Alexa Drey- the Veils of Lamerell

by Ember Lane

  “Ruse?” he questioned. “In terms of the world of Barakdor, not that long—a few hundred years.”

  “What do you know of Ruse?” barked Ishitar.

  I let my finger trail on the glowsphere, felt its energy flow up my arms. “Only that it is built on lies,” I muttered, not quite knowing how I knew.

  “Built on lies,” Ishitar repeated, and stroked his long, gray beard. “So she knows of places she’s never been to, she touches glowspheres as if they hold no energy, and laughs at kings. What have your brought before me, Greman Ramjook?”

  Greman shuffled on his feet. “She bears the mark of the land, but is new to it.”

  “That I can see. So tell me, what games does Lamerell play? Why choose such a weakling? Does she want us to fashion a hero from a clean slate?” He walked straight up to me. “I fancy she does.” He looked me up and down—mostly up. “Keep your laughter close to your heart, Alexa Drey. I will grant you an audience with the dwarven king.”

  “Eh?” said both Petroo and Greman.

  “And now you know why the others couldn’t come.” He looked up at Petroo. “Though oft times relations between dwarf and apachalant are strained, we trust your thrift with secrets.” He sidled up to Greman. “The beggle and dwarf are like a brother to a sister, you are our surface brethren, yet we do not share everything with you. My father yet lives, a secret that cannot spill to the wittering wizards, and a secret we would rather keep from the wanderer.”

  “Aragnoor is alive?” Greman said, his words almost reverent.

  “He is, though something about him tells me he hangs on just for this meet,” said Ishitar, and the next set of doors swept open. “But alive he is and waiting in his court.”

  We walked toward the open door like some odd group of heroes facing down an evil foe. My laughter nearly surfaced again.

  “What are all the racks for?” I asked Ishitar.

  “Weapons. When we have a banquet, all have to leave their weapons in the hall—axes, hammers, whackersplats…everything.”

  I was tempted to ask what a whackersplat was, but thought the clue was in the name. As we approached the doors, the purple of the glowsphere faded, and a more subtle light emanated. When I passed through the doorway, I stopped dead in my tracks.

  The court of King Aragnoor was a lot larger than the hallway—a lot. It could have easily been a cavern by itself, except one with smooth-fashioned walls that grew from the flags underfoot straight up to a domed, soot-stained ceiling that arched to a blackened hole. A central, raised fire pit was hemmed in by blocks of gray stone, an orange blanket of embers peered above it, spreading a warm glow. All around, torches hung on the walls, spilling bowls of yellow light. Radiating from the fire, curved tables took up three quarters of the circular chamber, the last quarter being occupied by a raised dais upon which a large, central throne sat. It was a grand, feasting room where all eyes would be focused on the king.

  I guessed it was Aragnoor Grouchmorg that was slumped within the throne, and slumped was the correct description. He wore no crown, just a mere band of black that trapped his white hair in place. As we walked toward him, down a central isle that divided the tables in two, the king started nodding his head. A glint of light flickered around, and I saw it emanated from a jewel mounted on the headband. Aragnoor wore a heavy, gray coat, though it was warm in the hall, and he held a silver goblet loosely in one hand. I got the distinct impression that he was, or just had been, asleep. Then his voice rang out.

  “Just the girl,” he boomed, and we all hesitated.

  I looked at Petroo; he bid me forward with a nod, a glance at Greman—the same. All of a sudden, I felt my knees weaken and nerves ran rife through my body. One step at a time, I inched toward Aragnoor.

  The closer I got to the fire pit, the hotter the hall became. I felt sweat beads bloom on my forehead. My vision polarized on its bright, orange glow, until I walked around it, then I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the dwarven king.

  His skin was nearly as pale as his hair—wrinkled, ghostly white, like someone who was close to death. Even his deep-set eyes looked like they were drooping. Everything about him looked tired, exhausted.

  The last yards were the hardest, and I hesitated at the steps leading up to him, but a slight twitching of his fingers bid me up.

  “What took you so long, Alexa Drey?” he rasped. “Show me the sign of the veils.”

  I took my glove off and held my palm up, I noticed a flicker of light in his eyes, and instantly realized it was a reflection of one of the torches. His eyes were dark, deep—endless black.

  “I’ve been waiting a long while to meet you.” He wheezed and coughed a long, dry cough. “The cold invades my bones.”

  He took a drink from the silver goblet and threw it away, and then he shot up, and I saw the glint of a blade in his hand. Before I knew it, his other hand had grabbed my throat, choking me, forcing me down onto the stone floor of the dais. His knee plunged into my stomach crushing the air from my lungs. His other arm drew back, the knife arcing up, ready to sweep down. A grumble, like a demon growling, escaped from his lips, and breath so fetid it could only be spawned from evil enveloped me, and I almost retched, but my shock prevented me.

  Damage: You have received 6 damage points. Health remaining 114/220.

  I struggled, but the king had me pinned. With his knife held high, he growled: “And tell her, everyone she chooses will have the same fate. Tell her that I planned this assassination before she had even chosen you. Tell her, the time of men and magic is over.” The knife swept down, then a bloodcurdling scream emanating from the king of the dwarves.

  A dull thud stopped him in mid plunge, and an arrow protruded from his neck. Blood pumped, spewing all over me, and I heard his knife clatter to the ground.

  Damage: Aragnoor has received 153 damage. Health remaining 449/602.

  Aragnoor fell back a little, releasing his grip on me, but seemed to steady his wobble instantly and somehow grew in stature. His mouth curled into a twisted grin.

  “You cannot kill me with your feeble arrows, apachalant,” he growled, his voice like thunder, and looked down at me, his eyes afire with rage.

  I heard a shill cry, and suddenly Greman was on the dais. He barged into Aragnoor, shoving him away from me, but Aragnoor jinked and grabbed him, throwing the beggle on the floor. Greman grabbed hold of Aragnoor, pulling him over. Aragnoor fell on top of Greman, his fist raining down blows, his frailty gone.

  Damage: Greman Ranjook has received 46 damage. Health remaining 966/1058.

  Damage: Greman Ranjook has received 46 damage. Health remaining 920/1058.

  Damage: Greman Ranjook has received 46 damage. Health remaining 874/1058.

  The updates kept flashing up, but Greman was calling Aragnoor on. Without thinking, I scrambled for the knife. Another arrow zipped past my ear and sank into Aragnoor’s chest.

  Damage: Aragnoor has received 122 damage. Health remaining 327/602.

  He got to his feet, kicking Greman hard, then spun around, Petroo’s arrows still protruding from him. “You cannot kill me, apachalant,” the demon in him spat again. Greman rolled on the ground, reaching out for the mad king, but the brave beggle looked stunned.

  Another arrow flew past me, but this one sailed over the mad king. Glancing behind me, I saw that Ishitar had pounced on Petroo.

  “Don’t kill him, apachalant!” Ishitar growled.

  “That’s not your father,” I heard Petroo bark.

  I jumped up, Aragnoor’s knife in my hand, and saw him circling toward me.

  “You can’t use that blade against me, human. It was forged in Ruse,” he spat, and lunged and swiped at me with his powerful fist, sending me tumbling to the floor.

  Damage: You have received 62 damage points. Health remaining 152/220.

  I saw Greman burst toward Aragnoor, but the mad king dodged with surprising agility and Greman plunged off the dais with a wail.

  Pushing myself up again, I cir
cled the mad dwarf.

  “No, Alexa,” screamed Petroo.

  Darting Petroo a look, my courage began to fade. Both him and Ishitar were now just staring at the dwarven king.

  “He is not my father,” cried Ishitar. “I see it now.

  Aragnoor briefly looked at his son, and then his black eyes fell on me again. “We felled the powerful one, now it’s time to put an end to Lamerell’s line.” Black drool fell from his mouth, and he lunged for me again.

  I felt a strange power coursing through me, pulsing up from the knife. A rage, but a rage so thick with anger it was as dark as Aragnoor’s blade. A rage that was made from years of pent-up frustration. I screamed, “Ga farag a’tweeth!” I plunged the knife into Aragnoor’s neck.

  Aragnoor stiffened, his body trying to resist the knife’s strike, but his blood, black blood, was spewing out, and then his body sagged. His hands darted up, clamping around my throat as he tried to choke me with his final act.

  Critical: Aragnoor has received 345 damage. Health 0/602 remaining. Aragnoor’s body is no longer a viable host for the Katrox.

  “At last an opponent I will enjoy slaying,” the thing hissed, and then the black fell from his eyes and the old king fell to the ground, dead.

  I stood there, horrified, hardly believing what had just happened.

  Caution; you have received 24 damage points, your Health is 118/220.

  Congratulations! You vanquished a Level 12 Katrox. A Katrox preys on the ancient, stealing their minds whatever their level, when they least expect it. It drains their levels, apps their vitality. The healthier the host, the longer the Katrox can feed off the attributes. It has fled back to Ruse! Hurrah! You have been awarded 1500 XP. Your reputation has grown from Nobody to Somebody.

  Congratulations! You freed Aragnoor Grouchmorg’s soul from damnation; the dwarves will hold your name close to their hearts. You have been awarded 3000 XP. Your reputation has grown from Somebody to Named.

  Congratulations! You used a short-bladed weapon. You have opened the skill, Blades and been allocated level 3 mastery because of your swift strike.

  Congratulations! You have opened the skill, Spell Casting. You enhanced your strike by casting an ancient spell. You have been awarded level 2 spell casting.

  Congratulations! You used Destructive Magic. You have been awarded magic level 5. Hail dark wizard!

  I staggered backwards as one notification after the other came, and then I felt that strange glow in my stomach, and my belly felt like it was truly on fire. It traveled from my stomach to my toes, to my fingertips, and to my head. A beam of light sprang from my midriff, spreading around me in the familiar disc, then up and down to form a ball of brilliance. I held my arms aloft and felt myself levitating, the feeling so much more intense than either previous occasion.

  Congratulations! You have reached 2500 XP, you are now Level 4.

  Congratulations! You have reached 5000 XP, you are now Level 5.

  Congratulations! You have gained a sacred item.

  By conquering the Katrox you have acquired its knife.

  The Black Knight’s dagger—forged in Ruse, Damage + 10 points, Item = Nefarious.

  Congratulations! You have Shadow-Mana. Shadow-mana powers dark magic and leaches from your vengeance and anger. Nurture them and grow. Hate is the key.

  I settled back on the stone dais, and looked around at Petroo, at Greman—my mouth gaping open. For some reason I held the dagger behind my back, dropping it into my sac. I ran my blood-soaked fingers through my hair. A strange power settled within me, almost pushing my mana to one side.

  Name: Alexa Drey. Race: Human. Type: Chancer.

  Age: 24. Alignment: None. XP: 5000. Level: 5.

  Profession: None. Un/Al pts: 12. Reputation: Named.

  Health Points: 220/220 Energy: 80/80 Mana: 0/60 Shadow Mana: 0/60

  HP Regen: 22/Min EN Regen: 8/Min MA Regen: 5/Min SMA Regen: NA

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (9, 13), Stamina: (8, 0), Intelligence: (6, 0)

  Charisma (3, 0), Wisdom (5, 0), Luck (1, 5)

  Humility (1, 0)

  Skills: (Level, % to next level, Boosts %, Level Cap)

  Running: (4, 33, 25, 12), Perception: (3, 32, 0, 15), Commerce (1, 0, 0, 6), Magic: (5, 0, 0, ∞), Concealment: (2, 22, 0, 15), Night-vision: (3, 11, 0, 10), Blades: (3, 0, 0, 25), Spell Casting: (2, 0, 0, ∞)

  Talents:

  Tongues of Time. The Veils of Lamerell.

  Quests:

  Seek out the Legend of Billy Long Thumb. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Unknown.

  14

  The Dragon And Unicorn

  Greman groaned and rolled over onto his knees. Petroo jumped up onto the dais and pulled his arrows out of Aragnoor’s corpse. He gently closed the dwarf’s empty eyes and crossed Aragnoor’s arms across his chest. He whispered some words I could not hear, and then turned and knelt before me, reaching up and touching my cheek.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, softly.

  “I leveled up twice,” I said, shaking uncontrollably. It felt like my veins were filled with ice. The euphoria of leveling up had vanished, replaced by a deep, deep, mortification that I’d just taken someone else’s life.

  “It would have killed you,” Petroo uttered, and then Greman was by my side, but my gaze had strayed back into the hall.

  I saw Ishitar, his head bent in grief, and broke away from Greman, jumping off the dais and running toward him. I threw myself on the floor before him, grabbing his legs and whimpering. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I killed your father.”

  His bulbous hand caressed my head. “No, it is I who must be sorry. My father tricked Gromolor into fetching you. He told him he had a grand design for you, and in a way his demon did. I knew something was wrong, but did nothing about it. I suspected my father was nothing more than a living corpse.” He fell to his knees, cupping my face with his rough hands. “Please, forgive me the danger I put you in. Please forgive me that I wasn’t brave enough to confront my father. I made sure that Gromolor chose the apachalant and the beggle over the wizard who would have seen straight through the guise.” He looked over at Greman. “Don’t let his outside fool you—tough as old boots, that one,” and then he seemed to well up a bit, and be really uncomfortable with it at the same time. “Will you ever forgive me?”

  “You just saw your father,” I said, “like any child would.” He smiled, and nodded, but said no more.

  I left the court of the dwarf king soon after, and a troop escorted us all the way to a cave overlooking a small village I assumed was Merrivale. Just as I was leaving the dwarf king’s hall, a new attribute had been added to my stat board—Compassion, and for some reason that made me happier than gaining the two levels.

  Both Greman and Petroo had their arms around my shoulders as we stood in the cave’s exit looking down at the homely lanterns flickering in the windows of the dwellings scattered in the village below.

  “I think Alexa should go ahead,” Greman said.

  “Indeed, my beggle friend. We should hang back.”

  “Why?” I asked, but guessed they had their reasons.

  “A pipe, I feel. Do you fancy a pipe, Petroo?”

  “A pipe would be nice.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and walked forward a few steps. “Hang on,” I said, swiveling around. “Are you just scared of Marista?”

  “Petrified,” said Greman.

  “Terrified,” Petroo confirmed.

  “You are…covered in the king’s blood,” Greman pointed out.

  “And your stats cannot lie,” Petroo muttered.

  “You’ll have to face her sometime,” I said, a smile touching the corners of my lips.

  “Not if we move,” Greman stated, emphatically.

  “I’m thinking Horn’s Isle Castle, it’s in need of some repair since the affair with the jester all those years ago,” Petroo added.

  “Isn’t that the southern most tip of Valkyrie?” Greman asked
.

  “Indeed. Is that not far enough for you my beggle friend?”

  “I think it would suffice for a few years.”

  “You're coming with me,” I shouted, and stamped my feet.

  They both started laughing, and set off, and soon I was between them, and we were strolling down a moonlit slope on our way to Merrivale. Closer, I saw the village had a small stockade around it, and we skirted it to the sole entrance gate. A surly guard looked us up and down, but though he’d looked fearsome from far away, close-up he appeared more bored and tired and soon opened the gate once Petroo flipped him a bronze coin.

  My night vision enabled me to see the village quite clearly. I was thankful for that. Though my stats showed my energy was full, for once my limbs told a different story. It had been one long, drawn out day.

  Merrivale stank. Once inside the stockade, the fresh air of the countryside vanished, replaced by the septic stench of backward civilization. We trudged through a narrow mud and stone street, between a press of buildings that were nearly toppling over each other. Though late, the place still had a buzz about it, with folk staggering around, singing bawdy songs and calling up to open windows. It was an odd place, and not the idyllic mountain village I had expected. Greman explained it was a junction of trade routes and a way station, and that was why it was so busy.