Dagger of Doom: A LitRPG Adventure (Beta Tester Book 5)

by Rachel Ford

  So he gritted his teeth until the urge died away. Then, he said, “We should probably set up camp soon. I don’t want to sleep too close to the mountains.”

  “Aye. As I say, there’s evil things up there. Eviler than dwarves, and that’s a fact.”

  Jack thought about Migli, whose sins amounted to no more than bumming free drinks off his friends, composing bad poetry, and falling in love with every woman he met. And cowardice. Still, as evil went, that was pretty benign. “That doesn’t take much, I would guess.”

  Arath snorted. “You’re thinking of Migli, I shouldn’t wonder: frozen in stone, the silly old bugger. But you’d be a fool to think he’s the worst of them, or the best. Dwarves – they can be as greedy as dragons, as treacherous as men, and as savage as giants.”

  Jack and Karag objected in near unison to the characterization, but Arath paid them no mind. “Don’t forget that once, they enslaved the raptors. They pillaged every mine, plundered every gold vein known to any of the sentient races. They’ve been fierce warriors and terrible victors, cruel opponents and wicked losers in turn. Mountain trolls tremble at their approach, and goblins cower in the shadows of the great hills.”

  “I suppose there must be a reason Iaxiabor is sending his forces to deal first with the dwarves,” Karag conceded.

  “Still, whatever dwarves did to raptors or whatever, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  Karag glanced pityingly at Jack. “A proverb by which many brave men have died untimely deaths. You share nothing at all with a man with whom you share only hate, for the capacity to hate is endless. It means nothing and is worth nothing.”

  Jack scratched his head. For some reason, William Xi popped into mind – the man who had saved him from certain death. A man about whom he knew almost nothing, except that he too hated Avery Callaghan. A man who held power of life and death over him. “I sure as heck hope you’re wrong.”

  “So did plenty of men whose throats I cut.”

  Jack blinked, and then gulped. “Uh…how many throats exactly are we talking about here?”

  Karag smiled. “I joke, of course. A humble wine merchant like myself has no cause to cut throats. But, had I been in the throat cutting business, well, I should certainly have used my prey’s hatred against them. I would have ingratiated myself into their favor by speaking against or even doing ill to those they despised. And then, when the moment was right…” He mimed a throat cutting, drawing his forefinger from ear to ear across his own throat.

  Arath shook his head. “Never mind me, Jack: we needn’t worry about evil things lurking in the mountains. We’ve already got one of them right here in our party.”

  Jack made a show of laughing and shaking his head, telling both men they were paranoid. There was nothing evil waiting in the mountains, he assured them. “Not yet anyway. Not until Kalbidor and his demon horde gets there.”

  But all the while, his thoughts crept back to William Xi. Was he just being paranoid to question a man who had quite literally saved his life? Karag was only a videogame character, an NPC, after all. What did he know? Only what the game developers had programmed him to know.

  And William had never given Jack cause to doubt him. On the contrary, he’d come through time and again when he could have simply ignored his plight. He’d monitored calls, poured over emails, laid false trails – all when he could have looked the other way, at no risk to himself.

  No, he decided, Karag had got it wrong this time. The giant was thinking like an Obsidian Isles operative. And there was a reason Obsidian Isles operatives didn’t turn to stone when Iaxiabor’s curse immobilized heroes all across the world. Because at the end of the day, as much as Jack liked the giant…he was still an assassin. Not a hero.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  They made camp again. This time, Jack was hungry, so he roasted a rack of demon pig ribs – meat he’d been lugging around since nearly the beginning of the game. He hadn’t planned to share his food, but Arath wouldn’t shut up about it.

  “Mmm, what do you have there, Jack?”

  “My gods, that smells good.”

  “I haven’t eaten Susmala ribs in…oh, I can’t even tell you how long it’s been.”

  “That’s an awfully big hunk of pig for one person.”

  On and on he went, until at last Jack cracked. And he’d be damned if he fed the ranger without offering Karag something too. The giant accepted with a nod. “Beats jerky any day.”

  And it did, because Jack had used some of his salt. It added no in-game perks, but without salt, every meal tasted like cardboard. Of course, I wouldn’t have wasted it, if I knew I was going to have to share with Arath, he thought, sourly.

  Still, what was done was done. So he split the ribs between himself and his companions. Karag declared them to be most excellent, saying they “sure hit the spot.”

  Arath wasn’t quite so generous in his praise. “Not bad. You’re no gourmet, and that’s a fact. But not bad. Still, I think it could have used…” He pursed his lips in thought. “I’m not sure what. But something’s – missing.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I didn’t think to pack my spice rack.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, mate. I’m not criticizing. I’m just giving feedback.”

  Then, they put out their fire – ostensibly, as a precaution against drawing eyes, but really so Karag could see their tail from a distance. And they went to sleep. At least, Arath went to sleep. He was snoring away within minutes of laying down. Karag’s breathing slowed too, and he snored softly now and then. But Jack didn’t for a minute believe he was actually sleeping.

  Not Karag. Not the son of the Obsidian Isles, the master assassin. No, Karag was waiting, pretending to be asleep in order to lure their mysterious pursuers into camp.

  Jack tried to do the same thing. He didn’t know how successful his efforts were. His breathing sounded way too loud to his own ears, on account of his pulse racing like mad. He had too much adrenaline coursing through him to be relaxed, or even to pretend to be relaxed.

  The minutes passed slowly. Early evening became late night. Boredom drove his adrenaline away. Jack’s eyelids started to sag, and his breathing finally slowed. He was almost – unwillingly – asleep when he first heard a noise that didn’t belong.

  It sounded like the snapping of a twig. Jack’s heartrate shot back up, and he stiffened, listening closely. At first, nothing happened. Then he made out the sound of a foot – the soft, plodding slap of a sole on dirt. He heard something else, too – something soft and low, and almost snuffling.

  He frowned into the darkness. If he’d missed a night’s sleep to, if they were about to, spring an ambush on a pig or some other wild critter, he was going to be awfully ticked off.

  Then he heard the footfall again. It didn’t sound like hooves, or paws. It sounded like a big, broad foot moving over the earth. And lest any doubt remained, a soft, snarling murmur followed it a moment later, sending a shiver up Jack’s back.

  He couldn’t make out the words – not at first. But they were words. He had no doubt about that. And what was worse, they came with two distinct voices. The first said something he didn’t understand.

  The second answered with a whining snarl of, “Hush, hush.”

  “Sleeping they are. No harm they do us now.”

  “Hush, or wake them you will, fool.”

  An exchange of snarls and growls followed this. Jack shivered in place. If Star War’s Yoda, and Lord of the Ring’s Gollum had had a set of love children, he figured it would sound something like this pair. At least, assuming that this was a pair, and not one creature with a weird split personality thing going on, ala Smeagol and Gollum.

  “Takes it, we must,” said one of the voices in a moment. “Quick now.”

  The snuffling grew nearer and nearer. Jack held his breath, waiting for Karag’s signal. It didn’t come, and he began to fear that the giant had fallen asleep after all.

  Then, all at
once, a terrible scream split the night – the same scream that had alerted them to William the Wanderer’s presence the night before. The signal. Jack was on his feet in an instant, a light spell already cast and a fire spell hovering on his fingertips.

  The camp looked much like it had earlier, after they’d put out their fire: dead coals, and sleeping rolls, and so on. Arath was where he’d settled, although not for long. The other man had woken with a start, and though his eyes were only half open, he’d already begun scrambling away – in what direction, Jack wasn’t sure even he knew.

  Karag was on his feet, a few steps from Arath’s bedroll. But he hadn’t brandished a weapon. Instead, his hands were full with – well, Jack wasn’t entirely sure. But one hung in each hand by the ankle. They were some manner of living creature, and – though he hated to acknowledge that these loathsome beings resembled humans in any fashion – they seemed vaguely humanoid. They had long, gangly arms and legs, which at present were flailing like mad. They screamed too, in the same awful way they murmured. They begged for mercy and threatened retribution in turns.

  Jack could only make out some of what they said, for their tones were too panicked, their words too jumbled, to be certain. One of the little monsters had begun to weep, its big, ugly features scrunching up while tears flowed freely from its eyes. The other hissed and spat and scratched at Karag’s hands.

  “Don’t eat us,” the weeping one pleaded. “A poor mouthful we would be: all bones and no meat.”

  That was true enough, Jack reckoned, because they looked like nothing beyond leathery gray skin and long, ill-proportioned bones. The idea of eating such creatures had never entered his mind, of course. And, in truth, it made him feel a little sick to his stomach.

  “Frees us, it must,” said the other, “or feasts on its eyes, I will.”

  Karag shook the little monster for its trouble, and its threats morphed into piteous wails for a moment. Then, when the shaking ended, it resumed its prior line of diplomacy. “Spares its life, big, ugly life. Spares it, I will, if it lets us go.”

  “Spare my life?” Karag laughed. “It’ll take more than a pair of mangy goblins to do me in, my lad.”

  “Goblins,” Jack said, understanding sweeping him. It all made sense, now: the big, broad hands, the flat, plodding feet, the ugly, oversized features, and the squat, hunched bodies. “They’re goblins.”

  Arath had put a good bit of distance between himself and the rest of his party. But he stopped running at that and turned. “Goblins, you say? And only two of them?”

  “Now,” Karag went on, “unless you want to end up squashed like the insects you are, why don’t you two tell me what you were doing creeping through our camp?”

  “Not creeping,” the weeping one said. “Just walking.”

  “A free road it is, yes?” the other answered.

  “Not for goblins, it’s not,” Karag said, shaking them again until they both began to wail. “And you weren’t on the road, you were in our camp. So tell me why, and I might let you live.”

  “Mustn’t kill us, please. Mercy. Mercy: shows us mercy, tall one must.”

  “Only trying to recover our own property, we were.”

  Karag snorted. “Thieves, then: you meant to rob us?”

  “Never steal. Only take what is ours.”

  Jack laughed out loud, contempt bubbling up at the perfidious vermin he saw before him. “We have nothing of yours, you miserable pickpockets.”

  “Lies. Lies, it does,” snarled the goblin who had threatened Karag.

  The weeping goblin hissed. “Killed the thief, the tall one did. Saw him. Saw him, both of us. And then takes it, the handsome one. Saw him, we did.”

  Jack had no idea what this meant. He was, perhaps, more focused on how to rid himself of these contemptible little creatures than on anything they might say.

  But Karag frowned at their words. “Hold on: are you saying William the Wanderer took something of yours?”

  The pair hissed at the name, which now, finally, drew Jack’s full attention. “William,” the gentler goblin repeated. “A thief’s name, yes.”

  “Eat his eyeballs, I would,” the other said, casting a reproachful scowl Karag’s way, “if ruined them, you had not.”

  Jack decided to ignore that. “Wait, you’re saying William the Wanderer robbed you? Of what?”

  “Our property.”

  “Honestly acquired. Legal and honest.”

  “What property?”

  “And what does it have to do with us?” Karag added.

  “A blade. Crafted by dwarves, it was. A fine blade.”

  “Mine, not his. Stole it, he did, while we slept.”

  The giant snorted. “And where did you get this ‘fine blade’? Or, should I say, who did you steal it from?”

  “Not steal. Take it we did, but not steal. Dwarf dead already.”

  “Dead, and rotten too.”

  “Crows eat his eyeballs,” the grimmer of the goblins added with a touch of disappointment. “Right from his skull. Gone, they were.”

  “So you scavenged a blade from a dead dwarf? When?”

  “Many moons ago. Long winters. Cold winters. Hard winters. Save Grem’tha’s life, blade did. Many times.”

  “Get it back, we must.”

  Jack shook his head. He figured he understood the general gist of things: these skulking goblins had picked up a blade many years ago, and William the Wanderer had stolen it from them. Whether their claims to have found it were true, he didn’t know, and he didn’t care. The point was, this had nothing to do with them. “Look, I’m sorry he took your blade. But we don’t have it.”

  Grem’tha hissed, and the other goblin snarled. “Liars. Thieves and liars.”

  “Saw him take it, we did,” Grem’tha said.

  “You saw who take it?” Karag asked.

  “The handsome one. From the thief’s body, he took it. Saw him.”

  Jack had no idea what this meant – not until Karag said, “Arath…” In hindsight, he realized that it should have been obvious. Only one of their party had gone through William’s body, or what remained of it. But the goblin Grem’tha had referred to the thief as ‘the handsome one.’ And that description, and the unshaven, unwashed, grim-faced ranger were just too incongruous for Jack to wrap his mind around.

  The ranger laughed nervously at the sound of his own name. “Me?”

  “Did you take their blade?”

  “Nope.”

  “Lies,” the one goblin hissed.

  “Not true,” the other echoed.

  “I might have taken a blade, yes.”

  “Ours.”

  “Gives it to us. Gives it back.”

  “But it was salvage. We won it, fair and square in combat. Spoils of war and all that.”

  Jack groaned, glancing between the ranger and the pair of goblins, hanging there miserably and pleading for the return of their stolen property. “Look,” he said, “if Karag here releases you, will you promise not to do anything violent?”

  “Gives us back our property, and no trouble we will be.”

  “No,” Jack said. “You’re not going anywhere until you promise.”

  “Promise, Grem’tha does. No violence.”

  The other goblin hissed and snarled and tried to shake himself free. But in a minute, he added, “Grimlik promise too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Jack got a better look at the pair when they were right side up. He felt a little bad about his early reactions. They were ugly brutes, and no denying that, but not the loathsome creatures he’d originally assumed. They struck him as more scared and pitiful than anything else. They cringed and pawed the ground, they cowered at raised voices, and skulked aside when anyone moved too fast.

  Grem’tha apparently was the female of the pair, though physically he could see little difference between them. She was, perhaps, a hair slighter than Grimlik, but that was about it.

  Temperament-wise, their differences
were more obvious, though he doubted that had anything to do with gender. Grimlik wanted to kill Arath as a thief. Jack knew this, because the goblin stated his desire several times – cowering all the while. Grem’tha, on the other hand, seemed inclined to forgive past wrongs, if only the blade was returned.

  He might have attributed this to a male-female difference in temperament, or some reflection of goblin society, where females had been socialized to be peacemakers and males to be warriors. He might have, except for Grem’tha’s persistent use of the handsome one to refer to Arath, and the way she batted her eyelash-less eyelids at him whenever he glanced her way.

  In the end, Jack concluded Grem’tha’s benevolence stemmed solely from her attraction to the ranger. Which, he had to admit, amused the hell out of him.

  Arath found it less amusing. He scowled whenever he looked at her, and flatly refused to return the blade. It was his by right of conquest, he insisted. When Karag reminded him that he’d done little in the way of conquering, getting more use out of the soles of his boots as he fled than the steel of his blade, the ranger just snorted and invoked what he called an age old judgement on property rights in such circumstances: “finders keepers.”

  Jack tried to reason with him. The goblins needed their sword, and they needed the goblins gone before their wailing brought them unwelcome attention. Arath wouldn’t see reason, though. “Kill them, if you want to be rid of them. That’s not my problem.”

  Grimlik snarled, and Grem’tha moaned at the words. “Cruel. Cruel, cruel words, from such fine lips.”

  Back and forth they went, and made no progress at all. Jack was about to come to blows with the other man when Karag interrupted. “Hold on,” he said. “Where did you say you found the blade?”

  “From a dwarf, all dead and rotted.”

  “Yes, but where? In the mountains?”

  Grem’tha nodded. “High up, far from here. Near the place they call Ivaldi’s.”