by Ember Lane
“Krakus!” Zenith spat. “Now that’s a meet I’m going to look forward to.”
Lincoln and Belzarra looked out after them. “Do they hold a grudge?” Lincoln asked.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Morningstar!” Lincoln shouted. The ever-close fairy flew in.
“Lincoln.”
“Could you go tell Griselda that I’ll need some more idonelll wrecking bars?”
24
Drinking With Spillwhistle
Lincoln wandered outside with Belzarra, the walls of Starellion finally closing in on him and making him yearn for the sun again. It seemed like he’d been trapped in there for an age, when in reality it had only been a mainstay for the last few days. He breathed in the fresh mountain air.
“The soldier’s trying to catch your eye,” Belzarra pointed out.
Sure enough, Bailey was walking up to him, though more a formal march.
“Well, I gave it my best shot.”
“I think he’s ready to commit. Imagine how daunting this place is the first time you see it.”
Lincoln craned his neck. It was a truly magnificent sight. Even Sanctuary’s wall was now visible from where they stood. He pulled up its city sheet, wondering what Echo was up to.
Settlement name: Sanctuary. Population: 565.
Population capacity: 700
Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)
Politics: (44, 0), Culture: (0, 0), Defense: (0, 0)
Build speed: +44%, Learning advancement: N/A, Defense bonus: N/A
Buildings: Amount - levels
Cottages: 20 – 4,4,4,4,4,4,4,4,4,4,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3, Warehouse 2 – 8,8, Inn 1 – 5, Beacon Tower 1 – 6, Walls 1 – 7 [Reinforcement Level 5], Town Hall 1 – 7, Academy 1 – 6, Feasting Hall 1 – 6, Marketplace 1 – 4, Barracks 10 – 5,4,4,4,4,4,4,4,4,4, Forge 1 – 6, Workshop 1 – 6, Rally Spot 1 – 5, Stable 1 – 6, Dock 1 - 4.
Fortifications
Trap – 1000, Abatis – 50, Archer’s Tower – 75,
Rolling log – 20, Defensive Trebuchet – 50
Production
Farms: 0 Sawmills: 20 –6,6,6,6,6,6,6,6,6,6,2,2,2,2,1,1,1,1,1,1, Quarries: 6 – 5,5,5 Mines: 5 –5,5,5
Resources (Amount, Production rate, Current Consumption-food only)
Food: (50,000, 0/ph +40%, -5650p/h), Wood: (100,000, 22,800/ph +40%)
Stone: (12,878, 4500/ph +50%), Ore: (5,000, 4500/ph +40%)
“Upping the sawmills,” Lincoln muttered, more to himself and looked up to see Echo standing by him.
“You wanted me?” Echo said, quite unnervingly.
“What’s the deal with the lumber and food?”
“Common pool. Sanctuary is upping lumber production to accommodate Starellion’s needs, and in return our food is kept at a constant fifty thousand. Eventually we think Joan’s Creek will have to subsidize both, and so Bethe is gradually increasing her production, but at the moment we don’t have the mouths to eat it. All market places have been boosted in level to accommodate the increased frequency of our throughput.”
Lincoln felt quite pleased he’d transferred the build to the bots. It was much like playing a game with a script-hack running. It left him free to worry about the bigger picture, and that in itself was getting more troublesome by the day.
“Best level up the tavern again, eh? We can’t have it getting crowded.”
“I’ve had a request from Allaise and Griselda to build an arena. Apparently that’s my top priority after the sawmills and walls.”
“Best you keep your nose out of it all,” Belzarra told Lincoln.
“Indeed. Just remember my tavern—where it all started.” He winked at Echo. “Bailey, all set, ready to go?”
The soldier went down on one knee. “We wish to swear allegiance, but urge you to understand that this is not given lightly nor to solely save our skins. We believe you have a higher purpose than mere power and yearn to fight for that.”
Lincoln was lost for words, but translated Bailey’s as “Yeah, your wall’s bigger.”
Bailey has applied to join your guild, The House of Mandrake. Do you accept him? Y/N
A flurry of notifications followed, but one in particular caught his eye.
Belzarra has applied to join your guild, The House of Mandrake. Do you accept her? Y/N
“What?” Belzarra said. “I didn’t want to be left out, you know, as everyone seems to be swearing allegiance to you today. Did you put something in the ale?”
Lincoln accepted Belzarra’s request and promoted her, then left her to deal with the drafted soldiers. “No doubt Swift will be along in a minute to sort out your barracks. Probably best in here while we deal with Starellion.”
He wandered off toward the town hall, remembering he had to have words with Finequill. Walking out of an alleyway between two new shops, he heard his name called and looked around to see Spillwhistle beckoning him over to her shop. Ambling over, he noticed it had a big 1 on the front door and wondered what the road was called.
“One what?” he asked, hopping onto her stoop.
“We were thinking Commercial Street, but now we’re leaning toward Great Portal Street after Crags uncovered the portal room.”
“Crags…” Lincoln muttered. “Yes, well, sure he did. What can I do for you?”
The ceratog’s little nose started twitching. She looked Lincoln up and down. “Done well for yourself since I last met you, a mere noob with a recipe for ale, but you haven’t done that well. Come in. I have something for you.”
Spillwhistle turned and pushed her shop door open, a little bell ringing. Lincoln sighed and stepped in. It was near enough a direct replica of her old shop in Brokenford, same sort of size, same glowspheres flying around, same counter, and exactly the same narrow doorway leading out back. Spillwhistle vanished through it.
The room behind was cramped, a small table in its middle, two chairs either side, and shelf upon shelf of vials and beakers lining the walls. Spillwhistle climbed a small set of steps and reached up for a jar filled with a deep-amber liquid. She leaned down, placing it on the table.
“Sit, sit, this won’t take long.”
Lincoln pulled out a chair and sat, wondering if Spillwhistle had some kind of revenge in mind. “What won’t?”
“You’ll see, others won’t—that’s the point.” She turned, her whiskers flickering, her eyes narrow. “Your stats are all brawn and muscle—no finesse, and on show for all to see. Luckily, I can fix that for you.”
“Fix?”
“You’ll see.” She picked up a pouch and jumped off the steps, gathering a half-dozen little pots about the size of shot glasses and then sat back down. Opening the pouch, Spillwhistle said, “Ivy root: sometimes the commonest plants can prove the most useful. What is the one thing that ivy does better than most plants?”
Lincoln thought for a while. “Strangle things?” Maybe she was going to exact her retribution.
“Hide things. Think about that huge city that appeared to be little more than a rocky outcrop. Since our little wager, you’ve grown, and what a powerful man you’ve become, and will become.” She smiled, her little front teeth poking through. “And everyone can see it.”
Spillwhistle poured out six measures of the amber liquid, adding a pinch of ivy root to each. She muttered a string of unintelligible words, and as she did, she passed her hand over each pot. The olive green powder and the liquid effervesced briefly but soon calmed leaving a dirty-gray liquid. She pushed one pot across.
“Drink,” she said.
Lincoln reached out, noticing his hand shaking a little. He knew very little about Spillwhistle, but knew she’d been in league with Fawkes, and that she was Finequill’s sister. She’d lost her bet and been forced to come to Sanctuary as a result. Was this her revenge? Would he be knocked out, bound, gagged, and smuggled to Brokenford? Seemed a long shot, but…
“Do you know why Finequill would sell a small boy to a mountain family?” he asked, trying to gauge her response—hoping th
e sudden question might knock her off kilter. His fingers wrapped around the pot.
“Are you talking about the little boy Pog?”
Lincoln’s jaw dropped a little, as he was knocked off his kilter instead. “Err…yes…”
“He agonized over that choice—knew they were a bad group, but…he was asked to. He didn’t do it for the money. One thing you need to understand about my little brother is that he’s a self-serving little turd, and that is one of his better points.”
Harsh… Lincoln thought.
Spillwhistle pushed the pot closer to Lincoln. “I’ve given you little reason to distrust me, save a small scam that got a map you needed into your hands. Drink—you need to earn my trust too.”
Lincoln held her gaze, picking up the pot and bringing it to his lips. He tipped his head back and downed it. The liquid stuck to his throat at first, leaching slowly down. It gathered in his neck and then clawed into his veins and arteries like it had tiny hands. He felt a tingling sensation running up and into his mind, and a curious snap that made him widen his eyes in surprise, a sensation much the same as the aftertaste of Belzarra’s morats.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 3.
He smashed the pot on the table with a hollow thunk.
“Damn, that was horrific.”
Spillwhistle allowed a smirk to form on her pink lips. “That was the easy one—this is necessary, but not necessarily pleasant. She put a second pinch in the five remaining pots, followed by two in the empty one. The five pots effervesced again; the sixth just sat there. She pushed another pot toward Lincoln.
He didn’t hesitate this time, picked the pot up, downed the liquid and slammed it back on the table, then opened his mouth in a dry, soundless scream as a thousand knives stabbed at his throat. Bringing his hands up to nearly strangle himself, Lincoln stamped his foot on the floor. The sensation abated, and he felt the tingling in his mind again. This time he sensed that his mind’s…curtains…had edged shut a little.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 4.
Spillwhistle sprinkled again, three pinches going in the returning pot. She pushed the next to Lincoln, who nervously reached out, shut his eyes, grabbed it and drank. The liquid entered his throat, then dropped like a stone into his stomach. Darting arrows of pain stabbed out, up, down, and sideways. His whole body snapped straight, teeth clamped shut, a strangled groan came from him. Then, like the end of an electric shock, it was over.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 5.
“Halfway there,” Spillwhistle said. Lincoln was sure she was enjoying herself, and just a little too much.
Pinch, effervesce, push, and Lincoln gulped down the next. Like the last, it fell like a lump into his stomach, but instead of a stabbing pain, a curious sensation like roots growing out of his stomach, through the recently pierced holes. Lincoln fidgeted as they crawled through him, stifling his screams as they burrowed into his flesh then bloomed into a shield of some kind leaching along under his skin.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 6.
“Couldn’t I just practice?” he gasped.
Spillwhistle sniffed. “Take you an age, and you haven’t got an age. Tell me, have you thought what skill you’re going to pick?”
“Skill?”
“Your reward. The land gave you a skill that it would automatically max. Any thoughts?”
“I’m leaning toward the bow. I haven’t taken it yet, and I could end up a dead eye if I get a high enough cap.”
Spillwhistle nodded, appearing to consider his choice. “Or you could just end up an average bowman, and you’ve got plenty of them. Why not consider something a little stranger?”
“Suggestions?”
Spillwhistle pushed the next vial over. “Let’s just say that from what I’ve seen, you’re quite good at getting into scrapes. How about a skill that could give you the edge getting out of them?”
Lincoln drank the next. His stomach exploded as the concoction lanced through every single cell in his body. He fell from his chair, writhing on the floor, the utter agony of it all overwhelming him. When it was done, he just lay there, breathing hard.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 6.
“Acrobatics!” he suddenly shouted, and then began to laugh manically, as only a tortured soul can, clawing at his seat, pulling himself straight up and grabbing the second-to-last pot, drinking it straight down. He collapsed back onto the floor as the pain surged through him again. Writhing, jerking, lurching like he was getting a beating by numerous, invisible assailants. He pulled himself level with the table before it was even over, grabbed the next and drank it, collapsing back to the safety of the floor.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 7.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 8.
He stayed there, breathing, trying to let the pain dissipate. The last couple had been easier—his body still numb from the last and the one before.
“Seriously,” he said, drunk on pain, “acrobatics. Think about it, I could do those fancy flips, cartwheel my way to safety—all sorts of things. It could make my life so much more fun.”
“It could work,” Spillwhistle acknowledged, and passed him down the next, newly made pot. This one was more root than liquid, and though Lincoln tried to swallow it, it sat on his tongue and didn’t budge.
Oh no… he thought.
He felt his eyes crawl to the back of their sockets, his forehead sliced and diced like it was just a piece of meat. A shooting pain began in the nape of his neck, its pressure grew and grew and then burst forward like a screaming horde. Lincoln felt their axes, their flails, their spears and pikes as they marched through his mind. Barely able, he reached up taking the next pot, choosing to continue to extend the pain rather than let it gather anew. As it hit his tongue, he felt the curtain in his mind slam shut. He felt protected, safe, and curled up into a ball, whimpering as the pain slowly dissipated.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 9.
Congratulations! You have increased your concealment. You are now level 10.
Congratulations! You have reached your limit in the skill Concealment.
Congratulations! You have reached your potential in one skill. The land awards you 500 XP.
He pulled himself back onto the chair. “So, thank you?”
Spillwhistle waved a paw. “Don’t mention it. You did me a big enough favor.”
“I did?”
“Sure. You gave me the push I needed to move out of that doomed city. I could smell the defeat in the air. Charm’s coming, make no mistake about that, and when he does, Ratcher’s Vein is going to run red but not with my blood—not now. We’re even, Lincoln, even. Now, your skill, I think you might be onto something.”
“Acrobat?” In truth, Lincoln thought it might be quite the cool skill, especially with the arena coming…
“I choose Acrobatics as my skill,” he announced.
Spillwhistle started chuckling. “Really?”
Congratulations! You have opened the skill, Acrobatics!
Congratulations! You have reached your limit in the skill Acrobatics.
Congratulations! You have reached your potential in two skills. The land awards you 500 XP.
Lincoln looked at his skill cap. “Thirty-eight?” he muttered.
Congratulations! Barakdor rewards those who work hard. In order to make the most of your skill, the land awards you 10 Agility points. Agility enhances your Acrobat skill.
“Now, that’s a nice present,” he said, arched his hands and stared at Spillwhistle. “So, your brother, the ever self-serving…”
“Turd.”
“Yes, why did he sell the boy?”
“Same reason I let you think you tricked me with th
e map. Same reason Fawkes let you pickpocket him. We were all paid to.”
“Eh?”
“You’ll have to ask Finequill. She approached him, not me, but she had magic, and lots of it—brimming with it she was. Stole into the city one night, by all accounts. I felt the mana sucked out of the air itself and then she was gone.”
“And you…sensed this?”
“Couldn’t miss it. She must have been some powerful witch. Finequill came to me the very next day with fifty gold and a map. He told me a man would come, all cocky-like, and try to trick me into giving him a magical map. I told Finequill there was no such thing, but he told me there is now and passed me it. Well, fifty gold or not, I was in. I did just think about giving you a fakey, but the woman’s magic scared me far too much.”
“What was her name?”
“Finequill mentioned it. It’s a name that most folks knew, but few would care to mention, dead or alive.”
“Who?”
“Sakina.”
Lincoln tapped the table. He knew that name from Alexa Drey. He then understood the level of the meddling going on and marveled at it. Its complexity was something to behold, the faded patterns beginning to clear. Standing, he thanked Spillwhistle for her concealment gift and walked back out onto the street, eager to meet Finequill and find out what he knew.
Spillwhistle’s store was right by the town hall. Lincoln skipped up its steps, desperate to find more truths, to see how much of his luck had been down to manipulation. Were Grimble and Ozmic in on it? Pete and Allaise? He doubted it. His meet with the dwarves was entirely random, but Allaise and Pete… Was that a setup?