by Ember Lane
“Noon,” Lincoln repeated. He walked back along the city wall. The sun beat down on him, though his head was clear. Luckily, last night’s ales didn’t seem to have affected him adversely.
Now he could see the Land of Barakdor itself, or Irydia; that’s what Allaise had called this place. For the first few hundred yards, it comprised of open pits, caltrops, and pointed palisades angled menacingly out. The king of this place was certainly expecting visitors. After that perimeter, the farms and fields started. Lincoln came to the road south and turned on to it, ambling along. The hustle and bustle of inside left behind.
The cobbles only stretched a few hundred yards out, the road soon becoming mud, edged with a cluttered drainage ditch. The odd city-bound travelers passed him by. Some hailed him with what seemed to be the land’s greeting, “Ho, traveler!” And he soon returned it. He guessed that this land called Irydia was fifty percent human, with dwarf, elf, and a few other races making up the rest. One carter had the look of a bright-green frog, but was the size and build of an elf. Another wore a heavy cloak; its hood concealing what seemed to be mere shadows, like a ghost was driving the cart. Something about the ghost-like being made Lincoln shiver inside. He had to get some kind of recognition ability, or at the very least, a travel guide.
As he ventured farther south, he began to worry about his little plot all the more. It was hardly a thriving area. Close to the city wall’s perimeter, plenty of farms appeared to be tilled, more than likely along the banks of some tributary to the main river. Scanning the horizon, the mountains were all in a line to the west and tapered south exactly as Allaise had said they would. The southeast and east just rolled away—a patchwork of light-green grasslands and emerald forests. Water didn’t seem too abundant, and Lincoln thought that was quite the important ingredient for a farm, let alone survival. He took out his sack and pictured the deed to his beginner’s plot. It appeared in his hand.
Unraveling it, he saw Brokenford clearly marked, but now only its southern wall. Before, back in The Shambles, the whole city had been on the map. Curiously, he saw a small pulsing figure on it, and that brought out a small grin. Allaise must have known it was a magical set of deeds that would show him the way. Had she just wanted to spend some time with him? Inwardly, he quickly apologized to Joan for his excitement, but he walked down the road, his grin firmly set.
The deeds soon told him to turn off the road and follow a mud track out into the fields, though field was a loose term for fallow land. Nothing around was even remotely cultivated. The nearest cottage was at least a few hundred yards away, and even from that distance, Lincoln could tell it was abandoned.
“What the hell…” he muttered, as the deeds stopped blinking and indicated he’d arrived. “What the freaking hell?” he said again, looking around at the dry, cracked, and barren plot.
3
Divine Intervention
Though it was only early in the morning, and Lincoln had the whole day ahead of him, he couldn’t think of anything better to do than to slump on to the weed-strewn ground and look about in despair. Eventually, he decided to allocate his stats.
He had a total of thirty-five attribute points, with thirty-one yet to allocate. While it looked like it took two points in each of vitality and stamina to merely function, he didn’t fancy living quite that close to the edge. If he also took into account the points he’d need to save for the village building (he had a kind of feeling that it wouldn’t automatically jump straight to a city), he reckoned he had sixteen to twenty points to allocate permanently, and assuming he’d get more when he leveled up, he decided he could tweak it then. He shifted a point into intelligence, and saw his Mana capacity go up by ten. Cool, he thought, I know what that affects. He moved it to wisdom and saw his Mana-regen spring to life.
The question that now plagued him was, “Do I need magic?” The answer, he mused, was certainly not, if his village could attract a resident caster or a wizard. So what would happen if he kept intelligence and wisdom to a minimum? Would he suddenly become dumb? What was the minimum? Zero? Could you leave them at zero and get away with it? He decided to put one point in each, just to make sure the attribute stayed open, and moved on to strength.
During his early days, that attribute was going to be key, unless he could get a man-mountain like Pete to come with him. Agility? He reckoned it was about half as important as strength, and he decided that energy was twice as important as health, mostly because he was technically immortal, but he also didn’t want to drop down dead every five minutes.
Looking around at the grim and desolate land surrounding him, he decided that he really needed some luck, and that would be where he put his city points. He took the plunge and allocated his choices.
He mentally accepted the stats, knowing full well he could mess around with them all day and still feel like he hadn’t got the perfect set up. He certainly didn’t feel any luckier. A system message blinked into life.
You have allocated your attribute points. You will be able to reallocate 50% of them on activation of the city token.
Lincoln kicked at the dried earth and looked up. “What the hell am I going to do with this?” How on earth was he supposed to sell a barren piece of land?
He decided to test out his divination skill. If he was interpreting it right, he should be able to sense what was hidden beneath the earth. Looking around, he knew that in all likelihood he’d only find the broken bones of ancient, sieging soldiers, or a starved former farmer, but more likely, animal bones. Looking down at his feet, he tried to visualize what lay beneath. At first he saw nothing but his noob boots, mud and the odd tuft of grass, but slowly, his mind was drawn between the earthy granules and under its dry crust.
He struggled to hold his concentration, the fledgling skill just wanted to plunge deeper and sink below the brown of the mud and into its foundation of rock. After it had pierced the rock bed, it tried to sink even farther into it, the rock becoming sodden, rinsed with water seeping to the river. His mind was pulled along with its gradual, leeching flow, and he became mesmerized by its latent force. It was unstoppable. He tried to pull back, sensing something was wrong, but the skill plunged on.
Warning! Your energy is sinking. Using the skill, divination, drains your energy. Energy powers your health as well. Take care not to run out. Your energy is currently 40/80.
But Lincoln didn’t know how to pull it back. Was that the essence of the skill? He saw that a thick spread of clay kept the seeping water from sinking, and his divination sunk into its impervious mass. Buffeted against it, his senses hunted a way around, but the clay was everywhere. Lincoln tried to rein in his roving mind, to withdraw its inquiring fingers. One by one, he snapped them back, until his probing mind was like a blunt arm. Gritting his teeth, he pulled that imaginary arm out of the ground like a man would a stuck leg from quicksand. Suddenly free, Lincoln toppled back, dumped firmly on his behind.
Warning! Your energy is dangerously low. You have 20/80 energy. Eat, drink or rest to let your energy reserves return.
Congratulations! You have let your mind roam the loam. You have reached level 2 divination. Higher levels let you see deeper, find precious seams of ore and fearsome banes.
Lincoln felt his eyes droop a little. He felt light-headed and a little sick, and his mind swam. Keeling over, his head smacked against the cracked mud, and his consciousness faded. The sun beat down. His lips felt dry, swollen, and his bones ached. Abandonment filled his mind, and tiredness—so tired and alone. He was alone in a new land. A land without his Joan. He closed his eyes.
He’d left his damn room, his quarters in the city, and when he’d done it, he’d left Joan behind. Had he deserted her, he wondered? Had he left her alone on a broken planet to catch their ship anyway? Their ship—that was the problem. It was her dream, not his. He’d wanted to stay on earth and live his life out. It had been Joan’s idea to enter the lottery to leave. Surely, he’d argued, surely it should be the younger that should hav
e the chance. But Joan had disagreed, the AI had disagreed, and their names had been drawn. A new planet needed wise heads as well as youthful impetus.
Joan had been nervous about Barakdor, been nervous about her mind wandering around in an imaginary land for the duration of the voyage, but Lincoln had assured her it would be all right. He had assured her that Barakdor would prepare them for the land at the end of their galactic rainbow. It was the part of their new life he was looking forward to.
Now? Now he didn’t want to stay in Barakdor. He didn’t want this journey. Their dream didn’t work anymore—it didn’t fit just one of them. Then he saw it; a distant place coming into being, a mountain with welcoming arms, a glade so lush and green.
Lincoln gasped, and got a mouth full of dry earth for his troubles. He opened his eyes, his head pounding, and immediately cast his dark thoughts away. The skill, he thought, was too powerful for him, certainly too powerful for him at his levels of energy, yet he hungered for it more than anything else. Had it just shown him a vision? Could it be the foundation of his game? Well, that and brewing ale he mused; his cracked lips inching to a smile. Brewing ale was going to get everyone eating out of his palm. Face down, he smiled at that thought. Joan would have scolded him for it; told him he was a fool. But Lincoln knew these games, and he had a master plan. Sitting up, he drew his legs in and folded his arms around his knees. He had to stay the course—had to.
He wondered if this divination skill was common but hoped it was a rare gift. Seeing his energy had mostly recovered and was now merely low, he felt confident he could recoup it. After all, it wasn’t like he was doing anything. Water, he thought, seven feet down. A well was easily feasible. He jumped up, deciding to choose the best site for it. Just digging the well would surely increase the plot’s value, though the land would still be hard to work.
It was about that time that he noticed a figure in a black cloak walking up the path toward him. The figure had the manner of a man; his gait stiff and not flowing like a woman’s. Lincoln watched him close, his own hand moving over the top of his sack. He chose the knife, concealing it in within the folds of his coat.
Congratulations! You have opened the skill, Stealth. Stealth allows you to hide in the shadows and sneak up on the careless. You have level 1 stealth.
Lincoln dismissed the prompt, wary of the approaching man, who stopped a dozen feet away.
“Lincoln Hart?”
“Did Finequill send you?” Lincoln returned the man’s question unanswered.
The man closed the distance between them by a few more paces. Lincoln’s grip on his dagger became tighter.
“Send? No. Though he does keep me informed of land allocations in this area. I might have a proposal for you.”
“Might? A name might put me at ease.”
“You may call me Fawkes.” He pushed his hood back.
Fawkes was indeed a human and not the type you’d look to befriend. He looked quite the…slimeball, was the only word that sprung to Lincoln’s mind, with greasy, black hair slicked back and a neatly trimmed beard flowing around his chin. His eyes were almost arched, sagging at either side, like he was having difficulty staying awake, and his jaw drooped open as if he was too lazy to keep it shut.
“What can I do for you, Fawkes?” Lincoln asked.
“Are you familiar with the phrase—where there’s muck, there’s gold?”
“Nope.”
Fawkes pressed his hands together in seeming prayer. “Oh. Well, let me just say that I work for a gentleman that’s willing to turn this…” Fawkes looked around. “This piece of weed and mud into gold. He has brought up every plot with a view to expanding his holdings and farmland once the coming altercations are over.”
Lincoln shrugged. “But I just got this land. Won’t take me long to kick it into shape.”
“Or, you could take my lord’s gold and find a much nicer plot that’s less likely to get shat on by Sutech Charm’s sieging hordes.”
“That sounds a lot of work…the looking.”
“Five gold,” Fawkes offered.
Lincoln let slip a little laugh. “Five? That’s all? For one hundred ales I have to go to all the trouble of finding another plot?”
“One hundred ales? You’ve been drinking in the wrong tavern. I’ll make it six. Can we call it a deal?”
He held out his palm and spat on it. Lincoln pushed himself up and sealed the deal. He gave Fawkes the deeds and took his gold. Fawkes turned and walked away, but hesitated. “Save you some time. I heard tell that Spillwhistle has some magical maps that lead to the most fertile plots in the land. That’s Spillwhistle of Keep Street North. Good day to you.” He walked away toward The Silver Road.
Congratulations! You bid Fawkes up in price. You have been awarded the skill Commerce. You now have level 1 commerce.
“Finequill looks at the deeds. Fawkes buys the deeds. Spillwhistle sells me some useless stuff and takes back all the gold, and the rest of my coin,” Lincoln muttered to himself and smiled. “I think I’m in the middle of a scam!” For some reason, it quite excited him. “Say, Fawkes!” he shouted. Fawkes turned. Lincoln caught him up. “Spillwhistle, you said?”
“Yes?”
“Keep Street, you said?”
“Keep Street,” Fawkes confirmed.
“Is it a long street?” Lincoln asked.
“Look out for the Fiddler’s Riddle tavern. A couple of shops along.”
“Fiddler’s Riddle, thanks,” Lincoln muttered, and then shouted, “Ouch!” He started hopping up and down then steadied himself, leaning on Fawkes’ shoulder. “Stone,” he explained.
Fawkes pushed him away. “Get off me!” he shouted, waving a fist at Lincoln as he hurried down the trail.
Congratulations! Your have opened the skill Pickpocketing. You are a level 1 pickpocket.
Three skills in as many hours, and he’d gotten his deeds back. Lincoln smiled to himself. He popped them back in his sack and struck Fawkes off his new list. Just Finequill and Spillwhistle to turn over—Lincoln despised getting swindled.
Looking around at his plot, he decided he had no use for it anyway and followed after Fawkes, at a discreet distance, of course. Of the three skills he had opened, only pickpocketing was probably going to be redundant…but you never knew. It had gotten him six free gold, technically.
He hung around the city gate until Grimble came bounding along. If possible, the dwarf was even filthier than before. His black hair was peppered white with rock dust.
“Ho, Lincoln!” he shouted. “Have you managed to work up a thirst?” It dawned on Lincoln that he’d neither eaten nor drank anything since that morning.
“Ho, Grimble! My mouth is dry, my stomach is empty, and my temper is fraying while we wait.”
Grimble let rip a roar of delight and picked his step up until he was near rocking toward Lincoln. “Then let’s get moving. Ozmic has gone ahead, said he’d meet us at the Temple Inn.”
“Ozmic?”
Grimble let out another burst of laughter. “You think that cart drives itself?”
Lincoln decided it had been a good day so far and waited for Grimble to catch up, then the pair walked under the city gates and into Brokenford. As soon as they were in the city limits, Grimble led Lincoln along the wall, ducking past the hubbub of the traders and their colorful, aromatic carts. Before long, the narrow path opened up to a small park, blanketed with lush, green grass and dotted with crescent-shaped shrubberies. A temple of fluted, stone pillars and white marble steps stood in its center. Lincoln fancied a gander, but Grimble skirted it like it was contagious and didn’t stop until he came to a bunch of crowded picnic tables that, in all probability, signaled their arrival at the Temple Inn. The dwarf threaded his way through them, eventually dumping himself down next to a chunky dwarf with a faded, purple Mohican.
“Ozmic?” Lincoln muttered.
“Ozmic,” the chunky dwarf confirmed. “Mighty pleased ta met ya,” and Ozmic offered Lincoln his chubby
hand. Its vice-like grip crushing Lincoln’s outstretched palm.
Apart from his colorful haircut, Ozmic was a mess of rags, and belts, and braces. It looked like he’d piled as many clothes on as possible just to cover his bulky frame. Now studying him closer, Lincoln could see that Ozmic wasn’t as fat as he’d first thought. The dwarf was a powerhouse of muscle, with a potbelly, admittedly, but certainly not fat.
“Grimble tells me you gonna build a city.” He laughed like a hyena, then stopped just as abruptly. “Where?” He curled his bushy eyebrows up in curiosity.
“Not a clue,” Lincoln replied. “Can I get you both an ale? I think I might celebrate.” Lincoln told them about Fawkes and Finequill.
“Every city’s got its scams,” Grimble grumbled. “Picking on you afore yea even left the respawn’s a bit low, eh?”
“Low,” agreed Ozmic. “So, what are yer gonna do ‘bout it?”
“I was thinking of sellin’ my deeds back to Finequill, and then visitin’ Spillwhistle for my proper map.”
“And then going north?”
“In a day or so—I really need to get some skills opened up.” Lincoln raised his glass. “Cheers,” he said.
“May your pick be always sharp!” Ozmic cried.
“And your anvil never crack!” Grimble added.
“Amen to that,” said Lincoln. “Tell me, where do you come from?”
“A long yarn deserving of time fer telling,” Ozmic muttered. “Say, you’re headed north in a day or so, we’ll soon be headed north. Why don’t yer hop aboard me cart. If you spring fer a barrel o’ale and a few sides of salted pork, we’ll say n’more about it.”
Lincoln spat on his hand and held it out, “Deal?”