Purposefully, he cleared his throat twice. “Alright. Let’s get ready to move out. I hope granting you lot limited freedom during the day wasn’t a mistake.”
Skylar looked away. His red cheek.
Chin lifting proudly, Faenin said, “Your mistrust is unwarranted. I am an Elf of my word as are the others. We are grateful that you, as adventurers, not Demons, rescued us from those savages. Who knows how many sacrifices they had planned. None of us plot against you.”
Those kind of declarations were often chock-full of lies. Rowan put on an impressed face, nodding. “Good. Anything else we should know?”
A few seconds of thinking-time ticked by. “The closest Troll settlement is twenty leagues south-east from here.”
Gabrielle said, “And south-east is which way?” She coughed violently after the last syllable, curled tighter against Rowan’s chest. Her crinkled, messy hair was a lot like freshly dried linen-.
Skylar pointed in the opposite direction to the fjord. “More or less.”
Rowan asked, “Honest opinion, do you think the Trolls know what happened here?”
“I would be surprised if they didn’t. The Demonic magic was intense when the sky was burning! I can kind of feel it coming off your bodies right now. You can’t?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
“That would make sense,” Faenin said, “as you do not have any professions or classes. The bulk of your magic is sealed deep within your spirits. Once you unlock your inner power, you will be many-fold better able to sense the natural currents of ambient mana and that of others. With additional points in your Mysticism stat, your sense improves, and so does your ability to suppress your own magic.”
How overly helpful. Rowan said, “Are you a school teacher or what?”
“Indeed, I once taught a few halls on common monsters and their weaknesses.”
“How old are ya?” Gabrielle asked.
“Merely twenty-three seasons.”
“Merely?” Rowan blurted.
“My family was able to afford some of the finest quality advanced foods.”
Coming to terms with this world’s differences was a difficult adjustment. However, five in-game years—and this was a game not to forget—was a long wait for an NPC to reach maturity. A new record for persona simulation games, in fact.
Faenin said, “I do not expect similar hospitality from you, Lord LeMort.”
“Good. We won’t have advanced anything for a long, long while.” And even now, Rowan wasn’t able to see through Faenin’s polite facade. This was normal for Sun Elves, as reported on the forums. Their culture was one of restraint, but Rowan wasn’t letting his guard down. They were playing the polite and respectful game; good behavior for an early release. It was best to not grow comfortable around them. They couldn’t be trusted.
He flicked Gabrielle a message.
Rowan Black: I don’t think we’ll win their loyalty any time soon.
Her reply was delayed by not too long.
Gabby LeMort: Yup, I know. And Tasha says we were on national television! I missed her messages… hehehe ^_^
Rowan LeMort: What?
Gabby LeMort: The Humans have a magical orb that works just like one. They have adventure drama shows about killing Orcs…
Now that was something else. He had thought this was purely a tripe fantasy world. Perhaps not.
Rowan LeMort: They know about what happened up here?
Gabby LeMort: Yup. They felt the magic.
Rowan LeMort: Then we better hurry up. Anyone planning to raid us?
Gabby LeMort: Dunno. She logged out for a break. Adventurer fatigue, ya know?
Damn. Those home headsets weren’t worth the price.
“Lord LeMort?” Faenin said. “Is everything alright?”
A sudden bone-chilling gust of wind was blowing from the north. Rowan breathed sulfur and char and a third bland scent he did not have a name for. “We must hurry. Our sources say our magic was felt world-wide.”
“World-wide?” Skylar blurted. “Your sources? Are you sure you are not talking out of your behind?” At least he had plenty of guts to spare.
“Hehehe,” Gabrielle snickered. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Rowan shot him a doggish look. “You better hope I was talking crap, because we might get raided soon.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Of course I do. We’re in Trollheim.” Rowan realized the salty kid was purposefully being difficult. “Let’s go.” He gave them a little tug, cutting all chatter.
With quickening strides they were off, Rowan’s burned arms ever protective of Gabrielle. The other Elves were nowhere to be seen. He tensed up, sweeping with his mind. Was this their coup attempt? Likely. Rowan would do it if he were in their rags.
But, low and behold, their threads were leading straight to the lake. No rebellion there. Nothing better than a morning bath in freezing waters. A shiver rattled bones up Rowan’s arms.
19
Rowan’s caravan trekked uphill, steeply.
He watched from the back while Gabrielle napped in his arms as a numbing weight. He didn’t mind, for she had earned a good long rest. This was his fault. This was his responsibility to look out for her hide. He should’ve been quicker, stronger. His second of hesitation had almost cost her life.
The general mood hanging over the group was sour. Evidently, a couple of the Sun Elves still did not wish to be slaves, namely Zaine and Luthias. Their aesthetic faces were on permanent scowling duty, glancing back every fifty yards.
Zaine, who was by far the strongest of the lot at level twenty-four, carried a roped stack of eight crates—heavy, massive crates each filled to the brim: clay shingles, iron scrap, and cut stone blocks salvaged from the town square. The sight was comical in a way, frightening in others. No doubt, he was running an Agility stat build. But no class? Peculiar.
If anything, building a relationship was advantageous. Rowan drifted forward until he was walking next to the crate stack. “Zaine. How did you get to level twenty-four without a class? And at your age. That is most impressive.”
No answer.
Rowan held back a sigh. He couldn’t force an honest conversation through the slave bindings. He tried a different, friendlier approach: “I am a fair ruler, Zaine. You are doing more than everyone else here combined. Is there anything we could do for you?”
Eleven wonky strides up rocky ground passed. Zaine mumbled, “Free me.”
How unexpected. “And where would you go? We’re at North Trollheim. You’d end up as their slave again.”
“I only said free me.” His voice was harsher.
“Ah, I see. And what would you do then?”
“For starters, I would not carry these damned crates for you.”
Muscles tightened around Rowan’s neck. He maintained a conversational tone: “Let’s be reasonable. We need these building materials. Do you want us to freeze in the coming months? I’m only trying to keep everyone alive.”
“I’ll be fine. I am level twenty-four.” His tone was lighter.
“What’s your build?”
“Build?”
A surprise—the AI hadn’t programmed them with gamer lingo. “It’s what we adventurers call how stat points are distributed upon each level-up. My build, for example, is mostly Agility points.”
“Oh. A third Constitution, the rest Agility. It’s a standard build taught in Sun Elf schools.”
“And those Constitution points do help you in cold temperatures. Did you learn that in school?”
“I did. I was a top student in my year.” His tone was now smug, and more importantly, open to suggestion.
This conversation was going somewhere at last. Good. “Can you tell me some crops that would grow well in this climate?”
A shrug threatened to destabilize the crate stack. “Not much, but… beets, turnips, spinach, mana thistle, mustard, kale, I guess. Skylar and Viola could likely tell you more.”
“Yes, they are Farmers. Do you know them well?”
A head shake. “We were taken from different camps. The Trolls brought them in only days before you arrived. They needed the extra farm labor.” This confirmed Luthias hadn’t been lying, and Zaine’s tone was almost masking something.
Intuition signaling, Rowan took a stab at that something: “Do you also have a mate back at home?”
“No.”
“Do you want one?”
Zaine shrugged.
Rowan’s eyebrow wagged. “Do you fancy Viola? Maybe I could assign her to your watch. You two could get to know each other better. That is if you cooperate.”
“Not interested,” he said in a monotone voice.
“Is she not your type? A bit too old for you?
“I just want to be freed,” Zaine mumbled, face blank.
Then what else do teenage boys want? Well, this is going nowhere. Rowan straightened his back. “Perhaps in due time—if you prove yourself trustworthy.”
“Then leave me be while I slowly starve.”
“I’ll remember to make you a nice coffin.” Rowan let his steps fall toward the back of the group, checked Gabrielle’s temperature, which was warm, and mentally peered at each slave thread.
Twenty yards ahead, well within sight, Faenin and Liluth were leading the caravan. No possible escape attempts there.
Skylar was far to the left while Viola swayed to the right, both foraging. Their threads were pushing the hundred yard marks. Their mana bars beneath their party icons were bouncing between zero and fifteen percent. Good work. No rebellion there. They were by far the most cooperative.
As for Luthias… he was having a difficult hike. His stamina bar was almost drained while the other seven were ranging from fifty to a hundred. Rowan slowed his steps and approached, a nicer expression painted onto his face. “Skylar mentioned you have an old wound from dark magic. Is there anything we could—”
“Demon,” Luthias said between strained breaths. He was carrying one crate not bigger than his torso. “Let me be utmost clear. I do not wish to be your slave, or your companion, or your ally, but I am an honorable Sun Elf. I wish to make good on the unwritten contract Faenin agreed on my behalf and no more. I shall hold you to your forked tongue’s word. I shall work for my freedom and no more. Do you understand?”
The politeness from last night was long gone. And forked tongue? Rowan poked his out for a split second—and indeed it was forked like a snake’s. Interesting. Most interesting. He’d somehow missed it on Gabrielle. He was more Demonic in appearance than he had thought.
He chuckled twice, but it came out awkwardly. “You do remember I said we’re adventurers, correct?”
“I have studied your kind. The texts of old do not tell kind tales. To me, they are one and the same, Demons and adventurers.”
Oh, this again. Faenin had mentioned such and such in passing. “That was long ago,” Rowan tried. “Most adventurers are nicer these days. I am a nice Human under this Demon skin, if I may say so.”
“I watched you slaughter a village of Trolls.”
“They were far from innocent.”
“You slaughtered them.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“There is a monster within you, Lord LeMort.”
“Would a monster be looking for a cure for your old wound? Hmm? I help those who help me.”
Luthias’ harsh demeanor cracked, but only for passing moment. His nose wrinkled in a piggish way. “We shall see what you truly are,” he said with little care. “For now, leave me be.” He walked on ahead.
Well, at least some progress was made. Baby steps. Rowan was a patient man. The only other slave still refusing to thaw to him warmth was Liluth, the most reserved out of everyone. A kind of regal air followed her, yet she was humble and kind—like a grandmother who hadn’t aged a day after twenty. Faenin was right to be protective; she was like Gabrielle in some ways.
But Rowan would never grow attached to a lifeless AI. Though, he granted, they were impressively realistic. They were Human-like down to their subtle mannerisms and facial expressions. Their personality simulations were extraordinarily well done, better than he had ever seen.
The ground soon leveled out to an easier incline. The smell of pine returned. Underbrush was far denser, Faenin clearing a path with Forester skills. He held both palms outstretched, intoning a word in the mystic language. Orbs of blueish-green mana shot out from his palms and surrounded a trunk. The mana swirled for ten seconds. The pine fell over with a perfect slanted cut at its base. Skylar stepped over the stump with extra care, Liluth and Faenin offering hands to steady the stack.
Good teamwork, Rowan thought.
Eventually, Gabrielle woke with an incoherent mumble when a familiar frothy mountainside waterfall and stream slid into view behind a small meadow of yellow flowers. Rowan whistled with his fingers, tasted salt and earth. He spat on the ground and tugged every slave thread. “Let’s take a rest! Drink up!”
Luthias offered a curt not. “My appreciation.” He took leave further down the stream behind cover of an oak.
“I wanna drink.” Gabrielle poked his chest. “Put me down by there.”
“Then down you go.”
“Closer.”
“Here?”
“A bit closer.” She giggled. “Perfect.”
He placed her by pebbles close enough to the shallow water. Blood instantly returned to his arms, and he was trying to not worry about an ever present disease risk. A small risk, however. This water was spring quality, and they were not going to waste precious moments to boil a pot. Why couldn’t one of those six be a Cook? Damn frustrating.
“I’m not thirsty,” Faenin called from atop an eroded boulder. “Liluth and I will keep clearing a path.”
“You do that.”
As Rowan knelt for a Drink, he asked himself whether cutting out a path was wise—and decided it was indeed. They’d have to make one eventually to mine the gold by the spiders, so why not cut one out beforehand? It was arguably a time-saver with little risk. He nodded to himself and sipped freezing water. It had a hint of minty pine and earthiness. Refreshing.
Viola came marching out of the forest with a basket that wasn’t filled even halfway and a crate perched on her opposite shoulder. Slight boredom weighed down her pretty features, and she tossed a hidden smile to Rowan before putting down her crate by the other nine, bending over. Her loose rag for clothing rode up in the action, and Rowan caught peek of the valley between her thighs. His body fired up with desire.
“Row,” Gabrielle said in an exaggerated, sweet voice. “Watcha lookin’ at?”
A cough smoked up his throat. His gaze hitched onto her with a strong heave from his brain. “Just making sure they don’t steal anything.”
Of course, she wasn’t buying that: “Don’t forget, I’m much more real than that digital hussy. I’m just a bit mangled up cus my master didn’t take care of me properly.”
“You’re mangled because you ate mushrooms that your master forbid.”
“Hmph. Not my fault when my master wasn’t feeding me enough.”
He gave her a long look. “You wanted to be the cook. Why didn’t you stop to wash and cook them? You had all day.”
Her tongued poked—her forked tongue poked for a fraction of a second. It was longer and uncannily reptile-like.
“Look at your tongue. It’s forked.”
Her tongue slid back out. Her eyes dropped, then widened. “Whoah, I’m like a snake!”
“And so am I.” His tongue flapped about in front of his nose.
“Hehehe.”
They shared genuine laughter. Their crimson slit eyes met with genuine affection.
But their moment was cut short by Skylar staring from afar. Jealous envy gleamed in his eyes. His lips were pinched in such a glum way.
Now that was someone ripe for manipulation; however, there was one little problem. This group lacked any single
girls whom could be dangled on a stick. Unless he was into his own cousin…
Rowan mentally slapped himself for that disgusting thought. He cleared his throat, jerking his chin at Skylar. “Hey, stop staring. Get your own mate, buddy.”
His eyes dropped. “Pssshhffft.”
Gabrielle, naturally, caught on with ease. “Awwwww… I’m sure there’s a beautiful slave waiting for ya to rescue her. Be a good boy and we might go on some rescue missions.”
“How about it?” Rowan asked. “Swear loyalty to us, and we’ll find you a mate.”
“How about you piss off,” he grumbled, stomping away for a drink by the waterfall. He grabbed a basket and stole a blackish-red berry from a bunch.
Viola said, “He’ll have to gain some levels before he can enslave anyone.” She looked at Rowan with a coy expression. “By the way, are you really only level ten or is that some kind of illusion?”
Gabrielle answered in an acidic voice, “If ya didn’t get the memo, all adventurers start at level one. I am indeed level eight, and my husband is indeed level eleven.”
“Ooooh,” Viola drawled, mimicking the tone, “thank you for clearing that up, but I read somewhere that some adventurers start with levels.”
“And where did you read that? In school?”
“How did you guess?”
While they wasted time bickering like feisty schoolgirls, Rowan was busy checking his character stats. A level-up notification during the slaughter had escaped him, and now three points had waited all night and morning—a possibly fatal mistake. Small, but nevertheless fatal. Chagrin grilled his burns. Echoes of pain lapped at his nerves as he dumped the points into Constitution. Zaine’s build would have to do. If it was taught in their schools… then it couldn’t be horrible.
Debuffs
Heavy Burns: 20% reduced maximum stat points
- - - - -
Rowan LeMort
Race: Demon
Demonborn's Fjord Page 15