by Dmitry Bilik
That’s when I saw them: three figures in long flowing robes. I couldn’t see their faces. Their hands were hidden in the folds of their clothes.
The figure standing in front was holding a staff. He lifted it.
Knock-knock-knock. The last layer of darkness dissipated under the blows of the staff. I felt incredibly good, warm and happy.
As for the three figures, I now knew that I’d been looking for them all along. I’d been walking toward them for such a long time, without any hope of ever finding them, that I’d almost forgotten all about them. Now finally I was standing in front of them. They were so close, their outlines so dear and familiar. How could I have ever forgotten them? How could my memory have failed me?
The man with the staff took a step forward, shrugged off his hood and smiled. “We knew you’d come to see us!”
Knock-knock-knock.
I sat up on the unfolded couch. So it was only a dream. But it was so real. The three men looked just like that Chorul whom I’d — no, they weren’t men, they were Choruls. Then again, I wasn’t too sure. Was the figure with the staff a human or not?
I couldn’t remember anymore.
Knock-knock-knock!
Shit. Someone was hammering on my door.
I grabbed the phone off the bedside table. Dammit! I was already 10 minutes late for my martial-arts class with Hunter. That’s what a little fresh air does to the body. I’d been flat out for hours.
I stood up, pulling on my jeans as I walked to the door, and froze. Because at that moment, someone entered the room. And that someone was myself.
Chapter 12
THEY SAY THAT when you’re losing your mind, you’re the last person to notice it. Truth be told, this morning I had those thoughts. Not every day starts off with you sitting on your butt watching yourself walk into the room.
In every fantasy novel, when the hero sees his double, he kills him because he knows that he’s the real person while the thing in front of him must be up to no good. So when I found myself in this situation, I acted almost on autopilot.
[ ∞ ]
My knife was lying on the chair, covered by my sweater. I instantly vowed to leave it on top from now on so that I could whisk it out at a moment’s notice. Because the milliseconds I’d wasted groping for my knife had decided everything. When I finally grabbed it, about to spring into action, I heard a voice say,
“Master, you all right?”
I hesitantly froze on all fours next to the chair. “Bumpkin?”
“Who do you think it is? Oh, hold on.”
A second later, the goblin was standing in front of me as if nothing had happened.
“What the hell?”
Bumpkin shrugged. “You were sleeping and I tried to wake you up, but I couldn’t. And then this...”
A brief, insistent knock interrupted him.
“This,” the goblin repeated. “So I shapeshifted into you just to open the door and chase him off. But then you woke up.”
“You-” I cussed, scrambling up to my feet and heading for the door. I had a funny feeling I knew who it was.
My hunch was right. An angry Hunter was standing in the doorway.
“You’re ten minutes late for your training,” he snapped.
“Just a minute. I’ll get dressed and come straight up.”
He turned on his heel and started back upstairs. I slammed the door and barged back to get dressed like an injured moose ramming through the taiga.
“Tell me quickly, what’s with all this shapeshifting shit?” I demanded.
“It’s totally normal. All house goblins can turn into their master whenever the situation in the house requires it.”
“What did you mean when you said you couldn’t wake me up?”
“You were sleeping like a rock. That’s how evil spirits sleep, or those who have no conscience. Dead to the world.”
“We’ll talk about it later,” I said, bolting out of the apartment.
I don’t like it when my morning starts abruptly like that. Ideally I’d take a bath, drink a cup of tea, and ponder the direction the country was going. Haste makes waste. But in all fairness, morning had ended long ago.
Also, Hunter turned out to be a rather ungrudging Player. I thought I could expect the harshest sparring session possible, but no. My mentor made me do a bridge stretch instead, forcing me to arch my back as far as I could. Whenever my body started tilting toward the floor, I’d shift my foot on the ground, adjusting my balance.
After twenty minutes or so, we finally sat down face to face and did the butterfly stretch. Hunter now showed himself to be even more strict, not sparing my stiffened tendons.
“Don’t feel sorry for yourself. Stretch until it hurts.”
“I’m str-et... ching,” I grunted. “What’s all this for, anyhow?”
“Just do what I say.”
After another fifteen minutes or so, I received a rather surprising notification.
Your Athletics skill has increased to level 5.
“What’s that for?” I asked. “We haven’t done anything, have we?”
“Oh yes, we have. There’s something important you need to remember. The more variety in training, the faster you’ll see a result. Is that clear?”
“Not really.”
“Look, you have the Athletics skill. How do you max it out?”
“Er... I could run, I suppose. Do some push-ups, whatever.”
“Or chest presses, or barbell squats. That’s the easiest way. But if you add on, say, yoga and acrobatics, things will go exponentially faster. That’s the idea. That’s how things work — not only in the game, but also in real life. Abundance in diversification. If you do the same exercises on the same muscle groups day in day out, the body will adjust to them instead of improving.”
“Hold on. For example, I have the Light spell. It’s part of the Illusions skill. Does that mean that I’ll never reach level 100 in that particular skill if I limit myself to that spell alone?”
“Of course you will if you’re persistent enough. Only by then, the trees might wither and the rivers run dry. But if you start to use Invisibility, Fear, or Harmony, the process will go much faster. You get it?
“I think I’m starting to understand. So if I want to level Athletics up faster, I shouldn’t just jog, but do all kinds of exercises?”
“Exactly. Now get up. You’ve warmed up a little. I’m gonna show you how to tuck correctly. Do a few rolls and then try a somersault.”
What I eventually did was anything but a somersault. Instead, I managed to perform a routine consisting of a one-and-a-half flop landing on my backside, a half-somersault landing with my face pressed to the mat, and a two-yard slip across the polished floor. Through these clumsy tricks, I managed to add 2 points to Acrobatics.
We finished the training session as we always did: combat with wooden knives.
“Have you decided on your direction yet?”
Hunter was breathing evenly, his movements smooth like those of a fish in water. I was swerving this way and that, blocking awkwardly and gasping as I was already completely out of breath. I was dripping in sweat; my muscles were begging me for mercy. I struggled to remain standing through sheer will — the quality which was probably what turned a boy into a man.
“Mage,” I answered curtly, thrusting my knife which sliced through the empty space where Hunter had just stood. “Combat... mage.”
“Good choice,” he knocked one of the knives out of my hands. “But you won’t have an easy road ahead of you.”
With a fake swing, I thrust from below. Unfortunately, Hunter was prepared. So he wanted to play that game, eh?
[ ∞ ]
I missed him by an inch. His reaction time was out of this world. And he seemed completely relaxed. He was calm and even-keeled, as if he were just sitting there enjoying a meal rather than fighting.
Your Short Blades skill has increased to level 5.
That was the last thing I heard. Hunter
did a foot sweep, sending my body to the ground like a sack of bricks.
“First you need to learn to fight on your own, without your abilities. Then your abilities will make you invincible. That’s all for today. I’ll be expecting you tomorrow. And one more thing: keep your phone with you.”
That last warning seemed odd, but I didn’t say anything. My cell phone was always on me. Hunter was the one who was usually unreachable.
“I have a question,” I said. “I heard something about, what are they called now... Hazy worlds, yes. With black passageways.”
“Who’d you hear that from?” Hunter asked guardedly.
“A Player told me,” I said truthfully.
“The Hazy worlds are a place where there’s no light nor rules. They’re populated with monsters. Players rarely risk poking their noses there.”
“Do the Choruls live in a world like that?”
Hunter frowned. I’d already figured out that he didn’t much like talking about the Choruls. I was prepared for him to dismiss our conversation, but after thinking for a few moments, he responded.
“The Choruls live beyond two of the Hazy worlds. That’s why Players have rarely found their way there. And the few fortunate ones who have, got sent packing. The Choruls don’t like outsiders.”
“What about the black passageways?”
“That’s enough for today.” Hunter turned away, making it clear that he wasn’t going to say much else.
I went downstairs to my apartment and finally had a proper wash and a shower. The tea kettle was already boiling in the kitchen which smelled heavenly: the goblin had cooked an omelet. Not an ordinary boring omelet, mind you, but one that seemed to be made of milk clouds. Never mind the omelet: Bumpkin could even take cheap store-bought teabags and put an original spin on them. But I didn’t want to praise him. Instead, I feigned dissatisfaction and began grilling him.
“So, we have a goblin shapeshifter in the house, eh?”
“Master, you insult me day in and day out. First you called me a human and now a shapeshifter!”
“We’re a little touchy, eh? Can you only turn into me or into any human?”
“It’s not shapeshifting. It’s transformation. It’s like smoke and mirrors,” he explained. “I’m telling you, all house goblins can do it if the situation requires. But we can only take on the guise of our master.”
“Hm. That’s actually quite convenient.”
Bumpkin tensed. “How so?”
“You broke the window. Now you’re going to replace it.”
“I’m not leaving the house,” Bumpkin asserted.
“You don’t need to. You’ll turn into me, or transform, whatever you call it. You’ll let in the glass-cutters and check their work afterwards. I’m going to pop out now and order the glass. Oh, and by the way. What do you make of this?”
I took out the paper with the mission to catch the Mad Barnyard Keeper. Bumpkin scanned it and then looked at me.
“Barn hands do lose their mind when they’re abandoned.”
“Barn hands?”
“Barnyard keepers, as you call them. House goblins call them barn hands. In the past, every rich home had its own barnyard keeper. The house goblin took care of the house and the barn hand took care of the yard — he made sure the cattle didn’t fall ill, the well didn’t get flooded, and the locusts didn’t get into the crops. So he’s one of those.”
“What do you mean, abandoned?”
“The house goblin must have run away but didn’t take the barn hand with him. That also happens. Either the master died or he kicked the house goblin out. He probably died, I think.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because if he kicked him out, the house goblin would have taken his barn hand with him. The barn hand is like a little brother. But in this case, most likely, the master had died, and the house goblin mourned until he got confused in the head and left the household. So it was like the barn hand was abandoned.”
“So why didn’t he leave himself?”
“That’s the thing,” Bumpkin said, raising a meaningful finger. “The house goblin is attached to the master and can’t be without him, while the barn hand is attached to the house goblin. That’s why the poor thing is suffering.”
“OK. So how do we find this barn hand?”
“It couldn’t be simpler. Just go straight to the household where the master died recently. You’ll find him there.”
Easier said than done! I Googled the town of Gorokhovets. It only had a population of 13,000 — a trifle by Russian standards. Hm... it might actually work. Somehow I didn’t think people were dropping like flies there.
I searched for their registry offices. The town only had one, how awesome was that? I just needed to come up with a believable story. No big deal. I could think it over on the way.
While I was at it, I researched glass cutting services. Damn. According to the map, they were nearly halfway across town.
I put on my freshly washed Player clothes and headed outside. How would I have time to do all the things I had to do?
By the entrance I predictably ran into our inebriated literati under the Professor’s enlightened leadership.
“Greetings to you, my dear young man.”
Mr. Petrov was at the apex of intoxication. No wonder: it was already past midday. All self-respecting gentlemen of his ilk had already had their share of booze.
“Hi, Mr. Petrov. Do you happen to know of a glazier nearby?”
“I do,” the Professor’s playfulness immediately fizzled out. He grew serious, climbed to his feet, and walked over to me. “Cross the avenue and go another block, until you hit Gorky Street. Then turn left and it’s the second building. The entrance is from the courtyard.”
A ten-minute walk, in other words. I hurried out to the street in the direction indicated.
Uncle Zaur was standing by the entrance to the café at the intersection. With a helpless wave of my hands, I raced past him. It wasn’t my fault I now had a master chef in my own home. I wouldn’t be surprised if I put on a few pounds in the foreseeable future.
The glass-cutting shop was exactly where the Professor had said it would be, even though it hadn’t shown up on Google Maps. So much for modern technologies. They were no match for native knowledge.
In all fairness, maybe the reason it wasn’t listed was because no one would even think there’d be a workshop here. I found it in a house basement, long and drab; the shop must have been set up there at least thirty or even forty years ago. Dusty panes of glass, wide tables; a few mirrors displayed by the wall. No living soul in sight. What a nuisance.
I wasn’t about to leave, though. I kept walking. Finally, farther on, I found a gray-haired grandpa with a sparse beard sitting on a rickety stool. The old boy was holding a glasscutter, about to set to work on a mirror lying in front of him.
???
Skilled Craftsman
???
???
“Hi,” I said. “Are you the owner?”
The old man lifted his head, peered at me, and nodded.
“I need some glass.”
“What sort of glass?”
“Er, like this...” I attempted to pantomime with my hands.
“Don’t you have the dimensions?”
I cursed myself silently but just shook my head.
“I got it anyway,” the old boy said. “You need 22 by 45. That one over there is 24. You can take that. Cut it at home. That’ll be $6.”
“Can’t someone come install it?”
The old man scrutinized me again. “They might. My slackers will be back soon. But they’ll overcharge you. I know them. How far is it?”
“It’s only a ten-minute walk,” I said, giving him my address.
“It might cost you another $9,” the craftsman said confidently.
“Excellent. How about I pay now?”
“All right.”
The old man stood up, went over to one of the small tables
and pulled out a stack of receipts. He ripped off a sheet, picked up a pen, and started to fill it out.
“You can settle up with them directly for the work,” he said, holding out the slip of paper. “Hold on, take down the foreman’s number. His name is Mark. Here you go,” he marked down my name and address, went over to the glass, and taped the slip of paper on its edge.