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

by Rachel Ford

  As for Varr, it seemed he could not long remain silent, even if his pride prevented him from conversing with the party. After a space, he took up singing. He sang the same sort of things Migli had sung: stories of beautiful women with hair that shimmered like gold, and vast treasures either found or lost.

  It wouldn’t be fair to say that dwarves, with their singular focusses, had one-track minds. No, they clearly had two-track minds: women and wealth. Jack shook his head as the other man cycled through the same kinds of ditties that amused Migli for hour upon hour.

  Still, songs proved easier to ignore than conversation, and he found his thoughts wandering – to Jordan. He wondered what she’d think of William’s idea. He wondered if she’d share his suspicions, or if he was just being paranoid. He thought about what would come next, if she signed off on the scheme. He wondered if he could endure the levels of pain he might need to, to remap his brain to his body.

  And what about Jordan? Would she be able to do what needed to be done? He didn’t know. Not that, of course, he put any stock in William’s ridiculous theories. Jack at his best had never been a lady’s man. He certainly wasn’t about to sweep anyone off their feet while stuck in a VR capsule, drooling on himself as his muscles atrophied and his brain slowly forgot about his body.

  No, Jack thought sardonically, manifestly charming though he was in his semi-vegetative state, Jordan was in no danger of succumbing to those charms any time soon. William had just been stuck in the game so long, alone and bereft of friendship or even human companionship, that he’d forgotten what it looked like.

  Still, though he ruled out romantic interest, he fully acknowledged he and Jordan shared a bond that went beyond sympathetic acquaintances. He and Richard were sympathetic acquaintances. They both wanted this nonsense to be over as soon as possible. Indeed, he suspected they’d each be happy to go on with their lives as if the other never existed, if this resolved in a reasonable fashion – one that didn’t leave him trapped or dead. In the meantime, they worked alright together. They didn’t despise each other, and they only drove one another crazy some days.

  But he actually cared about Jordan in a specific sense, beyond the vague bond of shared humanity or joint cause that forged his tenuous bond with Richard. He valued her opinion, and knew she valued his. He felt completely confident that their friendship would outlast his confinement.

  Would she, then, be able to do what needed to be done? Would she – his friend and confidante, who had looked after him and bailed him out of trouble time and again; who had talked reason to him when he felt like he might lose his mind with fear; who had convinced him to keep going when it seemed hopeless – would she be able to essentially torture him until his physical body was in so much pain that his mind forgot about his avatar?

  He didn’t know. And, what was worse, he didn’t know what he wanted the answer to be. He could see Richard torturing him, if it was for his own good. In a heartbeat. And the thought annoyed him.

  Then again, if it was the only way to save his life…surely, that was preferable. Right? The answer should have been obvious.

  But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure it out.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jack remained quiet and contemplative for the last leg of their journey. He didn’t pay much attention to either the terrain or the countryside. It all seemed to blend together after a while anyway: endless stone, and varied flora and fauna here and there. He saw deer and rabbits, and even a fox; flowers and grasses, shrubs and trees. But it was the same as any other wilderness path, except that it existed inside a series of magically lit caverns; and even that distinction soon lost any meaning to him.

  Eventually, they reached the shore of a great, blue-green lake. The path wound along it for a long stretch, then branched – with one end veering off toward a dark, rocky passage to parts unknown, and the other leading into a massive estate full of well-manicured grounds surrounding an elegant palace.

  Varr stopped short at the edge of a green lawn. “Well, that’s as far as I dare go. You’re on your own now, lad. Good luck to you.”

  Jack frowned at him. “You’re sure you’re not going to come with us? You’ve at least met this Milia.”

  “That’s as far as I dare go,” the NPC repeated. “You’re on your own now, lad. Good luck to you.”

  “Thanks. You’re a big help.”

  “My pleasure, Jack.”

  Rolling his eyes at the other man’s painfully literal interpretation of his words, he gestured for his companions to follow him. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

  The goblins cringed and cowered, but kept up with him; and Arath and Karag followed too, muttering their own misgivings.

  “I’ll wait here, then,” Varr called after them. “Good luck to you.”

  They followed the path along a lengthy expanse of green grass and lush gardens – a ludicrous extravagance, Jack thought, in a cave system with limited soil and growing capacity. They crossed an area the size of a football field, and then a second. The palace seemed hardly any nearer than before.

  But they did happen upon a patrol. Happened upon it, or their advance triggered whatever routine spawned the guards. Either way, a pair of dwarves in crimson and yellow livery showed up, following a path out of one of the gardens.

  “Hail,” one called.

  “Ahoy,” his companion said. “Hold a minute, strangers.”

  Jack pulled up, and so did his companions. “I am a friend of Migli’s,” he said. “I come with news of the prince.”

  The two advancing dwarves exchanged glances. The first said, “If your news concerns the kingdom, it would be better suited to the palace.”

  “Aye, turn back, friend: go where you will be welcome.”

  “I’ve been there already. Delling asked me to come here and tell your mistress.”

  One dwarf tugged at his beard. The other scratched behind his ear, and in a moment spoke. “Ah. Well, it’s your head, I suppose.”

  “If you’ve made up your mind, we’ll show you to the lady,” said the first.

  Jack offered a hesitant thanks – hesitant, as he had the distinct impression that they were doing him no kind of favor. Still, he fell in behind the gaudily clad pair, and they all marched toward the palace.

  It was a massive affair, three stories tall with a great entrance full of pillars and arches. The huge doors held great, etched glass panes as tall as a man, and the windows stood twice as tall as the doors. It looked like a palace that had been built for one of Karag’s people, rather than Migli’s. It was magnificent, with one exception: the color scheme.

  The door and window frames had been painted the same colors as their escort’s uniforms. Great red and yellow banners bearing imagery of a raptor’s head hung along the walk nearest the palace, and crimson and gold tapestries hung against the marble exterior.

  Even the landscaping matched the madcap color scheme: bright yellow and red flowers filled the gardens. Crimson fruit hung from trees, and yellow vines crept up the face of the palace.

  It looked like an artist had been trying to render a visual representation of a migraine. “Sooo…” Jack said, taking in his surroundings in all their unnecessary hideousness, “I guess your mistress really likes yellow and red?”

  One of the guards glanced over his shoulder. “They’re the family colors.”

  “Oh?”

  “Lady Milia’s house was crimson before they wed, and Lord Dagon’s is yellow.”

  “That’s…unfortunate.”

  He got no argument from the pair of dwarves. And no wonder: they had to wear those horrible colors day in and day out.

  They walked in silence for a stretch. “I don’t suppose they thought of…I don’t know…combining colors? Yeah know, being orange instead? It’s not great, but it’d have to be easier on the eyes.”

  He got no answer to that. The two guards went on walking, their boots crunching the gravel underfoot in a synchronized step so precise it
almost created a rhythm of its own.

  “What’s that sound?” one asked, his tone oddly strained.

  Jack glanced up. “What?”

  “Hmmm,” the other dwarf said – hummed, almost. “Harum-hey hmmm.”

  Jack blinked. He was definitely humming.

  “Boots,” the first dwarf said – sang – in a low baritone. “Boots.”

  “Boots on the ground,” his companion answered.

  “One, march. Two, march.”

  “Boots on the ground.”

  “Not more singing,” Arath groaned.

  But that’s exactly what this was: some kind of marching song, low and deep, much like a sea shanty. Only it focused entirely on the act of marching.

  Boots, boots

  Boots on the ground

  One, march.

  Two, march.

  Boots on the ground.

  One, two

  Right, left

  Boots on the ground.

  Boots, boots

  Boots on the ground.

  The dwarves went on singing about boots on the ground for the remainder of their journey – a good fifteen minutes. Jack counted one hundred and eighteen distinct verses. They all dealt with marching. Sometimes they counted off steps, sometimes strides. Sometimes verses encouraged the dwarves to go on, on. Others spoke of weary feet and endless tracks. Sometimes they referenced meager paychecks, or endless bills. Jack was ready to strangle them both by time they reached the palace.

  But here, they parted ways. The two handed the party off to a pair of similarly attired dwarves who stood guard by the front entrance. These guards escorted them into a magnificent interior – one marred by the same awful color scheme as the exterior. A red and yellow runner guided them down the great hall over a floor of crimson and yellow stone tiles. The way was lined by golden chandeliers and painted red ones in turn. Gold wainscoting joined crimson walls. The ceilings had been painted with vibrant scenes of battles and romances – but even they featured more red and gold than anything else. Ladies in crimson dresses fell in the arms of golden-armored knights, and red-scaled dragons lay on piles of gold and rubies.

  Jack figured a good coat of paint would fix most of what was wrong with the place. But in the meantime, it was fit to give him a headache.

  He breathed a sigh of relief, then, when his escort opened a set of doors – painted red, naturally – and ushered them inside.

  They stepped into a huge room with gilded walls and a scarlet floor. A stout couple sat on gilded thrones at the far end of the room, on a dais. Servants scurried around them with trays of food and pitchers of drink. He had golden hair, and she had red. Of course.

  One dwarf remained outside, and the other entered – trembling so much that his chainmail rattled. He bowed low, and said, “Lady Milia, I beg your pardon for the interruption.”

  The woman fixed him with a pair of icy blue eyes. When she spoke, her tone sounded as frosty as her expression looked. “As well you might, Fundinn; and your lord’s pardon too, for you know how much he hates when his mealtime is disturbed.”

  The dwarf bowed lower. “Of course. Forgive me, Lord Dagon.”

  The man scowled, but went on chewing the leg of – whatever bird it was he was eating.

  “You had better have a good reason for the interruption, unless you want to be looking for new employment.” Now, she passed a glance over Jack and his companions, and her irritated expression quickly morphed into a scandalized gasp. “And a better reason for bringing this filth into my house – or looking for new employment will be the least of your worries.”

  The dwarf bowed for a third time, so low that his forehead nearly touched the floor. “Yes ma’am. Of course.”

  “Well? Spit it out, you blithering fool.”

  Jack frowned at her, and the entire scene: the fat lord, huffing angrily as he filled his face; the irate lady, her words setting a grown man quaking before her; and the dwarf, terrified and prostrating himself as he stammered out an answer. “He brought me here,” he interrupted, “because I have news of your son.”

  “My son?” Milia said, turning questioning eyes to the guard.

  The dwarf nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

  She nodded. “Very well. Then get out.” He nodded again, and scurried out of the room, flashing Jack a grateful glance on his way out. Milia waited until the door closed. Then she said, “You, human: what is your name?”

  “Jack,” he said.

  At the same time, the ranger answered, “Arath.”

  She glanced disdainfully Arath’s way. “I don’t care what you are called, cur. I’m addressing your leader.” Now, she turned back to Jack. “You say you come with news of my Migan?”

  Jack frowned. “Who?”

  “Migan, my son. How is his project coming along? I hope the town has not been giving him too much difficulty after the accident with the dam?”

  Jack knew nothing whatever about any dam incident, or Migan – which he told the lady. She stared at him. “I thought you said you were here with news about my son?”

  “Yes: your son Migli.”

  She blinked, and Lord Dagon snorted. Flecks of fowl flesh flew out of his mouth and speckled his beard.

  Jack had a terrible feeling that he’d gotten something very wrong. “Migli…is your son, isn’t he?”

  She regarded him as if she were speaking to a fool. “Of course he is.”

  “Oh.” He hesitated. “Well…uh…”

  Dagon finally swallowed his mouthful of food, in order to demand, “Well, spit it out, man. Don’t stand there sputtering like an imbecile. What has that rat been up to?”

  “Well…he was trying to save the world.”

  Dagon laughed, and Milia rolled her eyes. “Of course he was. He always was a fool, just like his father. No sense at all. Big dreams, but not enough brains to carry them out. And –” She regarded the ragtag group before her. “A penchant for running with the lowest of the low.”

  “Some things,” her husband said, “never change.”

  “So tell me: what’s he done this time, the fool?”

  Jack stared at the pair, contempt filling him.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Oh,” he answered nonchalantly, “not much.” Milia and Dagon nodded knowingly, as if they expected nothing more, but he went on. “Just risked his own life, time after time to save all life. Yours included. No big deal, really. I’m sure nothing to compare to staying home to be fed off golden platters, anyway.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  That earned him sputtered indignation from the lord, and angry recrimination from the lady, who demanded to know how he dared to presume anything about them. Did he know who they were? She should, she declared, have him thrown out on his ear – him, and the vermin he dragged into her hall. No, better, she should have him cut down where he stood.

  “And then you’d never know what happened to your son.”

  This gave her a moment’s pause, and she let out a long, angry breath before composing herself. “Tell me about Migli.”

  So Jack did, leaving out the bit about prison. He’d learned his lesson with the king. It sufficed to know that Migli had been turned to stone in the course of trying to save the world; his precise locale at the time was an unnecessary detail.

  Which turn of events, he had to admit, he hadn’t seen coming. Jack, assuming the role of Migli’s defender? Jack, who had despised the indolent dwarf for his cowardice, now Migli’s champion to his parents? That was a twist he never would have believed. Well played, Marshfield Studio.

  Milia listened, and Dagon ate loudly and half-listened. When Jack finished speaking, the game informed him:

  Objective complete: inform the Lady Milia of her son’s unhappy plight

  And she said, “Well, I suppose he has acquitted himself without much disgrace, considering the path he’s chosen.”

  “He’s acquitted himself honorably.”

  Dagon barked out a laugh, and sent chunks
of bread halfway across the room with it. “What does a human know of honor?”

  Probably for the best, Milia spoke before Jack could. “Anyway, it’s done. Migli made his choice, and now it is set in stone. Quite literally.”

  The lord of the manor nodded sagely, as if his wife had made some profound point.

  Jack tried one, last effort. “But we think it can be reversed.”

  Milia laughed at that. “And I suppose you need – what? Money? Gems? Then you’ll be able to put this theory of yours to the test?”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, boy,” Dagon said. “You’ll get nothing from us. Not for Migli.”

  Jack started to clear the air, to give them the details of his discussion with Delling, and his own thoughts that Milia would want to know her son’s plight. Then, though, he stopped. They wouldn’t believe him, and, frankly, they weren’t worth the time to try to persuade. So he said only, “I’m here to discharge my duty to Migli, and inform his parents of his situation. That’s all.”

  The lady of the manor nodded briskly. “Well then, consider it done, and be on your way.”

  Jack shook his head. Her lack of concern was – appalling. Even his own mother would have been more distraught than this, if she’d learned something terrible had happened to him. And she was hardly a contender for any mother of the year awards. She still hadn’t worked out that he’d gone missing – and he had, weeks or months ago already. But once – if – she ever figured it out, she’d be upset. She might even shed tears. She sure as hell wouldn’t shrug it off. “Gladly. And don’t worry: I won’t bother coming back, whatever happens.”

  She nodded again, as if the news pleased her.

  Which was too much for Jack to abide without one parting shot, though the profanity filter did something to dampen the impact. “You obviously don’t give a rat’s hindquarters what happens to your son anyway.”

  “I have five sons, Jack: Migan, who is undertaking his first project in what will no doubt be a long and distinguished career as an architect; and my four little ones, who are playing two rooms away now. I know exactly where they are and what they’re doing. Because they didn’t choose to abandon their people and their duty.