by G. Akella
"So, your name is Raey?" I asked him when we stepped outside.
"Uh huh," he grunted. "But out in the field I've gotten used to being called by my surname. If this grass here doesn't interest you," he motioned toward the flowerbeds, "let's go straight to the gazebo instead."
"I'll tell mom you called her flowers 'grass,'" Velda wagged her finger menacingly at her brother.
"I'm not scared," said the mage, then added, pointing at his sister. "Velda is on vacation, and she's working hard to help mother cultivate a wide variety of the local flora. Naturally, I'm using the words 'working hard' rather loosely, but mother is of the opinion that cultivating flowers is a suitable hobby for a young woman."
"Please, like you've never planted flowers yourself!" Velda countered sardonically, sticking her tongue out at her brother.
"There was a time," Raey didn't argue.
"Krian, what is a skhiarta like?" asked the tiflingess as soon as we sat down on the benches inside a gazebo amid a small grove of fruit trees.
"Yes, tell us," her brother echoed. "I only saw what was left of it after the fact."
"A young woman in dark clothes," I confided. "She floated in the air with her arms spread wide. I thought it was all a dream at first."
"The corpse didn't look very much like a woman," the mage frowned.
"It became that way after several of its larvae had died."
"Fascinating," the girl whispered in awe. "A monster from the Gray Frontier..."
"Her brother was nearly eaten alive, and she's fascinated," the tifling snorted.
"But he wasn't," his sister parried, matching his tone.
"Listen, Raey, where can you buy a suit of armor around here? I'm due to outgrow this one soon."
"At least you removed the helm," he smiled, remembering the comical sight of me trying to equip his gift earring. "For armor, your best bet is Krayon. You must order in advance, but you won't find a better master in the entire city," said the mage. "He also doesn't accept orders from just anyone, but it doesn't hurt to try. Give me your map, I'll mark down his shop. I'd go with you," the tifling sighed, marking the right location, "but I've got important business out of town. I'm leaving tonight, for a week."
"Important business by the name Itala," Velda outed her brother, then winked at me. "Business with pretty brown eyes and long chestnut hair."
"You traitor!" exclaimed the indignant mage, glowering at his sister as she blinked her innocence.
I couldn't hold back and burst out laughing, and was joined by the brother and sister moments later.
Kyle Dar Ylsan looked nothing like the obsessed alchemist I had pictured before meeting him. Broad-shouldered and long of hair, the tifling wore an austere dark blue camisole and shoes with golden buckles, reminding me of Captain Blood—the legendary pirate from a popular book written way back in the XX century.
We dined in silence in a hall with large folding windows on the house's second floor. Two young demonesses served us, doing their job quickly and without drawing any attention. After dinner, the master of the house invited Raey and myself into his office for a talk. Seeing his daughter's imploring stare, he sighed and granted her permission to be present for it. The girl was clearly daddy's little girl, and, as is often the case in such circumstances, he was putty in her hands. I thanked my hosts for the delicious dinner and followed everyone upstairs.
Located on the third floor of the house, Raey's father's office was rather large and tastefully furnished. Filled bookcases stood along the walls; a large oval mirror hung over the marble fireplace; the wooden floor, darkened with age, was covered with ornate rugs. At the heart of the office was a massive writing desk standing by the window that opened into the garden. In the corner was a small table with a bunch of different tubes and vials—a mobile lab by the look of it. Dar invited us to sit in armchairs around an oval wooden table. Noticing my glance at the sword and shield hanging on the wall, he clarified:
"I had to serve in my youth, like everyone else from our clan," as he spoke, the tifling produced from a wall drawer an oddly shaped bottle and three glasses. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but Raey has three brothers. The oldest is done with his service and now manages our country estate. The other two are currently serving in the First Legion."
The pleasant aroma of aged wine filled the air of the office. I took a sip from my glass—it reminded me of Chablis, but there was something special about the flavor.
"From our own vineyard," Raey commented.
"Wonderful flavor," I praised the wine, which I genuinely liked.
"Venerable Kyle Dar Ylsan, I wanted to—"
"Come now, Krian, we're all friends here," the master of the house smiled warmly. "Let's forget the formalities, shall we? Call me Kyle."
I nodded my consent. Then I took out the remaining vials with skhiarta eye fragments and laid them out on the table.
"I want you to have these. Raey said they are sought-after alchemical ingredients."
"You're my son's friend all right," the tifling shook his head. "How much do you think these are worth? The last recorded skhiarta kill took place fifty years ago. Forgive me, but I cannot accept such a gift. I will buy several vials from you; the rest I recommend taking to the research center—they will pay you well for them."
"Kyle, you said it yourself: we're all friends here," I put my unfinished glass on the table, fell back in my chair and crossed my arms. I had removed my armor before coming to dinner—it would have felt awkward to dine socially in full plate, and the clothes gifted by Treis looked no worse than the garb worn by tiflings I'd seen around town, all of whom were noble by default. Therefore, I wasn't the least bit concerned with my appearance. "The value of these," I nodded at the eighteen vials on the table, "is a relative thing. For me, they're worthless, but for you they may be worth a small fortune. But tell me this—what value would you put on your friendship?"
"My friendship is valuable indeed, but you've already earned it. Just as you've earned the fondness of everyone in this family. You can count on my assistance in any event, even without all this," the stubborn tifling nodded at the vials.
"Dad, Krian said that he needs a set of armor," said Velda from her chair, who had been sitting quietly all this time. "And you know Master Krayon."
"That's a whole other matter," her father smiled. "The old dwarf will charge an arm and a leg for his labor, and that's if he even agrees to do it. Having said that, his craft is worth every penny. Consider it done, Krian. A note from me to the master should do the trick—he owes me a favor. It won't get you a set for free, but you can expect to pay half the standard price."
"A dwarf?" I leaned forward, incredulous. "There are dwarves here?"
"You know the origin story of our race," the tifling shrugged. "The light gods' army included representatives of all the realm's intelligent races. At this point many of the external qualities have been erased, but you've walked around the city—haven't you noticed certain similarities between the demons and the other races of Arkon? Master Krayon is just one example. He looks just like a dwarf, and even wears his beard long for emphasis. Although, it is strange... I've never seen dwarves first-hand, though I've read a lot about your plane."
"What's strange?" I asked.
"The dwarf race excels in craftsmanship—no one can match their skill in mining, smithing or jewelry making, right?" The tifling paused, waiting for my affirmation. I nodded, unaware as to where he was going with it. "Let's consider the issue logically. Metal must be mined, smelted and so forth. Correct me if my line of reasoning is erroneous. But have you ever been inside a smelting shop, Krian?" I shook my head. "It's hot. Very hot. In light of that, could you explain to me the logic of growing a waist-long beard? Any errant piece of coal or drop of incandescent metal and half your beard is gone in an instant. One glance at the sorry state of Master Krayon's beard confirms my suspicions. But I digress. Have you already learned anything about your matter of interest?"
I relayed to Kyle my conversation
with the archivist, and shared my desire to get inside the old archives. The tifling was silent for a while, mulling over my words.
"Krian, what do you know of the Twice Cursed?"
"Virtually nothing," I shrugged my ignorance.
"Vill and Syrat are two dark gods. Vill is the God of Torment and Tortuous Death, and Syrat is the God of Hatred. When Velial's army invaded Karn from the direction of Darkaan, it marched on Valdarra, razing human counties along the way. The first battle took place near Fertan, a town in the Daar Princedom. The opposition amounted to several light gods and the united army of orcs and humans who had put aside their enmity in the face of this deadly threat. On that day, the armies of Vill and Syrat attacked the light forces in the rear. The heavy cavalry of human princes and the light orc cavalry were the sole survivors of that battle of Fertan. It wasn't until later, in the Battle of Saakum, that the armies of these two gods fled the field of battle, leaving a flank of the Netherworld forces defenseless." The tifling looked at me. "I suppose there's no need to explain now why Vill and Syrat are universally reviled?"
"Were they cursed once by the light races, and then by Velial?" asked Velda, cozying up in her chair.
"You could say that," Kyle sipped from his glass. "The gods don't often favor us with their presence, so those two don't have much to worry about. You've already met the karriga and the skhiarta, but there are tons of other monsters like them, spawned by the Twice Cursed, that infiltrate our plane from the Gray Frontier. But my point is about something else," the tifling put his glass on the table and fell back in his chair. "In Krajde Princedom, Ahriman's army had found piles of evidence that the local supposedly free Lord Erisjat was the henchman of one of the Twice Cursed, if not both. Tell me, what ruler in his right mind would exterminate his own subjects? And in a way that horrified even the overlord's hardened punishers?"
"You mean, Ahriman didn't know about the attack from Karn? It was actually Erisjat that his army was marching to destroy?" I articulated the theory that had occurred to me long ago.
"No, Ahriman doesn't give a damn about the barbarians or their self-styled lords. They can beat up on each other all they want, and he won't lift a finger. But who wants dark gods hanging around their border and hatching up schemes? I think that the overlord simply wanted to neutralize a potential threat, so he cursed the princedom to keep others from loitering around. And the light armies were simply in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Then again, these are just my theories," the tifling shrugged.
"And who is this Hart that everybody keeps mentioning?" I finally asked the question that had been bugging me. Wiki didn't mention a single word about any Hart.
"The God of Deceit and Trickery. He's called Bel up where you're from."
Logical enough. Back in the ancient times we had Zeus and Jupiter, Mars and Aries—the same gods but sporting different names.
"By the way, Krian, I have a proposition for you. You're heading out to the old archives anyway, right?" I nodded affirmatively, and Kyle continued. "There's a lab right near the archives; here, I'll mark it on your map. There should be an old distilling tank inside. It's fairly useless these days—science had progressed far since then. But the tank was made by one of our ancestors, and I would like to preserve it. I will be glad to reward you with an enchantment for your shield. Do we have a deal?"
You've accessed the quest: Returning a Family Relic.
Quest type: normal.
Bring Kyle Dar Ylsan the distilling tank made by his ancestor.
Reward: experience, enchantment scroll of Medium Elemental Protection for the shield.
Exactly what I needed! I was sorely lacking resistances. The enchantment wouldn't solve the problem entirely, but it was better than nothing.
"How will I recognize this object?" I asked after accepting the quest.
"It is a small cube of light metal," Kyle showed the dimensions with his hands. "There's only one like it, so you won't miss it. It was left behind because the salvage crews deemed it trash. Though I can't really argue otherwise," the tifling sighed sorrowfully.
We spoke for a little while longer, and then I hastened to take my leave. I still wanted to drop by the temple, deliver the message to the head of the traders' guild, and, with a little luck, maybe even make it to the blacksmith and order some armor. I waited for Kyle to write the letter to the master, then bid a warm goodbye to him and Velda with a promise to not be a stranger. Raey walked me to the gate, lamenting yet again his impending departure. I advised him not to sweat it and to enjoy his travels. We shook hands, and I left his friendly and hospitable house.
After thinking about it, I decided to postpone my visit to the temple until tomorrow. My other business was more pressing. I looked at the map—the traders' guild building was situated between the market and the river harbor. It was time to pay a visit to the venerable Yldiz—even if I didn't find him, I should be able to submit the quest to somebody else since the instructions didn't mention "private and confidential."
The travel took about forty minutes. I could have gotten there faster, but I felt like a tourist in Paris for the first time, stopping often to take in the sights. And there was certainly plenty to take in. Strangely, back when I played a warrior, I never felt inclined to just roam the streets of Valdarra, even though Erantia's capital was one of Arkon's most beautiful cities.
Man, these merchants were living large! I admired the four-story building, its walls adorned with sculptures and ornaments, rippling gold in the rays of the setting sun. The pediment bore Helcas the god of trade, his right hand clutching an abacus as he flew about his business. Two demons at the entrance—garbed in sapphire liveries with countless gilded buttons and matching aiguillettes—gave me a wary look but didn't say anything as I entered the building.
I wasn't allowed to see the guild leader, which didn't surprise me one bit. But I did manage to see his secretary who accepted the package and promised to relay it. The quest gave decent experience, but not enough to level up. I also had to wait for about half an hour for my rightly earned two gold coins. Naturally, the more money someone's got, the harder it is to get it, I thought to myself as I signed some kind of receipt. With nothing else holding me here, I was relieved to finally leave the guild's premises.
Next stop—Master Krayon's shop. I checked the map and picked the shortest route that passed through the residential sector: only four blocks straight ahead, then right until my destination. I really hoped that the dwarf was up to the task of forging me a set of rare armor. Every major city in Arkon had masters who could sell or, as was the case here, be commissioned to craft rare equipment. Of course, they typically charged an arm and a leg and were therefore unaffordable for most players. The same equipment cost two to three times less when buying from other players or at an auction, but where was the nearest auction house? I probably wouldn't get to one for quite a while. And trying to outfit myself from mob drops wasn't an option. Well, it was technically, but not a good one. Mobs around my level would only drop gear in the 60-75 level range. The drop rate of a rare item from a regular mob was roughly one in a thousand; the chances of that item being plate were even less. Bosses dropped rare equipment most of the time, but, alas, there was no way I could handle even the weakest one around my level—I'd need a group. Never mind the fact that even getting the shot at a boss was no easy thing—they didn't exactly travel in packs. I'd gotten incredibly lucky with the skhiarta—even as much as 75% mental magic resistance would have gotten me dispatched back to that graveyard by Lamorna.
With those musings, I turned from a fairly busy street into a small alley, stretching roughly one hundred yards and framed on either side by tall fences of residential houses. The fences featured vibrant street art that belied the routine and boring materials they typically guarded, like metal or lumber.
Suddenly my whole body spasmed, and I began to slowly double over. Someone grabbed me roughly from behind and started twisting my arms behind my back.
"Sss
teady..." a voice hissed into my ear.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw two more demons running up from behind. On pure instinct I casted Step through Darkness and ended up behind the nearest fence. The paralysis abated, and I lost my balance, falling into a vegetable patch. Jumping right back to my feet, I bolted in the direction opposite from the ill-fated alley.
"Stop!" a voice yelled from the direction of the fence.
Yeah, right! Some fat demoness with a wooden tub squealed from her porch as I ran past, but I paid her no mind. Running up to the gate, I threw off the bolt and dove into a parallel alley just as somebody's ugly mug appeared over the fence way behind me. There were shouts and whistling. Is this what the local cops entertain themselves with? I thought while making a right, waiting for the cooldown to reset. Another Step through a fence, and a dash across somebody's backyard.
"Daddy, look, that strange man is—"
I didn't get to hear what the "strange man" was up to. With a wink at the boy sticking a finger in my direction, I ran up to the gate, opened the bolt, pushed through and found myself in an empty yard of a three-story construction. Taking a moment to admire the sizes of certain articles of women's underwear drying on clotheslines, I rounded the house and glimpsed a fairly wide street through the rods of the metal enclosure, which forced me to slow down. Easy now, if I keep running I'll just attract unwanted attention, I thought to myself. I took a second to catch my breath and walked out onto the street at a steady gait. There was whistling now from all directions, but I felt not at all inclined to turn myself in to the local authorities.
Why were they after me, anyway? I was wearing a courier's badge! Or was paralysis not considered an attack? I wasn't technically hurt, after all. How did all this work, anyway? The message on the badge said that couriers could not be attacked first—that seemed to be the law. Were the courier to break the law first, however, that probably changed things. Only what law had I broken?
I needed to find a safe place urgently and lay low for a while. Having never dealt with the local law enforcement, I didn't know what to expect—they could easily be the kind to polish your clock first and ask questions later. And I seem to have really pissed them off somehow. If there was an upside, it was the I was being hounded by ordinary guards—my tricks wouldn't have worked against punishers.