by J. A. Hunter
Someone, or something, was in the room with me.
FOUR:
Cutter
I surveyed the main chamber again, but saw no one. Marching off to my right, though, were more heavy cages, identical to my own. I slipped the pick into a crude pocket on my trousers and crawled toward the source of the noise.
“Hello,” I called out in a harsh whisper. “Is anyone there?”
A blurry shape materialized from the shadows two cages over.
A man, garbed in the same plain clothes I was in, was leaning against the bars, his arms folded, a faint grin lifting the corners of his lips. A human with the wiry build of a street brawler, short blond hair, and a strong jaw riddled with stubble. “It’s harder than it looks,” said the man. “Lock picking, I mean. People think they can just shove a spit of metal into a lock and pop”—he snapped slim fingers—“she opens right up.” He shook his head.
“It takes skill. Finesse. You have to understand how the tumblers work. You have to feel the spring mechanism. Have to intuit the pin placement.” He paused, examining his fingernails. “If you’re interested, I could walk you through the process, show you how to get that door open.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “And what would you want for that?”
“What would I want?” he asked, his face a portrait of shock. “What I want is to get out. You’re a Dokkalfar, so I assume you see all that butchery on the table. I certainly don’t want to end up like that.”
I glanced at the table again, at the congealed blood and strewn body parts. “What are they doing here?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from the display.
“Not entirely sure,” the man replied, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s not good, whatever it is. There’s some kind of dark priest running the show, an acolyte of Serth-Rog-—at least that’s what I’ve been able to glean through half-heard whispers. Not exactly a friendly, talkative sort, that fellow. All I know is he’s experimenting on people.
“Trying to change them somehow. Sometimes, the change takes and he lets them go, other times …” He trailed off, then waved a hand toward the table. “I’ll tell you this, though. I don’t want to undergo his experimenting. So, I could show you how to open that lock, in exchange for my freedom, or you could just toss me the shiv, I’ll pop the lock on my cage, then come over and bust you out. Sound fair?”
“If I give you the pick,” I said, “what’s to stop you from just breaking free and leaving me here to rot?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes. “Obviously, there’s nothing to stop me—except for the fact that we’re both in an awful situation. I could do that, but at my core I’m a lover, not a fighter. Well, not a fair fighter, anyway, and it seems like we’d have a better chance escaping together than I would alone. I always say, why make an enemy when you can fashion a tool instead. Besides, worst-case scenario, I help you out, you distract the guards, and I slip away in the shadows and leave you for dead. You being free is a win all around for me.”
I pulled the pick from my pocket and regarded it. As much as I didn’t trust the shifty man in the cell, I didn’t particularly feel like taking another run at the whole lock picking thing, even with instruction. I nodded, resolved, stuck my hand through the cell bars, and tossed him the pick. He snatched it from the air with practiced ease and immediately set to work on his cell door. He proved to have an awfully deft hand since the lock came away a second later—the guy made it look downright easy.
He pushed his door open, took a tentative look around to make sure no one was coming, then beelined for my cell, setting to work without a word. My lock came away even faster than his had.
I looked around my cell one last time, making sure there weren’t any beginner items I was supposed to take. Nothing. “Thanks,” I said, pushing my way to freedom. “I’m Jack, by the way. Grim Jack.”
“Cutter,” he said with a nod. “Now, how about we save the bonding thing for after we find a way out, eh? You can tell me your whole stupid life story over a pint of ale, friend, but until we make it to an inn, let’s keep our minds focused on escape.”
Cutter took the lead, dropping into a slight crouch and stealing across the rectangular chamber, giving the table at the center a wide berth. I followed behind, mimicking the man’s posture and working to keep as quiet as possible. It was hard to do, though, what with my heart pounding like a drum.
There was a tunnel at the far side, a twisting thing that ran straight for a few feet before abruptly snaking right and out of view. Cutter halted at the tunnel entryway, putting up a hand, a gesture that told me to stop. To wait. He dropped to a knee and ran his finger over the floor, gaze flickering back and forth.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“Traps,” he muttered absentmindedly. “This seems like a good place to set a containment ward, but I’m not seeing anything.” He stood and moved over to the wall, pressing himself against the stone. “I don’t suppose you’re the sneaky sort, are you?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“If it means getting out of here in one piece, I’m absolutely the sneaky sort,” I replied.
“Good, good,” he said with a bob of his head. “Crouch a little.” He bent his legs in demonstration. “And when you walk, move heel to toe, heel to toe—none of that tiptoeing nonsense. You want to evenly distribute your weight over your whole foot. Takes a little getting used to, but do it enough and it’ll become second nature. Now, keep to the shadows, stay quiet, and walk Just. Like. Me.” He turned and set off, ghosting forward on silent feet. As he moved the shadows almost seemed to reach out to him, to embrace him, blurring the sharp lines of his body, rendering him fuzzy, indistinct.
I followed, practicing the odd walk as I slipped along behind him. A prompt appeared a second later:
Skill: Stealth
Stealth allows you to creep through the shadows, making you harder to detect by hostile forces. Successful attacks from stealth mode activate a backstab multiplier for additional damage.
Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 1
Cost: 10 Stamina
Effect: Stealth 7% chance to hide from enemies.
Nice. Even if I didn’t end up playing as a Rogue class, Stealth was always a useful skill to have, especially at lower levels. That backstab multiplier could level the playing field for a relatively weak starting character.
Cutter and I continued down the winding hallway, moving from one pool of inky shadow to another, avoiding the light from the flickering torches mounted at sporadic intervals. After a hundred yards or so the tunnel connected to a rough circular cavern with a pool of stagnant black water loitering at its middle. There were no torches here, but a soft crimson glow emanated from thousands of rough crystals lining the vaulted ceiling above.
The chamber looked to be some sort of central hub. Two sizeable hallways, each constructed of smooth sandstone bricks, connected here.
Cutter tentatively crept out toward the water, but stopped as the sound of heavy footfalls drifted into the room—coming from the sandstone tunnel dead ahead.
FIVE:
Mercy
Cutter glanced back at me, eyes wide, and jerked his head toward a narrow gash in the rock wall on our right. Both of us sprinted for the tight crevice, slipping in between the rocks, then went still as a group of somethings strutted into the room. As they drew closer, a caption appeared above their heads: [Lesser Fiend]. They were hulking creatures, eight feet tall, with blue, pebbled skin, wearing long shirts of black chainmail. Each clutched a deadly weapon—some held towering halberds, while others carried wicked flails—in claw-tipped hands. The creatures walked upright, but had inverted knees and cloven hooves, which clack-clack-clacked against the stone.
I counted six of the things—way too many for us to fight.
The lead creature paused as it entered the room, barking a harsh command in some unintelligible language, then raised a wolf-like muzzle, its black nose sniffing. Sampling the air. Se
nsing our presence. I held my breath, afraid the slightest motion might give us away. After what felt like a lifetime, though, the creature lowered its snout and shrugged beefy shoulders, false alarm, then lead the rest of his squad down the other sandstone hallway, vanishing from view. I let out a ragged sigh of relief and wanted to fall over and call it quits.
This game was intense. Too intense. Being in here was less like playing an RPG and more like going to a haunted house—sure you knew the monsters weren’t real, but that didn’t stop them from scaring the crap out of you. Not to mention, in here the horror-house monsters could not only scare you, they could attack you and, more importantly, hurt you. “Ready to move,” I whispered, turning toward Cutter. He was behind me, but I immediately noticed something behind him: the rough outline of a hidden door set into the wall.
A new alert appeared, and the outline of the door began to glow faintly purple.
Ability: Keen-Sight
A passive ability allowing the observant adventurer to notice items and clues others might not see.
Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 1
Cost: None
Effect: Chance to notice and identify hidden object increased by 6%.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw in thought, feeling the unfamiliar bite of facial hair. I’d always wanted a beard in real life, but I’d never been able to grow one. At least not a good one—it always came in uneven and patchy. I dismissed the stray thought and reread the notification. Keen-Sight. Hmm, that seemed like a handy passive ability to have in my back pocket, though I had to imagine most players probably acquired this skill, since it wasn’t tied to race and it was awfully easy to come by.
At this point, though, I’d take any freebies I could get.
“Door,” I said, pointing to the wall behind the Thief.
“Good eye,” Cutter said with an approving nod. “In my experience, someone doesn’t go through the trouble of installing a hidden door unless there’s something worth hiding. Let’s take a little look, eh?” He moved forward, hands outthrust. He lightly ran his fingers over the surface of the stone, gently probing. Exploring the nooks and crannies, carefully feeling out every dip in the wall. “Ah, there she is,” he said with satisfaction as the door clicked and retracted, pulling back, sliding into the wall. The room beyond was some sort of lab—a variety of long shelves sat against the wall, heavy-laden with various test tubes and glass vials.
I put them from mind, focusing instead on the corpse of a haggard old Murk Elf strapped to yet another wooden experimentation table.
She was rail thin, nearly naked, and all sharp, protruding bone. Her grayish skin looked as worn and frail as cheap toilet paper. She had several long scars crisscrossing her belly and arms, which had been crudely stitched up. Poor old gal. Cutter immediately rushed into the room, slinking around, presumably searching for traps, while I headed over to the body. I knew she was just an NPC—more likely a part of the scenery than anything else—but part of me felt like I should find something to cover her with so she’d have a little dignity in death.
Instantly, I recoiled when her chest rose and fell; a rattling gasp escaped from her throat like the rustle of wind through barren trees. I shivered at the awful sound, and the EMT in me immediately began chattering away, demanding I check for vitals and start CPR.
“Cutter—this lady is alive,” I said. “She’s alive, we should do something. Help her.”
The Rogue turned from his thorough search, giving the woman a quick once-over followed by a sniff and a sneer. “There’s nothing to do for her. She’s one stiff breeze away from keeling over as is. And even if we could help her, why would we? She’s not going to bring anything to the table. She’s going to be a liability to our survival and escape. If she’s not an asset, she’s as worthless as a wingless bird.”
“What?” I asked, appalled. What kind of guy was I dealing with here? “Okay one, maybe if we help her she could tell us something—like what they’re doing here. And two, even if she can’t help us, we can’t just leave her here to die. To suffer more. That’s cruel. We need to help her. It’s just the decent thing to do.”
Cutter stopped, frowned, then came over and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, you seem like an alright bloke, so I’m gonna level with you. Eldgard’s a hard, cruel world, friend. Kindness won’t get you far here, I’m afraid. That’s a lesson you best learn now if you hope to survive here. To thrive here. If you really want to help her, kill her. Put her out of her misery. Then, once you’re done with that, cut her scalp off and stick it in your bag. She’s a Maa-Tál—a Murk-Shaman. The Viridians pay well for Maa-Tál. Her scalp will fetch you a gold piece, I’d wager, which is nothing to scoff at. Easy money as far as I’m concerned.”
“What? No. That’s awful,” I replied. “Seriously. Terrible. And I thought you were a Wode?” I asked, eyeing his pale skin and blond hair.
“I am,” he replied, a confused look flashing across his face. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I thought the Wodes and the Murk Elves were supposed to be in some sort of alliance against the Viridian Empire.”
“Pffh.” He rolled his eyes. “Sure. The rebellion. But here’s another life lesson about Eldgard: you need to look out for you. The rebellion is for the feebleminded and the easily manipulated. For suckers. Me? I’m only worried about my coin purse, and that there”—he hooked a thumb toward the withered, half-dead woman—“looks like a gold piece to me. End of story.”
I shook my head. “I’m not like you, I guess. I can’t just leave her here like that.”
“Fine.” He waved his hand dismissively. “If you really feel compelled to help, check your inventory—which you can access by saying or thinking inventory—while I finish searching the room.” He paused, gaze distant. “There has to be something in here besides this old bag. Has to be.”
He turned away and resumed his quest.
Inventory, I thought, and a semitranslucent interface screen appeared. Aside from the extraordinary graphics on display, the system was remarkably similar to other MMORPGs I’d played.
A lifelike image of myself as a Murk Elf floated off to the left, slowly rotating, showing off my gear, which was extremely basic at this point. On the right was my inventory bag, displaying the items currently in my possession. The inventory wasn’t a slot system like in some games; rather, it looked like I could carry as many items as I wanted, so long as I didn’t exceed my maximum carrying capacity, which was displayed in the upper right-hand corner of my screen.
I didn’t have much to my name, though. Rough tunic (shoddy); rough trousers (shoddy); worn fur boots (shoddy). I did have a few copper coins, though, and I also had one minor restoration potion—worth a whopping 12 silver pieces. I wasn’t sure how far 12 silver pieces would go in this game, but I imagined for a lowbie it was probably a hefty price tag. Maybe Cutter was right. Maybe I should put the old lady out of her misery, then collect her scalp and the bounty that came with it.
Put myself first.
That was the smart thing to do. The practical thing to do.
I only hesitated for a moment. I pulled out the potion, popped the cap, and poured the luminescent red liquid into the woman’s slack mouth.
Maybe I was being a sucker, wasting my time and money, but I couldn’t bring myself to murder and scalp an old lady. Call me superstitious, but that seems like a good way to get irrevocably cursed. Plus, what kind of person would do that? A guy like Cutter, I guess. A Thief or Assassin. And though this was technically a game, this was also far more than a game—this was my life now, and I didn’t want to start my new life as a killer.
The potion emptied quickly, but for a long spell, nothing happened. She just lay there, unmoving. Just when I was about to give up hope, she gasped in pain, her back arching as her arms thrashed and hammered against the table. It was like watching The Exorcist in real time.
SIX:
Quest Alert
I lurched back as the wrin
kled Murk Elf shot up, her eyes wild, her back straight as a board. She stayed that way only for a moment before toppling back to the crude wooden table with a thud. She didn’t look good—the healing potion certainly hadn’t cured all her ails—but she was alert now and her breathing sounded cleaner, easier, less forced. She stared at the ceiling for a long time, her lips flickering open and closed, as though she were talking or maybe praying, but no words came out.
“Good job,” Cutter said, his words radiating sarcasm. “I think she’s worse now. You broke her. On the plus side,” he said with a grin, “look at this.” He smacked an unadorned section of wall with a curled fist, and the stone clicked and disappeared with a shimmer of light. A secret compartment guarded by an illusion. “A secret room is one thing, but a secret room inside of another secret room is something else entirely. And it means one thing. Loot.”
“You go check it out,” I said absentmindedly, waving him on. “Bring back what you find. I need to figure out what I can do for her.”
Cutter stared at me, eyes narrowed, forehead creased, head cocked to one side. “Obviously there’s something wrong with you. I said there’s loot. Free stuff. Like weapons, armor, gold, jewels—the things that help you to not die. But you’re going to let me, an obviously dishonest thief, go poke through the goodies on the honor system?”
Cutter was right—I was being a moron—but I still edged closer to the semi-lucid woman. “You do what you need to do, Cutter. This is what I need to do.”
He shrugged and muttered a halfhearted “have it your way, idiot,” before disappearing into the secret room. Vanishing from sight.