The Way of the Clan 3 (World of Valdira)

by Dem Mikhaylov

  There were three sellers and, given the number of people swarming around them, not nearly enough.

  Oh! I was wrong— there were four sellers, only the last was standing at the very edge of the table, and he was a player, not a “local”! But he seemed to be on equal footing with the locals and was selling goods, his free hand in the money bag, pulling out and throwing down coins of various denominations. How much of a reputation was necessary in order to get the confidence of the always suspicious, always cautious “local” traders? The maximum? The fiftieth? Certainly. Until the eleventh or twelfth level everything was relatively easy, and after that the hemorrhoids probably started. Then, attempts to increase rank would be comparable to the complexity of an attempt to find the holy grail in the real world! And probably with the same odds. But, if one achieved this reputation, trust at this location would be almost absolute.

  Hardly resisting an impressed whistle, I looked at the player-seller’s clothing and nodded. Another Scarlet Cross. That makes sense. Glancing at the cherished boots— which looked very impressive and very heavy— I poked a finger at them and yelled to the seller over the hubbub of the crowd:

  -- Sir, what is the price for these boots?

  -- Fourteen silvers, good man— said the trader, without looking at me.

  I did have that much. But just not with me— in my personal room.

  To attempt it? Why not…

  -- Sir! – I began again— Here’s a damn misfortune— I forgot my purse with my money in it, but I really do need those boots! Would you believe me on my word? You give me the boots and I’ll give you the money in a couple of hours. Huh? What do you say?

  -- Heh, funny guy— snorted the trader, continuing to make change and not lifting his eyes— If every passenger said this and I believed him I would go broke in a day— I’d be begging for alms. You better not be offended by my answer, but…

  -- But still! – I interrupted him— I’m not asking for much.

  -- Listen, do not bother him when he’s working, hm? – the player-trader asked me, shaking his white cloak with its red cross— He won’t do it, don’t you see? And if you see, why are you trying..

  At this point the “local” finally looked up and examined my face. The “identification” worked and upon his face instantly beamed a smile:

  -- Wait a minute! Rosgard? No way, is it really you?

  -- Yeah— I nodded quickly— Rosgard. Himself.

  -- I didn’t see you right away! Oh, don’t be upset— see for yourself, we got so busy. Take the boots, good Rosgard— he plopped a pair of boots in front of me— As for the cost, don’t worry and don’t rush to pay me! Bring if when you’ve got it. Do not hurry.

  -- I do not understand— the player said slowly, looking at me quite differently now.

  -- Do you need anything else? Some meat, some light? We have torches in abundance, I can give you a whole bunch… — continued the shopkeeper meanwhile.

  -- No, thank you— I said— Only the boots. With all my heart, thank you! I’ll be sure to give you the money!

  -- As I say— Not to worry, even— waved the “local” and, wishing me good luck, got back to business.

  -- I do not understand— repeated the forgotten Scarlet Cross trader— How many turnips is it that you have? And what is this puppy?

  -- No turnips, I only have radishes— I sighed sadly and, putting the boots under my arm, turned and stomped away— A purebred puppy— a cross between a daschund and Pekingese!

  -- Rr-rr?! – Tyrant was surprised, squinting at me.

  -- Or maybe even a pair of genes from a sheep— I muttered.

  -- Rr-ra! – I felt the indignation in his growl.

  -- Alright, alright— I hastened to reassure the offended cub— Joke. You’re my wicked and terrible gray wolf! But your father— well, he’s still a goat! Well, then, to the caves?

  -- Rr-ra! –

  -- If rr-ra, then rr-ra! – I agreed— Just one more thing I’ve changed my mind about. We’ll find a group and go!

  -- Goat? – sounded a booming low bass in my ear— So that is also possible, eh…

  Jerking my head back, I stared dumbfounded at the figure hanging above me.

  One step away from me stood Grim himself. Thank all the gods— he was dressed. And smiling. However, his smile gave me the chills. It looked kind, it seemed, but so full of possible meaning!

  Ma-a-a-ma mia….

  -- Long time no see, Rosgard, my friend— Grim smiled even wider, squinting in the last rays of the setting sun— he bent over, and looked close at the cub— And who’s the father? Not truly, a goat?

  -- I-it… -- I bleated hoarsely.

  -- Just kidding, kidding— squinted Grim in good fun, slapping me on the back with his huge hand. My knees nearly shattered from such a friendly impact— From a goat only a goat can result, eating grass and growing horns from its head. And that’s why you can immediately tell— the pup will grow into a wolf. So the dad is a noble wolf, like the mother. Right?

  -- Yeah— I nodded— How true it is! That one’s a hell of a wolf! M-mother…

  I wanted to add something else through my gnashing teeth, but I kept my tongue still with an incredible effort. I had already blurted out too much. But where had he come from?!

  As if having heard my silent cry, Grim scratched his beard and said:

  -- You won’t believe it, Rosgard, my friend, but I was drawn here today as though by magic! Not bad, eh?

  “Darn that magic!” – I mentally yelled, but said something quite different:

  -- Not bad at all. And I, too, am glad to meet you, Grim.

  -- Let’s sit and talk? – Grim suggested, nodding towards the makeshift trading shops— Maybe they have good wine and something to eat, to moisten my parched throat. And beer will do, if fresh and well-brewed!

  -- My mouth is dry, that’s true— I said mechanically, and continued— And I would be happy to, but I cannot, Grim!

  -- Why not? – said the giant, with a light bitterness.

  -- Although I am immensely pleased to meet you— I shifted to high-talk— But it would be worthless now for me to drink wine and speak. This is not for fun, that I came here— but for the sake of ridding the local village of a terrible scourge of vile creatures which come from deep within this very cave. Oh, I’m sorry, Grim, but do not take my refusal as offense…

  At this, my “Old Church” vocabulary ran out, and I was silent, feeling myself an on-edge Scheherazade at the end of her story.

  -- A nice speech from a valiant warrior— Grim nodded, again giving me a good-humored hit on the shoulder— Hmm… so that’s how it is…

  -- Yeah— I hurriedly asserted— Exactly.

  -- The creatures breed in this cave?

  -- Yeah – I nodded again.

  -- Well, a promise was given— you must keep it. Right?

  -- Right!

  -- So go, my good friend Rosgard!

  -- Okay!

  -- And I’ll go walk with you, I suppose…

  -- Eh?!

  -- I’ll go for a walk with you, I said— boomed Grim with a puzzled look— Deaf at such a young age? I’ll watch how you get rid of the vile creatures for the sake of the good village, and at the same time we’ll talk! Or are you against it?

  -- Not that I’m against it— I mumbled, glancing up at the inexorably darkening sky— and what about your vow, not to take up arms?

  Phew… I found the answer!

  -- I won’t break the vow! – Grim replied firmly— I’m telling you— I’m just going to have a walk, and take a look. And don’t think to object— I’ve already made up my mind. I’ll just buy some wine or beer, and we’ll be on the way!

  -- I’m already going— I mumbled— That is, my brains are…

  -- I’ll turn and catch up quickly! – Grim promised, and strode towards the canopy of trading stalls.

  “Quickly turn? Into a werewolf, yes” – I wanted to say, but again restrained— and, with a doomed expression
, began to change my footwear.

  The AntiProt boots indeed turned out to be high— they came up to the middle of the thigh. I looked almost like a veteran fisherman.

  My head was boiling from the stress, seething brain fluid, my gray matter feverish, hot steam came out of my nostrils instead of snot, but I could think of anything to do. The cave wasn’t mine. Grim was determined to go after me. And he’ll go… and then he’ll turn… quickly…

  Looking at the huge figure of Grim squeezing to the table, I just sighed sadly and looked again at the sun going down behind the horizon. Nearly no time at all until midnight…

  From the trading stalls came the thunderous roar of the future werewolf, above the sound of the general visitors:

  -- Master! I’ll have a keg of wine, or beer.

  -- We do not keep any here— timidly said the “local” dealer, looking bottom-up at the impressive buyer— It’s not a restaurant, sir, but a shop for military equipment.

  -- Find it— advised Grim— Be sure to find it.

  -- Sir— said the lazy voice of the Scarlet Cross trader, deciding to help out the “local”— They said— there is no such product here, and therefore…

  -- Here! — a roomy barrel banged on the countertop, a wooden mug of light wood perched on top, and the trader smiled ingratiatingly— Beer! It’s good! Refreshing! Was saving it for myself! And we’ve got some nice cool salted fish too, or some spiced jerky— would you like some?

  -- Why not then! – Grim boomed, picking up the barrel without any strain, and throwing a few golden coins onto the table— Let’s have it!

  Under the astonished gaze of the Scarlet Cross member, Grim snatched the bundle with snacks from the table and nodded goodbye to the traders, starting towards me

  Understood. He’s going to kill me drunk. Grim would down the barrel, will have a bite, get in a good mood, and then he’ll start for me.

  -- Bought it! – joyfully announced my future assassin— Well, are we going?

  -- Going— I nodded, and took uncertain steps towards the entrance of the Karst caves. Grim relentlessly followed me.

  That’s how we came to the entrance— slapping through a layer of slightly muddy, freezing water and astonishing everyone with the nature of our company.

  Myself, Tyrant, and— hanging on my heels— a werewolf with a serene look on his face and a beer keg on his shoulder.

  Well… I guess this promises it be a fun outing…

  Chapter Eight.

  Group troupe! Breeding Grounds.

  Before the main cave was a small shed area, with a running babbling brook. A sort of round and shallow cove the size of a tennis court, with brown and slimy stones overgrown with moss.

  And here on this very site crowded around forty or so assorted players, each trying to find company with which to pass through the dungeon. A company which was reliable, and not too large.

  Some were standing ankle deep in water, some climbed on stones, preferring to stand on dry areas, some were sitting and some spread out on the ground in a posture of ease. Despite the dramatic differences in appearance, race and gender, all shared two common features.

  First, all players sported the fabulous “AntiProt” boots. And on some, the footwear looked incredibly wild. A young elf in a short and colorful tunic and a white flower wreath upon her heady… and on her feet, burly fisherman boots with iron spikes… Yes, there was a black and roomy bag behind her shoulders which also did not fit into the overall picture, but the boots influenced the psyche a lot stronger.

  As for the other feature— they all lazily stared at each other, eagerly peering at suitable team-members. A few chanted calls to advertise themselves. They all talked at the same time, under the background of murmuring water, and at first I thought them to be incoherent and unintelligible cries. I had to wait until my hearing adapted to the noise.

  As soon as I found myself at the entrance of the cave, I immediately disposed of all unnecessary thoughts and began to listen to the hubbub that reigned around us. I ought to make the right choice and not have to fly to the revival location because of my stupid companions.

  -- For a modest fee, we’ll lead you to your last place of death to pick up our armour and trophies— came the proposal in the lazy voice of a player of the hundredth level, in the company of which stood a tall archer elf. Both were adorned with cloaks with a red cross.

  What gives! This Scarlet Cross clan provides just an incredible array of services. They draw out money from passerby like some super-powered vacuum cleaner.

  Before I could think about it, the girl wearing a starry bikini ran by, followed at her heels by a diaper-donning dwarf. Both naked, even without shoes. The following clients. Humph… after negotiations which lasted no more than a minute, all four turned and sank into the dark entrance. Going for the “corpses.”

  -- Mage doctor of fortieth level looking for party campaign in dungeon! – a skinny guy straddled the stone, holding a curved wand. The doctor shouted without much enthusiasm or hope.

  -- Attention! Coherent party of three skilled players looking for a mage for joint passage of the dungeon! Passage unhurried! Going for a long time! – shouted hoarsely a serious-looking warrior, inquisitively looking around— We will explore every nook and cranny! Explore everything! Let’s study the dungeon inside and out! In general, the main goal is— to study! Anyone at all?

  I am a magician. Yes. But I will not go. These warriors were not in a hurry, unlike me. And they were willing to spend, on each level, as much time as necessary. And I did not want to stay on that top level for five hours. Although, at one time, this was precisely what I would have preferred— thoughtfully and slowly studying everything and often finding something hidden from view to the inattentive.

  -- Half-orc looking for a party! Cannot be a tank!

  Miss…

  -- Urgent need of a tank! Only waiting for a tank! The first two levels of the dungeon!

  -- Everybody needs a tank— snorted the orc, sticking out his lip disdainfully— The whole crowd is waiting for a tank.

  -- Look at how many of them are gathered here— Grim shook his head, still standing behind me.

  -- Yeah— I said, glancing at the huge figure— A lot.

  -- I’m an ass! – shrilly shouted one of the players— I’m an ass!

  Giggles naturally erupted everywhere.

  -- Congratulations!

  -- We noticed right away! You didn’t need to say!

  -- Want some oats?

  -- Where’d you hide your tail? In your pants?

  The owner of the impressive bag paid no doubt to the familiar taunts and continued the self-promotion:

  -- I’m an ass! Professional ass! I carry a lot, almost never get tired! Ready to walk for a long time! Bag with increased capacity! I know all the subtleties of this craft! From the work, I receive twenty percent of the trophies! For morons— a donkey is not a tank! I’m always on the tail!

  -- Oh— I sighed, seeing that all who were gathered around me were healers, warriors, mages, and archers. There were no tanks. We’d have to improvise something.

  Remembering the old days, I took a deep breath and cried out:

  -- Mage party looking for a short excursion to the third level of the dungeon! Looking for: a shooter with straight arms and not dislocated brains, two-armed warrior and one doctor! Have fireflies with me, as well as other coverage, including “pillars”! Any takers?

  -- Aye! – waved a human player— Shooter! Twenty-sixth level!

  Twenty six? A little low… but…

  -- Show me your Stickers— I said, not hesitating with my words in front of the other players.

  -- Who?

  -- Stickers— I said and, seeing confusion in the eyes of the shooter, shook my head— I’m sorry. I can’t take you.

  -- Why?

  -- You don’t have Stickers – I shrugged.

  -- What the?! What kind of stickers?! – exploded the shooter— This is a bow, and there are arr
ows here! What more do you want?! If you don’t want to take me, at least give me a normal reason!

  -- Hey! – growled an approaching member of the Crimson Cross— Keep it easy. The guy is talking business! You’re a shooter and you’re going into a dark dungeon without Stickers? Who needs you, then?! No one’s going to take you!

  The Crimson Cross member did not come of his own accord or good character— the deeper a party goes into a dungeon, the wider the trickle of trophies stretches and the greater the cash flow of the sale. And if the whole crowd remains sitting at the entrance, there are no benefits to the clan.

  -- What are those “Stickers”?! – said the archer in a quieter voice— First time I’m hearing about them!

  -- Come over here, fry— beckoned the “lagoon” Dragonmaster of the Scarlet Cross— I’ll tell you!

  After confirming that the problem was resolved, I again opened my mouth to call again, but made no sound. I was approached by the “ass.”

  -- Yo! I’m with you, if you take me— said the “ass” briefly, whose nickname was well suited for his profession: Bom-Bom Drag-n-Roll.

  -- Yo, Bom-Bom— I greeted him, appraising him at the same time. Interesting outfit for an “ass.”

  Thirty-seventh level. Clothing— solid metal, except for his high AntiProt boots. Burnished chain mail with a long collar and hood. And on his chest a large metallic plaque. Tucked into his boots were also pants— not blue, but reddish. And some mail gloves on his hands. Behind was his bag.

  -- You’re not a mage-healer— I concluded— Nice getup, by the way.

  -- That’s right— grinned Bom-Bom— A warrior. As for the clothes— I have full armour too, but then I lose most of my load carrying capacity. You’ll take me? We share the trophies equally. All that I gather in the dungeon on my own— is mine.

  -- You got a shield? – I asked doubtfully.

  -- You got it! Metal, spiked and silver plated! It’s in the bag, now.