Paradise Clash: Bounty Hunter

by L. E. Price

  16.

  Prentise was online and willing to meet. Just like Woody predicted, willing to meet but not willing to travel. She was in a town called Hurst, northward and closer to the heart of Gaia Prime, far from the peaceful provinces allotted to the game’s newcomers.

  “We’re not going on foot,” Woody said, leading Jake along a winding trail outside the village bounds. “For one thing, it’d take us a week — literally. For another, that road passes through territory even I won’t cross.”

  “So how do we get there?” Jake asked. His new weapons rode on his hips: Woody had shelled out a little extra for a tooled leather belt, thicker and sturdier than the one Jake had been wearing; twin loops, fitted with quick-release snaps, carried his tonfa batons close at hand. He felt like a medieval gunslinger.

  “By the latest in magical technology,” Woody said, gesturing to the hill ahead with a wave of his open hand.

  A wooden pylon, four stories tall, stood at the crest of the hill. A stairway wrapped around it from the base to an extended platform, jutting out at the very top and held in place by iron-nailed crossbeams. A small crowd of people had gathered, lining up from the platform’s edge to about halfway down the staircase, milling around and talking while they waited.

  Up in the sky, wreathed by a wispy trail of white cloud, an airship was coming in for a landing.

  It was a galleon, a twelve-cannon ship of barnacle-clad wood, and tall sails and great canvas fins steered it through the air like wings. Slow and graceful, the vessel lined itself up with the boarding platform.

  Timbers groaned as it jolted to a stop, bobbing and hovering in place. Sailors leaped off and tied down mooring lines. The ropes held the ship fast. One by one, travelers handed over their coins to a sunburned elf whose pointed ears poked around the knot of a black bandanna.

  “C’mon,” Woody said, breaking into a jog. “We miss this one, next airship isn’t for another hour!”

  Jake ran alongside him and they took the rickety wooden steps two at a time. Longer legs didn’t help; Jake was nearly winded by the time they made the last turn and emerged onto the loading platform. He kept one shaky hand on the rail and caught his breath until the surly elvish sailor waved them up.

  “Come, come,” he snapped. “We’ve got a schedule. Hold the cap’n up and we’ll toss you overboard like two sacks of rotten lettuce.”

  “Do sailors eat lettuce here?” Jake asked Woody, boarding alongside him.

  Woody dropped a handful of copper into the ticket-taker’s smooth palm.

  “Elves do,” he said, with only the faintest roll of his eyes.

  The passengers, a motley crew decked out for adventuring, clustered on the open deck under the balloon’s shade. Some looked out over the far rail, wide-eyed, while the jaded — the ones who had made this same trip a dozen times before, Jake figured — gathered in loose groups around the masts and focused more on each other than the scenery. As sailors untied the ship and prepared to make way, the ticket-taker cupped his slender hands to his mouth and gave a shout.

  “Next stops are Hurst Station, Gray Mire Station, The Gash, New Academy Station, and Vangelis City! Make ready for departure.”

  Groaning wood lurched under Jake’s feet. He rocked, got his balance, and moved closer to the prow of the ship. Up a short run of stairs, he stood and looked out across the far horizon.

  An entire world waited in the distance. Forests, farmland, distant gray mountains shrouded in cold white mist. A world that never was, or at least a world long gone.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Woody moved up to stand at Jake’s side. “If I didn’t have to leave, I probably never would.”

  The sun had crested, beginning its slow descent into afternoon. The shifting light turned the sprawling wheat fields below to beds of hammered brass, rippling in a bend of shadow as the airship turned.

  “Lots of people wouldn’t,” Jake said.

  “How about you?”

  He glanced at Woody. “Hm?”

  “If you didn’t have to. If you could find a way, just…leave it all behind, abandon your old life, say goodbye to Philly and really become Jacius of Cam’s Den. Would you do it?”

  He had to think about that. The fields, the forests of emerald green, the warm clean air and the mountain mist — they all lined up to make their arguments. And outside this world, after the six-hour timer forced him to leave, he had a night of cheap beer, cheaper ramen noodles, and flat-screen television to look forward to. He’d fall asleep on his couch, acid rain beating at the windows and the sound of a dead channel in his ears.

  “I don’t know,” he said. Softer now, thoughtful. “I’m not sure this is healthy. It’s not real.”

  “Is that how you feel?” Woody asked. “Or is that how you think you should feel?”

  Fair question. He didn’t have time to debate it, not with new arrivals coming their way. Rolen the Blue and Magnolto, he of the barber-pole-striped wizard hat, strolled up and joined them on the prow. Jake figured school must have let out while he was waiting for Woody.

  “Hail, Jacius,” Magnolto said. “You’re keeping good company, it seems.”

  Handshakes all around. The four men stood together and looked to the distant mountains.

  “Gnarl,” Magnolto added, “you did tell our new friend about the magical force-fields along the railing of these ships, yes?”

  Woody arched a bushy eyebrow. “You mean, did I tell him not to jump off the edge?”

  There was a twinkle in the wizard’s eye, and Jake suspected he knew who had tricked Woody back when he was a brand-new player.

  “I heard from Trevanian, in the far realm,” Rolen said.

  Jake wore a poker face. Tim had ‘heard from’ Jake using Trevor’s deck, but he had to keep the illusion in place.

  “Did you, now?”

  “He’s fallen ill from a sickness of the throat, one the clerics are having trouble curing. He’s on the mend, though, and should be joining us again soon. He said good things about you.”

  “Good to hear, on both counts,” Jake said. “What brings you two out this way?”

  “Little afternoon exercise, in the foothills near Hurst. You haven’t lived until you’ve gone toe-to-toe with a forest troll.”

  Magnolto folded his arms. The sleeves of his robes drooped like his disposition. “Or died, as the case may be.”

  “It was just one time,” Rolen said, shooting him a look. “I still think we should hook up with a Bleakfrost Rocks group if we can find one. You know we’ve got the skills for it.”

  “Sidebar,” Magnolto said, dipping his striped hat toward the ship’s rail.

  They stepped back, conversing in low voices, but Jake could still pick up most of it. They were keeping their real-world talk soft, to keep from breaking the atmosphere.

  “…seriously,” Magnolto said. “I would, but I’ve got a test tomorrow morning and I have to get ready for it. I’ve got an hour, tops, before I have to log off.”

  Rolen looked incredulous. “A test? Were you going to warn me about that?”

  “History, not comp-sci. You aren’t even in my history class.”

  That mollified Magnolto’s fellow dragon-hunter. A little. They walked back over to join Woody and Jake.

  “Everything good?” Jake asked.

  “I might be hooking up with a Bleakfrost Rocks group,” Rolen said. “My partner has sorcerous studies to attend to.”

  “Such is the life of a wizard,” Magnolto said with dramatic flair. “Our arcane textbooks are never far from reach, and always demanding our attention.”

  Rolen patted the rapier on his hip. “I prefer a good blade, myself.”

  “The sharpest blade is worthless without an equally-sharp wit, my young companion.”

  “What’s Bleakfrost Rocks?” Jake asked.

  Magnolto pointed north, toward the mist-wreathed mountains.

  “That,” he said, “is where the necromancer Pustulius makes his lair. He’s carved an entir
e labyrinth in the heart of the mountain, guarded by undead slaves and deadly traps. But where great danger is found, so are great rewards. House Morgin will pay handsomely for the necromancer’s relics, but there’s a caveat. Should you be struck down before returning the treasure—”

  His lecture was cut short by a shrill, high pitched scream. The scream faded, dropping away fast as another new player plunged over the railing, followed by a wave of rolling laughter from the deck.

  “Yeah, that trick never gets old.” Woody sighed. “Basically, grabbing the treasure is half the fight. It’s all under a profane curse; you still have to bring the stuff you find back to town in one piece and have it sanctified, or you lose everything. Kind of a gamble.”

  “Gamble I’m itching to take,” Rolen said. He turned and gave a big wave. “Hey! Merisaude! You going to Bleakfrost today?”

  The focus of his attention was strolling along the deck with a small pack of handsome young men in her wake. Elves, all of them, with high pointed ears and skin the color of midnight. The men wore leather armor stained a deep, radiant purple, and their belts bristled with jagged blades and curving steel. Merisaude herself wore a sinuous gown made from amethyst silk patterned like snake-skin, strips of fabric held together with thin golden chains and baring more flesh than it concealed as it hugged her slender body like a glove.

  She stopped. The pack stopped with her. Their scarlet eyes turned to regard Rolen, mostly with unconcealed disdain.

  “Are you…speaking to me?” Merisaude asked. “Are you actually speaking to me?”

  Rolen shrank an inch or two, head ducking down.

  “I mean,” he said, “everyone says your guild’s been running Bleakfrost Rocks all week, and we’re on the way there, so I figured…”

  Whatever he figured, he left it hanging in the air as the elves shared wicked smiles. Merisaude strolled toward him, casual, hips swaying like a cobra about to strike.

  “You figured you could…come along?” she asked. “Hitch a ride? Share in our fortunes?”

  “I can pull my own weight,” Rolen said.

  “Out of curiosity, do you know the dus’korei word for humans?”

  Rolen shook his head, mute as she sauntered close, close enough to touch. A delighted smile played at the edges of her lips.

  “’Puppy,’” she said.

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” Magnolto chimed in.

  Her eyes narrowed to gun-ports as she pinned him in her glare.

  “Oh?” she asked. “Do you speak the language of my people?”

  He took a halting step back. “Well…no. Not exactly.”

  “Then you should not speak at all.” She looked back to Rolen, appraising him. “I suppose I could use a foot-servant, to haul the cheap loot. Very well, puppy. You can come, under one condition.”

  Rolen’s hopes ignited. “Name it.”

  She raised one elegant arm and pointed to the deck.

  “Get down on all fours and bark like a dog.”

  That moment of hope sputtered and died. “Wait. What?”

  “You heard me. I want to know that you understand your proper place. Get on your hands and knees, bark like a dog, and not only can you come with us to Bleakfrost, I’ll let you have your first pick of the treasure. Guaranteed upgrade.”

  Jake could tell he was thinking about it. Then he shook his head and held his ground.

  “No way. I’m not doing that.”

  Merisaude let out a dramatic sigh. The sigh turned into a yawn halfway, and she stifled it behind her hand as she turned her back on him.

  “Oh, well,” she said as she sauntered off, her chuckling pack following on her heels. “Have fun playing with the forest trolls, puppy.”

  The adventurers at the bow of the ship didn’t say a word until the entourage was out of earshot. Woody broke the silence.

  “Dusk elves,” he said, “are jerks.”

  “And Merisaude is Queen Jerk,” Rolen said. “But she’s got the skills to back up that attitude. They’re going to come back loaded with loot. Damn. Maybe I should have barked.”

  Magnolto put a consoling hand on Rolen’s shoulder.

  “We’ll tangle with the trolls for a bit. You’ve been wanting to work on your skinning skill anyway.” He looked to Jake and Woody. “I’d invite you along, but tackling the local wildlife is a bit outside our new friend’s abilities. Then again, you were battling displacer wolves as a wet-eared newcomer…”

  “Yeah,” Rolen added. “What are you doing this far from Dutton?”

  A pylon came into sight, dead ahead. It was identical to the one they’d departed from, a four-story spiral staircase with a landing dock, but the wood was old and gray. The platform leaned at a dangerous angle and one of the support struts dangled splintered and broken.

  “Ho! Hurst Station,” bellowed one of the sailors. “Landing in thirty seconds, departing for Gray Mire in thirty more!”

  Jake was thinking fast. This could be an opportunity to get deeper into their confidence, or at least lay the seeds for it. He’d already convinced Tim that he was a trusted friend of Trevor’s. That said, Tim made it clear that Magnolto was the ringleader of the dragon hunters, and the final arbiter of who got into the club. He was the one Jake needed to sway, if he was going to find out what Trevor was really up to.

  “My dwarven tour-guide here is showing me some of the local lore and legends,” Jake said. “I’ve got a passion for that kind of thing. Not just the surface stories.”

  Rolen and Magnolto shared a glance.

  “Is that so?” Magnolto asked.

  “Oh, yeah. That’s what keeps me exploring. And I’ve been getting the feeling there’s a lot to explore here.” As the airship glided toward the platform, smooth as glass, he gestured to the placid waters of a distant lake. “I want to take a real…deep dive, know what I mean?”

  Magnolto’s fingers smoothed the front of his robes. He leaned a little closer, his unblinking eyes fixed on Jake’s.

  “We should talk. Later. I might have something you’d be interested in.”

  The airship docked with a gentle thump, and sailors tossed rope lassos around the mooring-pegs.

  17.

  Hurst was a ghost town.

  Down the road from the pylon, at the edge of a dead forest where gnarled limbs clutched at a sky gone overcast and gray, the village lay fallow and forgotten. Empty houses with shattered windows and cobwebbed doors, with wood the color of dirty bone, lined a dirt path. At the head of the trail stood Hurst’s town hall, where a tarnished bell hung silent in a crooked steeple.

  Wind slithered through the bare branches of the trees, a faint and endless whisper that played at the edges of Jake’s nerves.

  He kept his guard up as they walked, eyes darting left and right, checking for threats. A shadow moved in the corner of his eye, just beyond a broken door. When he turned, nothing was there.

  “You feel that?” Woody asked.

  “I feel something.”

  “This is the edge of Pustulius’s dominion. The necromancer cursed the town, blighted the fields, nasty stuff.” Woody lowered his voice. “SDS’s designers worked overtime on this spot. If you think you’re seeing weird stuff in your peripheral vision? You are. It’s all an illusion, to put you on edge.”

  “It’s working,” Jake said.

  Prentise was waiting for them, leaning back on the worm-eaten planks of the town hall steps. Her ragged hunting leathers were trimmed in storm-gray wolf fur, rough as her unkempt hair. She wasn’t alone; she wore a heavy falconer’s glove on her right hand, and a falcon — sleek, hungry-eyed and feral as his mistress — perched on her knuckles.

  “Hey, Gnarl,” she called out as she rose to her feet. “Who’s your friend?”

  Woody slapped Jake on the back. “This here’s Jacius. An ally of mine from the far realm, and a newcomer to this one. Jacius, Prentise Roquelaure. Best merchant in the lands, and a damn fine shot with a bow to boot.”

  Prentise had a
firm handshake. She looked Jake up and down, something dubious in her eyes.

  “Flattery makes me nervous,” she said. She flicked her gaze at the weighted leather balls dangling over his shoulder. “Good to know you, Jacius. So. Nobody warned you about the bolas.”

  “My fault,” Woody said.

  “Everyone makes mistakes. I understand you’ve got a little mystery for me to unravel?”

  “A mystery only you can unravel.”

  “What did I just say about flattery?” She flicked her hand upward. The falcon launched itself from her glove with a screech of primal glee, soaring up into the misty gray sky. “We can talk while we hunt. Keep it under your hat, but there’s about to be a big run on witchgrass, and I’m stocking up. Quid pro quo: you help me, I help you.”

  “Deal,” Jake said.

  “I meant Gnarl,” Prentise said. “No offense, but you’re a little…wait. Exactly how new are you? This might be a good thing. How many seasons of training do you have?”

  Jake remembered this from Woody’s strategy guide. Another bit of roleplayer-speak to conceal the game’s mechanics, like “far realm” as a stand-in for the real world. “Seasons” was just another way of saying “level.”

  “Three,” he said. Prentise sighed.

  “Too new. Damn. Gnarl and I are way too experienced for this spot, and less-seasoned adventurers reap more treasure. Exponentially more. It’s a way the gods ‘encourage’ people to seek out challenges more appropriate for their skill. We’re going to be grinding all afternoon.”

  “Give him a shot,” Woody said.

  She gave him the side-eye as they walked toward the village outskirts.

  “A third-season adventurer? In the blighted fields? Are you serious?”

  “Give him a shot.”

  The desolate village faded at their backs as they came to a strip of barren farmland. The soil had gone foul; an odor like sour milk hung in the air, and dried-out roots littered the hard, cracked dirt. The only thing that grew here were bloated scarecrows. They dangled limp from wooden crosses, faceless men of sackcloth with drooping straw hands.