Alexa Drey- the Veils of Lamerell

by Ember Lane

  Star got up and sat on the edge of my bed. “The cobbler can mend his roof, he just won’t do as good a job as a carpenter.”

  “So what do I need to know?”

  She shrugged then, as if the conversation now bored her. “Ask the wizards. If you want to be one, ask them, but remember, if you follow their advice, like as not you’ll only be as good as them. Each true talent needs flair and luck.”

  I tried to see Star’s stats, but my perception was only level three. She laughed at my feeble attempt.

  “Remember, I’m a spy. My concealment level is high, as is stealth, scouting, blades and other such useful skills. I pile my attribute points into charisma, vitality and agility—I must live to keep playing, and I add a pinch of luck every now and then. In that I am fairly unique.”

  “So,” I said. “I need to find out what attributes power magic and then add a little bit of something special.”

  Star reached out and took my hand. “That’s about the sum of it. But don’t forget the boons. Rings of power, armbands, earrings, necklaces—they can all be imbued with bonuses. Wear them wisely.”

  It struck me that it was the first time that anyone had taken the time to actually explain the whole thing in simple terms, and suddenly I hankered for more from Star. I wanted a true companion, and the minute I felt that, guilt swallowed me up. Petroo had been like a brother to me, Greman, like a grandfather. Cronis was undoubtedly a mad uncle, and Shylan and Marista almost acted like parents—though slightly odd ones. Could Star actually be a friend? And then I realized that I hadn’t even thought of Flip—the way you might disregard a favored cousin. Maybe that was his role. Zybandian—quite clearly an older crush, what with his broad shoulders and regal air, his cheeky smile and powerful presence—yes, he was the crush, but could Star be the friend?

  “I feel a lot better,” I announced. “Shall we go to the inn?” I jumped up and dressed in my mauve tunic, pants, and pulled my bonus boots on, as I now called them.

  Star lent me a wicked grin, and brought out a bottle of something. “It’s no Thameerian wine, but it isn’t bad.” She reached in her sack and pulled out two mugs, pouring a full one and giving it to me. “Now,” she said, and she reached into her pants pocket. “By way of apology for what happened in the bowels of the castle, Lord Zybandian asked me to give you these.” She pulled out her hand and opened her palm. Five orange-red gemstones mounted on silver studs rolled around.

  “They’re beautiful,” I gasped.

  “Fire opals, each embedded with Earthpower, each gives you an attribute bonus.”

  “Like the scabbard?”

  “Yep,” she said, and smiled a radiant smile. “Trinkets are very important in this land.” She held up her hands, and I saw that each had a ring on it. “Bonuses, they truly can change your fortune.”

  I looked down at the bed. Somehow, all these gifts I was getting were just too much. How lucky was I? How lucky was I to have fallen in with this crowd? I had the clothes gifted by the trees, the dwarven staff, Sakina’s sword. I wondered what Pog had, Lincoln, the girl, even Brandon. I wondered who was helping them. Especially Pog, he was always in the back of my mind.

  “It’s too much,” I told her, and then told her of my brief traveling companions.

  Star reached out and touched my knee. “Hey, sometimes fortune is on your side. Take Shylan, for instance, was he not taught magic by a god? But, he didn’t use it to rule the world—he uses it to help people.”

  I nodded, but said nothing, tears filling my eyes.

  “Now, these gifts from Zybandian are freely given, he wants you to have them but felt awkward about gifting them himself. They will make you more powerful. Then, maybe one day, you can go find Pog.”

  “I’d like that.” I put my hand over hers. “Tell me about them.”

  “Just remember, there is usually a price with every gift—it just evens things out. These...” And she held them out in her free hand. “These are born of this place. The chasms under Zybond are troves for magical boons. Some say that this place was the old capital city of Barakdor, and the ancients kept five dragons, one chained to each of its five keeps. But I don’t know, all I know is that each of these studs has a name trapped in the stone.”

  “What names?”

  “Balazar, Quazede, Novorum, Alastor and Orobus.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “As far as I know, and I am at the edge of my lore, they are demons that live far below the realm of the dwarf and paladin—farther even than goblin.”

  “Demons?”

  Star pursed her lips. “Mumbo jumbo, no doubt. But even if it has a grain of truth, it is better to be on the side of the demon than in a dire fight against it.”

  I wasn’t so sure of that. Star took out a pin, a cork and some salve. I wasn’t so sure of that either. I took a large gulp of wine. She sidled up to the bed.

  As she pressed home each of the studs, I got a distinct feeling that something clicked into place. Quazede gave me five points to Strength; Balazar enhanced my Wisdom by eight. When each stud was pressed home, I felt strange. I doubt I can describe the sensation accurately. It was as though I was coming home and with each piercing, I’d cross my home’s threshold and shut the front door behind me. Does that make any sense? It was like a piece of a puzzle finding its place, though as yet the puzzle’s picture was still a mystery.

  I drank a full mug of wine as Novorum joined Quazede and Balazar, and my Charisma was boosted by six points. And then I settled back as Star held up Alastor, and I smiled and waited for his gift—five points for Stamina. With four home, I hankered for Orobus—that errant one—the son under the volcano, but felt no stat increase from him. I drank some more wine, and sprang out of bed feeling ever more powerful, and taking up my sword and holding it high. “To Barakdor!” I cried, and Star laughed, and I laughed too.

  But I knew something had changed within me. Maybe it was Star’s explanation; maybe I could now see a way. Or was it that the demons now had a place to live? I doubted that, but wanted to believe it.

  Suddenly I had my confidence back. I’d looked into ShadowDancer’s mind, and though he’d bested me, I’d lived to fight another day. The priests of the Combinium had tried to kill me and failed. A Katrox had sprung on me and fled with its ghostly tail between its legs.

  “I’m Alexa Drey,” I said. “I fight for Barakdor!” We both laughed, and the Earth trembled, and the tower shook, and we both paled.

  “Did you feel that?” Star asked me.

  “Could have just been the wine.”

  “True,” she replied.

  “Shall we go and find the others?”

  “No, let’s have some fun,” Star said, a devious smile gracing her lush lips.

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

  Age: 24. Alignment: None. XP: 9500. Level: 6.

  Profession: None. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Known.

  Health Points: 500/500 Energy: 170/170 Mana: 180/180 Shadow Mana: 0/180

  HP Regen: 50/Min EN Regen: 17/Min MA Regen: 13/Min SMA Regen: NA

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (12, 38), Stamina: (12, 5), Intelligence: (18, 0),

  Charisma: (6, 6), Wisdom: (5, 8), Luck: (7, 5),

  Humility: (2, 0), Compassion: (3, 0), Strength: (3, 5)

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

  Running: (5, 16, 25, 12), Perception: (3, 78, 0, 15), Commerce (1, 0, 0, 6), Magic: (5, 1, 0, ∞), Concealment: (5, 40, 0, 15), Night-vision: (4, 6, 0, 10), Blades: (4, 10, 0, 25), Spell Casting: (2, 5, 0, ∞), Close-Q-fighting: (3, 17, 0, 25), Archery: (4, 56, 0, 28), Swordsmanship: (4, 22, 0, 20), Staff-fighting: (5, 56, 0, 60) Horseriding: (3, 23, 0, 8)

  Talents:

  Tongues of Time. The Veils of Lamerell.

  Quests:

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

  The Veils of Lamerell. Status: Incomplete. Reward: Death.

  21


  Questball

  We grabbed a ride to the third keep and went in search of the frog. Grog was more than a little surprised to see me again. He thought I’d be out for the count. Star poured him a mug of wine, and he leaned in, now a coconspirator.

  “Training dungeon?” he hissed.

  “Sure,” said Star. “Every castle’s got training dungeons.”

  A look of bemusement passed over his frogface. “Well yes, but for her? Didn’t she just fry a flock of priests and kill a king?” He scratched his head. “Is it a flock of priests?”

  “A murder, I think,” Star said, nodding. “Like crows.”

  “Oh, didn’t she just fry a murder of priests—what would she want with a training dungeon?”

  “She’s never done a dungeon run.”

  “Ha!” A voice boomed from behind us. “The Known One one has never fought in a dungeon. Well, can’t say I’m surprised. It’s probably been an age since Shylan’s ventured in one. A millennia since Cronis has dipped his scabby toes on a dungeon’s flags, and to be honest, I imagine Marista paid mercenaries to break hers. Grog, take us down.”

  Zybandian had joined us.

  Grog looked up, disappointment etched on his rubbery lips. “My lord, I think you misunderstood. They invited me.”

  “And who is the lord of the castle? Consider yourself uninvited.”

  “Nope,” I said. “He’s coming.”

  “But who’s going to operate the platform, wiggle the levers, and wind the winches?”

  Silence followed, before Grog began to squirm a little, clearly torn by something.

  Grog got up. “I’ll… I’ll…just use a little spell?” he muttered, and squeezed his eyes shut as if he expected a slap.

  “A bit like auto?” I questioned, but they all looked at me strangely, and Star just poured me the rest of the wine. I drank it down and said: “Auto it is.”

  Zybandian was staring at the frog.

  Grog fiddled with the levers, then we all lined up next to the platform, and jumped on. The platform plunged, and this time, carried on plunging. The gray stone of the shaft flew by in a blur. I thought about screaming, but didn’t actually get the time. We dropped and dropped and then slowed, as if the platform had encountered a bowl of thick, pea soup, and we drew to a graceful halt.

  “So can anyone just use this spell?” questioned Zybandian, his mouth set in a grim line.

  “Mmmm…possibly,” affirmed Grog.

  “Then, just what do I pay you for?”

  Grog looked sheepish, which was quite the feat for an overgrown frog. “My charisma?” he beamed.

  Zybandian’s gaze lingered on him. “We’ll discuss this later.”

  My own gaze was drawn back to the alley where the guard had been incinerated. A small patch of black was all that was left of him.

  “I, err,” Zybandian made to say. “I, err, had him swept up.” He walked around the platform and away from that dread place.

  Star smiled sweetly at me. “Shall we?” she asked, and she near skipped after Zybandian, soon drawing abreast of him. “What do your friends call you?” I heard her ask.

  I envied her, and the confidence she held.

  “What do you know about dungeons?” Grog asked me.

  “Aren’t they where folk are locked up?” I replied.

  “Blah!” he belched, and his tongue shot out. “Why on earth would you lock people up with all your loot?”

  “Eh?” I said, scratching my head, but decided to just go with the flow. “So…”

  “Dungeons,” Grog said, pointing one of his webbed fingers in the air, “live.”

  Of all the ways to complete the word "dungeons" and pop it into a sentence, "live" was not the word I expected. “What do you mean?”

  He tilted his head around, his bulbous eyes studying me. “What don’t you understand? Each dungeon is a living being. Don’t get me wrong, they don’t get up and walk around like…” He itched his head. “Often—they don’t move very often.”

  “But they live?”

  “In a sense. Have you ever heard of a shaman?”

  “Yes, ermmm, Flip mentioned them.”

  “Did he mention that the shaman were the dungeon masters of old?”

  “No, he said that they’d turned themselves to stone.”

  “Yes,” Grog said. “They did do that.”

  We were walking down a large corridor, slabs of gray-black stone for a ceiling, large flags on the floor, and hessian-waxed torches lighting the way. It was leading us into the heart of the mountain. Ahead, I could just hear a din, like the sound of a distant tavern and saw Zybandian and Star walking arm in arm.

  “So,” I ventured, “the shaman looked after the dungeons?”

  “They certainly created them. What you have in this world is a need to hide your valuables. Say that pretty sword of yours, if you needed to leave it somewhere, well, where would you put it? And don’t say your sack—they can only hold so much.”

  The question was clearly rhetorical, and so I let Grog warble on.

  “So, you’ve just sacked a village, and you’ve got a load of loot. Luckily for you, a shaman is trailing your army. Rather than lug it around and into the next battle, or trust to your greedy underlings, for a reasonable percentage, the shaman can bring a dungeon into being, bind the soul of a local demon to it, and give you—and you alone—the words or route that will open it.”

  “A bit like a safe?” I asked.

  “Safe?” Grog took a step back and gasped. “I tell you, Alexa, they’re not safe at all. Smaller ones? The ones with less loot, they normally have the weakest demons, and even they aren’t particularly safe.”

  “So,” I said, kinda getting it. “The shaman forms the dungeon, the demon makes it live. The dungeon owner hides his loot and marches on.”

  “Almost,” said Grog, and he scuttled off after Zybandian and Star.

  The faraway buzz was getting closer, and I saw them turn off the passageway and vanish around its corner. Suddenly the alley’s shadows closed in on me, and I hurried along. Turning the corner as well, I saw the source of the noise. I now stood at the edge of a chamber, not carved from the mountain’s stone but bricked, with archways leading off. It looked a little like a crypt, except it had a counter to one side, several trestle tables in lines, and a few weary soldiers leaning over their ales. A sign above the counter read The Dungeon Inn, and I took that to mean we had arrived at the local tavern.

  Zybandian’s mere presence seemed to be a cause for concern, with a few of the soldiers pulling their sacks closer.

  “No taxes, no taxes, and I doubt you have found much worth stealing.” He turned to me. “I am afraid, Alexa, that there are few decent pickings left down here that are worth the price. Has Grog explained the nature of the dungeons?” Not waiting for my answer, Zybandian turned and ordered us all ales. “Sit, sit, we drink a few for courage and luck.”

  “For courage and luck.” The other soldiers toasted, and Zybandian sighed, and ordered a round of drinks for them all. We were soon hunched over one of the tables. “It is said,” whispered Zybandian. “That Zybond is one of the ancient cities of Old Barakdor, the three in these parts being Starellion, Estorelll and this one. The loot in these dungeons is from those times; the demons are just as ancient, and as such, old and spiteful.”

  “But they’re training dungeons, right?” I asked, taking a sip of ale and becoming quite nervous.

  Zybandian smacked the table. “Not wanting to get into too much more mischief?” he roared. “Don’t blame you, Marista has quite the temper. The first few dozen are just that. Their treasure having been looted long ago, but the demon still enjoys persecuting those who venture in.”

  “Persecuting?”

  “Conjuring spiders that shoot poison, thick webs like acid, making rocks move and chasms appear, only for them to fill with sucking water. I’m fairly certain they while away the centuries just thinking of ways to kill us.”

  I shive
red. “So if they’re empty, why bother?” I asked.

  Zybandian reached into his pocket and brought out a ball. It looked much like a baseball, except it was clearly made of rock. “We call it Questball.”

  He went on to explain the concept. Each practice dungeon had a stone hand outside. If the hand had a ball in its palm, the object was to place it back in a certain part of the dungeon. A plaque above the hand explained where. If it wasn’t, then the object was to retrieve the ball itself and place it on the palm. If you discounted demons and the associated evil trails they would conjure, it sounded quite fun.

  Just as I was draining my ale, there was a clattering from one of the crypt-like entrances, and who else but a rather battered Flip emerged.

  Zybandian’s laugh rang around. “Have you still not conquered it, thief?” he called.

  Flip looked in pieces, his clothes were torn, and bloody lesions crisscrossed his bare skin. His hair was soaked with sweat, and he was looking decidedly forlorn.

  “Not yet, but I got damn close this time.” He staggered toward us. “More drinks?” Everyone nodded, and he called them over. He sunk onto the bench next to me. “The trouble, Alexa, with this particular dungeon, is that it’s so deep underground, it is hotter than a Cendrullian maid at high summer. By the time you’ve gotten there, you’re thirsty, tired, and just want to go back.”

  “Then what?”

  He took his ale from the server and gulped a large draught. “Then you have to fight the demon of all demons, and to be honest, you can’t remember why.”

  By now, Zybandian was laughing heartily. “I’ve told you before, Pirate Prince, that the likelihood is that that dungeon begins way before you think it does. It probably starts eating your will before you're even a few hundred yards in.”

  Flip looked straight at him. “I know that, Zyb, tell me another way to get there and I’ll go that way. But at the moment, it is what it is, running the gauntlet of death, just to get there and think, ‘I want to go home.’”