”
The head of the inquisitors ran up the steps with an agility that belied his age, quickly making it up a few levels and stopping to peer out a narrow window cut out of the wall. I went over to the loophole next to him and found myself looking out at the square and the bridge.
Du For’s head was already decorating one of the bridge’s pillars. It was bloody, but more than recognizable, and the bodies of the rest of the guards littered the ground around it. The bridge itself was packed full of the creatures, though they parted fearfully when the Lord of Death approached them astride an enormous black stallion.
“So, they’ve been alive this whole time,” the old man whispered. “And we didn’t believe it…”
“Who believes in fairy tales when they grow up?” Gunther muttered. “Don’t beat yourself up, Monsieur—none of us believed them.”
“Hey, old man,” a voice barked from inside Torg’s helmet. “I’m not going to give you some story about how I just need your life because that wouldn’t be right. I need the lives of everyone inside this castle. But, if you come out and bow before my master, you will die quickly—a winning and, I dare say, generous offer. If you don’t, you will die a long, very long death, and I can’t promise you that it will be easy.”
“I apologize, but I’m going to answer for everyone,” the old man muttered before calling back in an unexpectedly loud voice. “None of us will bow the knee to Evil, and none of us will exchange our honor for an easy death. Get out of here!”
“You made your choice, just like the fool knights we cut up in Riverside yesterday. And here I thought the inquisitors would be smarter,” the Rider of Terror said, following that up by wheeling his stallion around and giving someone an order. “Bring the ogres up and knock down the gate.”
To complete Matching Facts, gather one more fact, note, or eyewitness statement about the arranged murders of the knights across Fayroll.
The Lord of Death started off in the direction of the city, and I looked that way in surprise—near the smoldering houses was a second giant in bluish black armor, the copy of the one we’d been talking with. The only difference was that he wasn’t astride a stallion; he was towering over a… I shook my head. Wait, is that a player he’s next to? I wouldn’t have believed someone if they’d told me there was a player out there, but the username above his head didn’t leave much room for disagreement. It was just a shame that, no matter how hard I squinted and strained my eyes, I couldn’t read what it said. We were a ways away from whoever the player talking with the Lord of Death was, and I just couldn’t see. Although, there was something vaguely familiar about his figure. Have I seen him somewhere? What stood out most, however, was the deference the Lord of Death paid to the player, something I could see even from that distance as he bowed his head to listen.
“I’m sorry it had to happen this way, my friends,” Florence said, spreading his aged hands. “Another time…”
“Well, what’s the problem?” I pulled out a portal scroll. “Gather whoever’s left, and let’s get out of here.”
“He’s right,” Gunther said. “Thane Hagen is the leader of a small clan in the Borderlands, and I imagine he would be happy to offer us refuge.”
I wasn’t sure I completely agreed with him, as I definitely didn’t need all of them back in Erinbug. What if they attract the same horde? What if one of the Lords of Death stops by for a visit? Things were ba
d enough back in the village. I didn’t really think the old guy would be of much help, either.
Florence smiled sadly. “A portal scroll? You, my friend, must not be aware that the inquisitor fortress is one of a very few places in Rattermark where magic doesn’t work. No magic at all.”
“Then, let’s prepare for the defense,” the knight said coolly. “How many people are left in the fortress?”
“No more than twenty,” Florence shrugged. “Most of the inquisitors are away, as usual, and the guards are all dead in the city or on the bridge. There aren’t many left here.”
“Ogres!” a young inquisitor looking out the loophole called shakily. “Really, ogres. Damn, today I saw a Lord of Death and ogres, too!”
I stepped back up to the window and whistled. Three enormous, hairy monsters wearing green pants and blue vests, not to mention orange shoes, were tramping across the bridge. On their shoulders, they carried a gigantic log that was sharpened at one end. They’re even singing!
Here we go, here we go, carrying our wood,
Off we go, off we go, did everything we could.
Their voices were even smooth and pleasant sounding. Kro was right—they have everything here…
“I’m not afraid to die,” Martin said. “It’s just a shame that I will die without having passed on what I know and that the castle and archives will be burned to the ground. My entire life’s work will burn with them.”
You unlocked Save the Head of the College.
Task: Find a way to get Florence Martin out of the fortress and to safety.
The head of the inquisition must remain alive.
Reward:
2000 experience
700 gold
Random item from the college treasury
+15 friendship with the Rattermark inquisition
Additional:
If you save any other members of the college, you may pick up an additional reward (variable).
So, there’s a way out. There had to be one, even if there was just one.
The Crown and the Key Page 3