by Eric Nylund
Stalks sprouted, grew eight feet, and became laden with corn.
The buffalo gathered about this snack and grunted their appreciation as they ate.
“You have the stuff I gave you to hold?” Elmac asked me as he snuck a look at Morgana.
“In the clan inventory. Tap the icon of clasped hands in your interface. You’ll see it.”
He poked the air a few times and his gear appeared on the ground.
Elmac shucked out of the top of his robe and knelt next to his prosthetic metal arm. “Would you mind? A bit ’o help?”
I moved to him… but he hadn’t been talking to me.
Morgana came over, briskly wound the straps of the arm around his torso and shoulder. The rest of the apparatus laced together and magically snugged tight.
She then grabbed him and kissed him, angrily at first, but it softened as they wrapped arms about each other.
I looked away.
How fascinating… the noble grazing buffalo… the endless sky… hey, clouds… and the vast, lonely grasslands.
I finally had to clear my throat.
The two of them detached.
“Oh…” Elmac breathed. He curled his now-animated left metal limb, but he never took his eyes off Morgana. “That be much better.”
Morgana pushed him away. “Hope you enjoyed that,” she muttered. “Because I’m not so much as shaking your hand until you’re done explaining.”
“Elmac?” I said. “What exactly does that arm do for you? I tried to read its description, but was blocked.”
Elmac test-waggled the fingers. Apart from the pale gold color, the metal looked and moved just like a real arm.
“’O course it be blocked. ’Tis a dwarven relic, keyed to my soul and all. It does a smitch ’o this and a few things ’o that but has two main powers. First, it be a perfect match for my real arm. Can’t tell you how hard ’tis to be casting spells one-handedly. And second, it gives my strength a little boost.”
He plucked up his battle axe, Dreadful Cleave—gave it a playful spin, and said to it, “Oh, I missed you, you magnificent bastard.”
A little boost?
That axe needed a 16 STRENGTH to wield.
Elmac changed into gray linen pants, sturdy boots, his gladiator belt and daggers, and a black shirt that showed off his impressive chest hair. He slid the axe into a harness on his back and dusted off his hands.
I had a feeling Elmac was not going to be your standard run-of-the-mill Gandalf type wizard.
“There be a few things I still need to sort,” he told us. “In the meantime, I bet you have questions ’bout Grimhalt? Take a gander at this beastie.”
He stabbed at the air.
Grimhalt’s mace dropped to the ground with a thump.
Morgana and I concentrated on the thing.
Bludgeon of the Red Rider
Flanged Mace (One-Handed Mace Class)
(Tier-VII magical weapon, unique)
DESCRIPTION: Ground from a single piece of meteoric nickel-cobalt iron, this dull black weapon is balanced for one-handed use even though it weighs 57 pounds. The flanges have been blunted flat from use.
SPECIAL ABILITIES: +8 to the wielder’s STRENGTH. Greatly enchanted to increase hit and damage potentials. Always strikes first in any given melee exchange regardless of opponent’s speed, abilities, or distance (within a quarter mile). The first hit in any combat is always critical.
Holy smokes. First strike. And a guaranteed critical hit.
That explained how Grimhalt had creamed me before I’d blinked.
I kept reading.
REQUIREMENTS: Minimum of 12 STRENGTH. Keyed only for worshipers of War in all its incarnations.
“Worshippers of War? So how was he using this?” I asked Morgana. “The Wild Hunt are gods like Diana, Orion, and Artemis, right?”
“Not by a good piece, Hektor,” she said and slowly shook her head. “The Wild Hunt are a bunch of warmongering deities. They come to battles—feed off the carnage and death.” Her lips curled in revulsion. “The bloodier, the more casualties, the more gratuitous the violence and innocents killed, the better that lot like it.”
Once more, I’d made assumptions. No wonder Morgana had been so against any kind of duel with Grimhalt. And no wonder she’d looked at me like I’d been out of my mind.
I had to be more careful.
Being a little more humble and asking when I wasn’t sure about something might be a good idea too.
There was a last bit to the mace’s description.
WARNING: Once used in battle, the wielder is CURSED to one day be KILLED by this weapon.
Oh. Now Grimhalt’s remark about melting the thing down made sense. What I didn’t get was why had he used it in the first place? He had to have known about the curse.
Or maybe I could understand.
I still had the Ebon Hands of Soul Death rattling around in my inventory. I’d used them knowing the potential consequences… which were a lot worse than this mace.
I’d have to deal with those things once and for all before they accidentally destroyed the multiverse. I needed to put together a new to-do list.
The buffalo finished off the corn, so we mounted and continued our journey.
Morgana turned to Elmac. “You were saying about your arm and character creation?”
“Aye, my arm,” he said. He sucked his lips, then admitted, “There be this section in character creation—Disabilities and Perks?”
“You didn’t…” Morgana whispered.
Elmac dropped his gaze. “I had no arm before. And I had my backup stashed with Hektor…”
“Wait,” I said. “I got rushed through character creation. What’s this disability and perks thing?”
“You can gimp your character,” Morgana told me, her voice ice-chilled, “if you’re barmy enough. Minor insanity, bad vision, lowered IQ—things like that. In exchange, you acquire perks that you can’t get in the Game. The Great Pooka warned me away from them.” She stiffened and tilted her chin up. “So, let’s hear it then. What’d you trade your one and only left arm for?”
CHAPTER 26
“I traded my arm…” Elmac took a breath. “There be this one perk I couldn’t pass on, ‘Old Soul’?” He hesitated, but Morgana drummed her fingers, so he continued. “You were a biology teacher before the Game?”
She nodded.
“And you be remembering it all?”
“Of course.” She nodded at our mounts. “Scientific name: Bison bison, or that’s the closest classification to this world’s variant. And their order is… Artiodactyla?” Her forehead crinkled. “Blimey. I’m not sure. It had something to do with the number of toes. I was positive I knew.”
“And you, Hektor,” Elmac said. “You were a soldier before I’m guessing, or something close to one, because a few days ago you were asking ’bout gunpowder and firearms and all?”
“Yeah…”
“But have you tried to shoot a gun in your new body?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted, “but I’m sure…”
I looked at my six-fingered hands. Maybe not.
I did remember how to aim and shoot. But would this body remember? Muscle memory was a thing hard won, and Hektor the gypsy elf hadn’t even gone through basic training. In fact, he had an entirely different set of neuromuscular pathways from decades of instruction at the Domicile of the Sleeping Dragon.
“I’m not sure I could anymore,” I told him. “At least not like I could before.”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s where the Old Soul ability comes in. It be letting you remember and do one thing from your previous incarnation. Think it was meant for skills like gem-cutting or billiards and the like, but I typed in ‘fighting’ and it took.”
My mouth fell open.
If he was implying what I think he was, it had been a genius trade.
I figured Elmac would have picked a fighter-type class for his reincarnated self. After all, he’d been the Grand Gene
ral of all the Armies of High Hill. Why not stick with what you knew?
But with this Old Soul ability, he had most of that for free… maybe much more because his prior expertise far outclassed any first-level warrior.
“To get Old Soul, though, I had to be picking a disability and a fairly serious one at that.” He glanced at Morgana. “So, ’twas born with a congenital defect… no left arm.”
She stared at the horizon. “And you started out fighting like a bloody twentieth-level warrior?” she whispered. Her gaze found him once more. She pursed her lips. “Yeah, I guess that was a right good trade.”
Which is how he’d beaten Grimhalt to a pulp with one hand. In effect, Elmac had something like eleven levels on the guy. Grimhalt had never stood a chance.
And I thought I was a min-maxer.
Had the Game Master bent the rules for Elmac? Seemed like a heck of a loophole in that perk to let slide. But since Elmac was a Hero of Thera, I wasn’t about to complain.
“We might want to keep your fighting ability a secret,” I said. “Save it so it’s a surprise when we need it.”
And so none of the other clans would go out of their way to target the new competition (any more than the Lords of the Abyss no doubt already were).
“Aye,” Elmac said. “Thought Grimhalt killing you, though, qualified as us ‘needing it.’”
I sighed. “Yeah… Good point.”
Before I forgot, now that Elmac was a player, I could share the Drunken Monkey quest out to him.
I did, he accepted, and this alert appeared:
You have grouped with
Morgana Nox, Druid (Mischief Maker) LEVEL 4 / Thief LEVEL 3
and
Melmak Argenté-Wolfram, Wizard LEVEL 2
NOTE: Due to the level difference among party members, experience will be split 40%, 40%, and 20% for the two highest and the lowest-level players respectively.
“Don’t worry,” I told Elmac. “Once we find Karkanal’s tribe and I learn that new martial art technique, I’m sure you’ll make at least third level.”
Elmac stared into empty space, probably trying to figure out from the limited descriptions of his current spells and abilities what his options might be when he leveled up.
I’d need to have a sit down with him and tell him everything I’d learned about the character progression process… after, that is, I figured out how to tell Elmac about me being a Mage of the Line. That seemed like something a fellow clan member should know.
As we rode through the evening, I told Elmac I’d deciphered the assassin’s note and of our meals and misadventures at the Inn.
He paid particular attention to the part where Harlix, Cassie, and Grimhalt had been looking for the Red Knight.
I then messaged him a copy of the assassin’s note, written out in plain Tradespeak.
Like Morgana and I, he puzzled over who might be targeting Duke Opinicus… and was none too happy to see Pendric, Colonel Delacroix, and the three of us on their hit list.
Around midnight the flat grasslands sloped into gently rolling hills, and farther, dipped to make moon-shadowed valleys.
We found a good spot to camp by a tiny grove of fruit trees near a stream. The trees were mature apricot and apple species with thirty-foot canopies. Their fruit littered the ground and looked very squishy—just this side of rotting.
Morgana spoke to the buffalo. She then went with them to the stream, where the beasts lingered for a long drink.
Meanwhile, Elmac and I cleared an area on the lee side of a low hill and set up his magical heat rock.
Morgana returned and rubbed her hands over the stone. She and Elmac made eye contact—then both quickly looked away. It was dark, but wearing Azramath’s headband, I saw they were both blushing.
“Our ladies said we shouldn’t worry about predators,” she told us. “The local Sabertooth tigers are higher in the mountains this time of year.” She paused, considered, then added, “Might be smart, though, to set up a few alarm wards.”
I doubted even a Sabertooth would be a real threat to these buffalo… unless the tigers of this world hunted in packs.
“Wards sound like a great idea,” I said.
She nodded and left us.
Elmac took his tent and pitched it forty feet distant under the trees, closer to the gurgling stream. Definitely a romantic spot.
I set my bedroll by the heat stone.
Elmac returned and offered me a half-liter mithril flask. “I be needing a favor, Hektor.”
I accepted the flask. “You want me to take first watch?”
“Aye…” He nonchalantly examined the laces on his boot.
“And the second?” I asked.
“If you wouldn’t mind, lad.”
“Kind of figured that out. You kids take all the time you need.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “Never had a truer friend.”
Elmac hurried off, but was so preoccupied, he actually forgot his flask.
Well, couldn’t let it go to waste. I took a sip.
A wave of fire crashed against the shores of my brain. Whoa. Red Dragon Whiskey. Sadly, it might be the last of it from the Bloody Rooster.
I’d better go easy on this stuff. It had been a very long day, and I needed to stay sharp tonight.
We hadn’t seen any sign of the Silent Syndicate since High Hill. We also were in another world, had set up decoys, and were a long way from the gate and the Wayfar Waypoint Inn… so the odds of any assassin tracking us, were what?
Didn’t matter. I’d made too many assumptions lately.
I scooted closer to the heat stone and warmed my hands.
I was glad for Morgana and Elmac. If ever two souls deserved a second chance at love and life, well—I raised the flask to toast my companions and their happiness.
I leaned back and gazed at the stars and the one lonely moon who’d be keeping me company tonight. Among the many worlds out there, was my soulmate waiting?
Come on. The Game was my priority, not dating.
That didn’t mean I had to play like a monk who’d taken a vow of chastity.
Wait.
I riffled through my patchwork memories. No—gypsy elf Hektor had taken no such vows at the Domicile of the Sleeping Dragon. Whew.
With that cleared up, I then indulged in the time-honored and highly theoretical thought experiment of “who’s your ideal mate.”
There were the usual things that everyone looks for… a preferred set of physical attributes, sense of humor, kindness. There was, however, one extra thing I’d want: to share that most important facet of my life, i.e. the Game.
That seemed to narrow the field to other players.
Ideally, I’d also like to share the big secret I carried, the top-secret secret that our clan’s sponsor was the Game Master of Thera… which I supposed further limited my choice… to other members of the Heroes of Thera clan?
Ugh. So I’d pick future clan members based on their dating potential? No way. Putting my love life over the fate of everyone in the multiverse would have easily made my top ten worst ideas ever list.
Man, I didn’t even have a girlfriend, and it was already “complicated.”
I raised Elmac’s flask once more and toasted my starry companions.
You understand the bumpy road to true love, don’t you, ladies?
Hektor, the gypsy elf and thespian, knew that Hamlet had said it better:
Doubt thou the stars are fire;
Doubt that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt I love.
Okay, that was enough of that tonight—both in the liquor and the theatrical self-pity departments. I screwed the cap back on the flask, tucked it away, and silently chuckled at my foolishness.
Until—I heard movement in the grass and stopped breathing.
Again, a slight rustling.
I eased from the glow of the heat stone and into the shadows. I squinted and focused my enhanced vi
sion in the direction I’d heard the noise.
Thirty paces away.
I was thinking ninja or at the very least one of those three-headed vipers Elmac had mentioned before. Didn’t he say their venom dissolved flesh? That sounded about right.
It was just a monkey though.
I exhaled. False alarm.
He had a tufted tail and fluffy mane. Cute little guy. I knew what it was: a lion-tailed macaque. There’d been a picture of one on the packages of banana-soy concentrate served at San Quentin. Funny, of all the things I could have remembered from two lifetimes—that had stuck.
He limped along and fell over.
Was it wounded?
No. He got up, belched, and then staggered merrily along, carrying an armful of that overly ripe fruit.
If I wasn’t mistaken, that was a drunken monkey.
CHAPTER 27
The macaque scratched his crotch, and in doing so, dropped his armful of fruit.
He retrieved the fruit and stuffed half the rotten apples and mushy apricots into his cheek pouches. Juice and things dribbled and wriggled down his chin.
Scratch “cute.” This little guy was disgusting.
He wandered in a circle, trying to figure out which way he’d been headed… then shrugged, and wobbled off the way he’d come.
Did I follow this simian? Was he part of the “Drunken Monkey” quest? Had to be.
The real question was: Did I leave my guard post to do it?
The most sensible option was to get Elmac and Morgana and then follow the monkey. They were, however, in the middle of… I didn’t want to think what they were in the middle of, but I was sure they were in the middle of something, and whatever it was, my interruption would be cruel and unusual punishment for everyone involved. So in this case, “most sensible” didn’t seem like the “best” option.
On the other hand, running off on my own broke the one rule in every horror movie that should never be broken: Do not go by yourself to investigate the strange noise in the haunted basement, attic, cabin by the lake, or woods.