by Vic Connor
He glowers at me, cold eyes framed in scars and sea-salted skin.
He chortles. “Our lad be in good spirits, aye? Ya be rememberin’ Ol’ Abe, do ya?”
I…
Memory Unlocked:
The Old Sea Dog (1 of 3)
He’s bound to me.
By a blood oath he has made, that I cannot recall the contents of. And something else; something he did long ago that weighs heavy on him.
He’s a gnarled, tortured soul, caring little for who lives and who dies, himself included. He’s most definitely not somebody to joke with, though. Those who stand in his way are brutally acquainted with the sharp end of his cutlass, which has spilled more blood than Old Abe can remember.
Brutal and knotted as he is, however, he will not break his word once given.
I feel I can trust him … at least, until he fulfils his oath.
…I do. Fragments, at least.
“We are together,” I say. “Why?”
Abe and Juanita exchange glances.
Juanita leans closer to me. “There will be time for memories and tales later, my child. Right now, we should get you on your feet.”
Sitting up takes some effort, but Juanita helps me. I look at my legs. They’re bound and fettered by ropes, held stiff and straight by splints of wood.
“T’ feet part, that be in a manner o’ speakin’,” grunts Abe.
“Shut up and help me,” Juanita commands.
For once, Abe complies. He crouches to my left as Juanita does the same on my right, and they lift me upright.
I plant my tied feet on the ground. The ropes and splints keep my legs straight, and I…
…somehow…
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
…I lose my balance and grab Abe’s shoulder.
“Told ya, witch,” he growls. “Me lad be needin’ ‘em crutches, sure as there be heaven above our heads.”
Juanita nods, a hint of disappointment in her eyes as she leans on her stave to walk outside the hut.
“Ya’ll be fine, Jake me lad,” booms Abe, his python of an arm keeping me steady. “Ya’ll be fine in no time, ya’ll see.”
“Crutches, eh?” I grunt back.
“Those Barboza’s dogs. Thems did a number on ya, that’s for certain, cursed be their rotten souls,” he growls, coughs, spits a gob the size of a ping-pong ball on the ground. “Aye, that was a fiendly battle—”
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
“—but if ya can walks back from t’ Land o’ thems Dead, me brave lad, walkin’ on crutches fer a tad ain’t hard, aye?”
There are noises outside—wood falling to the ground?—as Juanita fumbles with what I assume will soon become my low-tech mount.
“Crutches, eh?” I grunt again.
Abe raises a bushy eyebrow and shoots me a side look. “Be ya returned a parrot, me lad? Be ya sayin’ things twice now? Ol’ Abe never cared fer ‘em talkin’ birdies, and be too ol’ to care for ‘em now, ya hears?” He laughs heartily at his own joke. “Aye, Jake me lad. Ya needs somethin’ to carry yarr weight ‘till yarr legs heal.”
“How long will it take?”
Abe is about to answer—with an insult, by the look in his eyes—when Juanita enters, carrying two crude wooden crutches.
I sigh. “I don’t suppose you have a spare hover chair, do you? Or a fancy spider-legged mech-chair?”
They stare at me. If they had minds that I could read, I bet they’d be worried I’ve lost mine.
I make a tentative round inside the hut with Juanita’s handcrafted crutches, keeping close to the walls in case I trip or fall.
Maneuvering with the contraption is easier than I’d feared it would be. They work as a tripod with my legs, which Abe has tied up together.
And the game seems to be cutting me some slack, providing my arms and hands with a little more strength than I have in real life. In the offline world, I knew I wouldn’t be pulling this off so easily.
I stop circling and inspect my right arm, flexing my biceps, checking for size and volume. Nothing that would impress even a mediocre crossfitter, but it looks more muscular than I remember…
Memory Unlocked:
Fencing Lessons
Abe swings with his cutlass at my throat.
I parry the blow with my rapier. He’s strong like a bull, and although I manage to absorb the impact, it forces me two steps back.
He lowers his weapon. “Ya’ll be wantin’ to dodge those blows, me brave lad, not be blockin’ them. Yarr arms be as thin as a lil’ girl’s wrist. Most men ya’ll face be stronger than ya, so ferget about matchin’ blow fer blow. Quick and true, that how arms like yourn need t’ be.”
“Not a bad plan,” I mumble to myself as I resume tripoding around the hut, “if I could move quicker.”
Juanita smiles encouragingly. “Patience, young Jake. Time heals all.”
“And will yarr fellow witch agree about patience, witch?” Abe grunts.
Juanita appears to share his concern. Her poncho seems to grow a weird wing when she raises her arm and gestures toward the hut’s exit. “Ready to step outside, my child?”
“As ready as I’m gonna be,” I reply, crutching over to the door. “Let’s go meet this fine fellow witch of yours I’ve been hearing so much about.”
The sun glares majestically, mercilessly. I shut my eyes for a few moments, then squint to let my sight adjust to the radiant outdoors.
A handful of other huts with walls of small stones and thatched roofs stand in a crude circle around a tall wooden pole with carvings on it. And, sure enough, someone who can only be a priest or shaman waits by the pole’s base.
“Those are Aztec garments,” I point out, studying her colorful tunic, “and an Aztec ritual headdress and a mask.”
“Death sure dinnae mess with yarr keen perception, me lad,” comes Abe’s sarcasm-drenched voice from behind me. “What did ya be expectin’ thems pagans t’ wear? French garments? Why, look, if that ain’t an Aztec town over there, then Ol’ Abe be a humpback whale!”
I look to my left. The huts are located in a clearing among the low trees and bushes of a tropical jungle. Not far behind—a mile, maybe less?—lies the most unusual sight of a tall, European-looking defensive wall protecting what is undoubtedly an Aztec town. The tops of several pyramids rise like stepped hills above the protective rampart.
“It makes little sense,” I say. “Aztecs didn’t wall off their entire cities, not like Europeans. Tenochtitlán itself didn’t have a wall; only its main square did.”
“Not until thems filthy Pope-lovin’ Spaniards got there, and gots their butts kicked by the pagans’ magicks,” grunts Abe. “Guess thems pagans be learnin’ a few tricks from us God-fearin’ folks. Their own gods may be all false idols, but thems walls they builds ‘round their towns nowadays be as thick as the Flodden Wall those highlanders got themselves around Edinburgh. Or as strong as our own London Wall around Tower Hill, believe ya me.”
Interesting.
Kind of cool, even. The Aztecs kicking the Spanish butts at Tenochtitlán, their magic working, and then learning to build ramparts and battlements around their cities…
“What year is this, Abe?”
“If we keep wastin’ time then 1685 will be upon us, me lad. But it still be 1684 years since our Good Lord be born.”
Cooler than just kind of cool, then—they set the game in some alternate timeline in which Aztecs are alive and kicking, casting spells and walling their cities, by the time of the Golden Age of Piracy.
“Is Morgan in Jamaica?” I ask.
Abe pats my back. “That be right, me brave lad! Memories be comin’ back to you?”
Meta-memories, I guess. I realize that I’m experiencing a mix of my own and my avatar’s memories… And the coolness factor may have gone up an extra notch, if some of the history I know in real life can come in handy.
Then again, in a world where the Aztecs are still a thrivin
g civilization, I wonder how much of my history—?
“The priestess awaits,” whispers Juanita on my right, abruptly bringing me back to the task at hand.
“All right,” I say. “Let’s get this quest over with.”
Under a magnificent headdress shaped like an owl, the Aztec woman stands as still and straight as the carved post behind her.
I tripod my way closer to her, alternating the crutches and my stiffly tied legs, feeling like a lame three-legged crab. A thick rope under her chin secures her headdress. Long threads and strands descend her chest, resembling an uncombed, unclean beard. Part of her mask, I suppose? The god she serves is perhaps male?
Her eyes burn like two bright-red furnaces under the owl mask.
As I approach, she extends a hand and I stop, confused. She expects payment but … what?
“Give the beastly witch her gold, lad, and we be over this grim business.”
“What—”
“In your pocket,” whispers Juanita. “Near your heart.”
She holds my right crutch as I feel around the dirty, blood-stained shirt I’m wearing until I touch something metallic. From my chest pocket, I pull out a round golden disc and I hold it up: the sun on one side, Tenochtitlán’s glyph on the other.
The priestess extends her hand further. “Payment,” she croaks in English, and three choices float in front of my eyes:
[Accept] Here is the promised gold. You have earned it.
[Refuse] I am not parting ways with this coin.
I need a moment…
“No way in hell,” I refuse and drop the coin back into my chest pocket. “There is no way I am parting ways with—”
“Are ye mad, lad!?” Abe makes a clear attempt to whisper but only manages something like a mildly attenuated bellow.
“Calm down, pirate,” Juanita scolds. “My child … please reconsider. We must settle this debt.”
The priestess keeps her stiff arm palm up, eyes burning like embers from hell.
[Accept] Here is the promised gold; you have earned it.
I need a moment…
“I am … still confused,” I tell the priestess. “I need a moment, please.”
She nods, lowers her arm and stands still, erect under her feathered headdress, colorful robe, and fiery-eyed owl mask.
My crutches carry me a few paces away from the priestess and the pole, Abe and Juanita in tow.
The pirate attempts to smile. “Thems Barboza’s scurvy dogs, thems be lootin’ yarr corpse good. Thems be lootin’ all yarr belongings, all yarr gear, save those dirty rags ya be wearin’. But thems didn’t finds that coin. And ya know why?”
I shake my head.
“’Cos it be tied to yarr soul, Lord Almighty have mercy on it if it still can be saved. So Ol’ Abe understands it and our witch understands it, that coin be mighty dear to ya, but—”
“No,” I say stubbornly, slowly turning my head left and right as I look up at his seven feet of bearded muscle.
Anger flashes in his eyes, and his shoulders tremble with the effort to contain his rage.
“Young Jake, my child…”
“I said ‘No,’ Juanita. There has to be another way.”
Pirate and witch exchange a quick glance.
“Look over there, young Jake.” Juanita indicates the spot where the jungle begins. “And tell me, what do you see?”
Small stakes driven into the ground, painted bright red, mark the edge of the tropical forest. The top of each red stake is decorated with a bone-white skull—not all from animals.
“What ya think be happenin’ when we cross thems skulls, ya bone-headed bard slab?”
I adopt his booming cadence. “We be entering the jungle, Abe me mate?”
The pirate grunts. “Ya thinks it funny, lad?” He pokes a solid finger at my chest. “Ya thinks thems pagan gods who bringed yarr arse back ferm t’ Land o’ thems Dead be kind to ya, after ya insults their witch?”
Juanita nods along, dead serious.
“Thems pagan gods, thems be after yarr blood if ya be skippin’ payment.” Abe’s eyebrows press together, darkening his face. “Furious as only thems pagan gods can be fer dishonorin’ yarr debt, me lad.” He stares intently, as if expecting me to say something.
I keep my mouth shut, staring back.
“My child…”
“I’m not parting ways with this coin. How many times do I have to repeat this?” I argue. “Sveta said it was the only one of its kind I’d find in the game.”
Juanita’s eyes are twin pools of sadness as she looks at me, like a mother whose son has deaf ears to wise advice.
I lower my head. “Is it true, what Abe has just said?” I ask her quietly. “That part about gods being angered and raining curses upon us if we don’t pay. Was that for real?”
“Very real,” she confirms. “The Aztec god this priestess serves brought you back from the Land of the Dead, and now, his price must be paid. Please, my child.” Tenderly, she caresses my cheek. “We dragged your broken, dead corpse from a pool of blood where Barboza’s men had left it to be eaten by ravens, and brought you here after giving our solemn word to the Priestess that we would pay her.”
“Wait. They looted my body?”
“Thems dogs picked it clean, me lad.”
“And as Abraham told you,” Juanita adds, “it’s bound to you, my child. It cannot be taken away, only freely given. I’d have already honored the debt myself, were your coin not bounded to you in such a way.”
I turn the coin over in my hand: The sun, Tenochtitlán, the sun, Tenochtitlán… “Yeah, makes sense,” I whisper to myself. “It’s soulbound. A quest item for this tutorial.”
Juanita tilts her head, frowning, but stays quiet. And for once, Abe does the same.
“Not paying isn’t really a choice, is it?” I ask, looking back over at the stern priestess waiting for us at the foot of the carved pole.
“Not a real one, my child.”
“Ya has tricked Death, me lad,” Abe agrees. “Pirates more cunnin’ than we all have failed at it. Be a smart lad and listen to our witch an’ Ol’ Abe, Jake me boy. When an ol’ wise woman an’ ol’ dumb sea dog both tells ya t’ same thing, ya be doubly fool t’ not be heedin’ their advice.”
I nod.
After tucking the coin safely back in my pocket, I grab my crutches. I drag my sorry ass back to the priestess, swinging from side to side like a drunken sailor.
“I’m sorry for my previous outburst,” I tell her. “You have performed your job well, and I’m in your debt.”
She nods solemnly and stretches out a stiff arm.
[Accept] Here is the gold. You have earned it.
[Refuse] Still, I am not parting ways with this coin.
I need a moment…
Leaning on my left crutch, I reach my right hand into my chest pocket and hand over the gold coin. “Here is the gold,” I accept. “You have earned it, along with my gratitude.”
She clasps both hands around the disc, like it’s a holy relic and not just a method of payment, and nods gravely once again. Then, she gestures toward the circle of skull-crowned red stakes. “Leave,” she croaks. “Walk this land long and far, before your path brings you again to the Land of the Lord of the Tenth Day.”
That’s a … sort of farewell, I guess?
Quest Completed!
Pay the priestess: +1VP
There you go.
The gold coin that Sveta gave me was just a FedEx token of sorts for my first delivery quest. It’s something I’ll have to keep in mind: Real as this all may seem, underneath, it’s just a game.
I’ll have to give it to Maneesh and the Istoria devs, though. As FedEx quests go, I’ve seen worse.
A huge hand lands on my shoulder, patting me so heavily it feels like soft blows. “Atta-boy!” Abe laughs. “Good t’ see ya didn’t leaves all yarr senses back in t’ Land o’ thems Dead!”
I sloppily flap around on my crutches and turn to face Juanit
a and Abe. “So.” I pant, fighting for breath. “What now?”
“Now, we get away from Tepetlacotli,” Juanita replies.
I look at her, puzzled.
She nods toward the tall pyramids behind the protective ramparts. “We should put some distance between us and that large town over there.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really.” She smiles.
We start making our way toward the bushes, Tepetlacotli at our backs.
“Worry not, me lad,” Abe grunts. “Ya’ll be doin’ all sorts o’ real choices real soon. If we gets outta this cursed place before our Lord Almighty rains curses on us’n, that is.”
11
Tutorial: Weapon of Choice
Juanita leads us away from the priestess, the carved pole, and the circle of huts toward a narrow, muddy path that sneaks into the tropical jungle. I drag myself after her, crutches poking the dirt like pikes. Abe brings up the rear, grunting and mumbling.
About a mile behind us, Tepetlacotli’s pyramids regard our motley trio like tall watchmen sneering at puny opponents who, defeated, must turn tail and flee.
“If ya be feelin’ eyes on yarr back, me lad, ya’d be right. Thems Aztecs keep guards on all pyramids, and they guards could teach an eagle how t’ see faraway things, lemme tell ya. We had one o’ thems in our crew, we did, and boy could that blasted pagan spots ‘em ships miles before they spotted us.”
I try to conjure memories of ships crossing the sea, and of us sailing on them…
Memory Unlocked…
Failed!
I stop to look at Abe, who halts by my side. “Our crew—you mean, with us?”
He thumbs his ear. “Nay, me lad, ’course not. I means…”
He seems to ponder what to say next, so I watch him in silence.
“Ya really not remembers much, do ya?”
“I—”
“Perhaps it be best ya not, lad,” he interrupts, then thinks for a moment, appearing to search for words again. “A blessin’, even. Some things beg t’ be forgotten, and if ya cannae remember ‘em, maybe it means our Lord Almighty may not be so pissed off at ya. Even after ya dodged a swim with Davy Jones.”