by J. T. Wright
After Harvesting the Beasts, Trent piled up the loot and sank cross-legged to the ground. He had gained seven grey Cores and one black, along with an assortment of teeth, as expected. The drops from the Shadow Wererat caused a low laugh to rock Trent’s body. Two greater Healing potions laughed back at him as they sat beside a pair of grey boots and pants.
His health had recovered to 347/585. and he drank one of the potions to complete his healing. The sweet-tasting liquid banished the lingering garlic in his mouth but left Trent’s tongue and mood bitter. Appraising the clothing restored his faith in the fairness of Trials.
Witching Hour Boots
Part 1 of 4 Advanced Items/Good Quality
Armor Rating +20
Complete Set to unlock additional features
Witching Hour Pants
Part 2 of 4 Advanced Items/Good Quality
Armor Rating +20
Complete Set to unlock additional features
Made of the same soft grey and white leather, the clothing clearly went together. But as the Moonlit Forest had been particularly stingy when it came to equipment drops, Trent didn’t see how he could complete the set. He certainly had no intention of challenging any other Guardians.
Still, they were better than what he was wearing. His boots and trousers had been made for a boy with Attributes that made people wonder how he was able to hold himself upright. Their Armor Rating was +1. Standing, Trent changed into the new equipment.
His movement disturbed Pup, who woke and began sniffing at the teeth and Cores. While Trent was buckling his sword belt back on, Pup pounced on the Black Core, and before Trent could stop him, consumed it. With a furtive glance at the dumbfounded Trent, Pup seized two teeth and darted away to chew on them.
“You didn’t earn those, you thieving…” Trent faltered, trying to come up with a derogatory term for a Dog. Pup growled at him and continued to chomp away, his hackles raised.
Trent snatched up the rest of his loot and stored it, getting it away from the greedy puppy’s eyes. He had no use for the drops himself, but he had fought and bled for them without any help. Connected as they were through the party link, Pup was lucky he got XP and should have been satisfied! He had no right to claim any of the spoils!
“See if you get anything else out of me!” Trent stormed. Pup’s tail wagged as if to ask how Trent could resist his charm. Trent thought the Dog’s stiffened hair was the answer to that.
“Your name should be Leach,” Trent muttered, tugging his cowl up and fixing his mask in place. He did not waste any more time with the Dog. He was ready to find the exit to this Trial. It was obvious he wasn’t going to achieve a perfect clear. Not now that the grey rats had stopped supplying XP. The Werewolves might or might not be as strong as the Shadow Rat, but Trent had nearly died facing the Guardian. He could accept that he wasn’t ready for the Moonlit Forest.
Quest received. Kill Martin Vane - One of the Kindred has broken the Truce amongst Hunters. The Forest calls for his life. All exits have been sealed until the hunt has been completed. Reward - 2000 XP, 2 pieces of Witching Hour Set, Unknown.
Trent’s head fell backward and he stared up at the moon. He had only taken a step. He had not acknowledged the notification. It had been forced on him. It had filled his vision, demanding to be read.
Trent had never understood Tersa and Cullen’s propensity to shout obscene phrases or rail blasphemies at the gods. He did now. Some emotions could not be expressed in the everyday Common tongue.
“Damn it,” Trent hissed. The howling of Wolves on the hunt answered him.
Chapter Fourteen
The trap was too obvious to have been set by competent Bandits. Orion could see the cut in the tree from where he sat cross-legged on the road one hundred yards away. That wasn’t what gave away the ambush, though. It was the smell that alerted Orion.
Cutting a tree without felling it was an often-used tactic. A second tree some way down the road would be similarly prepared. When a cavern passed by and reached the second point in the trap, both timbers would be tipped over simultaneously. This would not bar the path of a floating wagon, but even those enchanted vehicles required draft animals to pull them. Stop the animal and you halt the Merchant’s train.
However, true Bandits concealed their efforts better. Not only should the cut be invisible, but the smell of the alchemical substance used to hold the tree upright should also be masked. Orion doubted that whoever was waiting for him to walk into their ambush had had much success at a Bandit’s trade.
Orion’s nose wrinkled as the wind carried the acrid scent of the chemical paste to him. As far away as he was, the smell burned his nostrils. It had to be worse for the ambushers, which made the wait for them less aggravating for the Al’rashian. They could remain subjected to the stink for the rest of the day for all he cared.
They would not, though. If what Orion suspected was true, the would-be Bandits were already squirming in their hiding places. They would not be able to stand inactivity for long. Orion, nonchalantly sitting in the road, was burning at their patience the same way the odor was his sense of smell.
His staff lay across his knees and he rolled it with his palms. His rare Class, Dominating Tyrant, urged him to act. It told him to cast his spells and draw his sword. He knew the location of every ambusher, thanks to his Wind Elemental scouts. He could stroll down through the trap; slaughtering those that had set it would hardly delay him.
Orion suppressed the weakness of his Class with some difficulty. He had been sitting patiently for twenty minutes and was tired of postponing his journey. The sun was still high, and this stretch of the road was peaceful. There was no reason to delay. No reason except for the chance to wrestle with the inner voice that railed at him to act.
“At last,” Orion murmured, as a figure stepped out of the woods. The man struck a jaunty pose in the middle of the road. Hands on his hips and chin lifted, the long feather in his brimmed hat fluttered in the breeze as the man peered in Orion’s direction.
“We are at something of a pass, it seems!” the man shouted. From this distance, Orion could not make out the details, but he saw a short sword on the man's waist. The only armor he could see was a leather vest that was doing a valiant job of holding back a gut of epic proportions.
“Perhaps you mean, ‘impasse!’” Orion called back. He stood, and, holding his staff tucked behind his left arm, made his way forward before the shouting could become tedious.
“Yes!” the fat man cleared his throat nervously, “We seem to be at something of an impasse.”
“But we are not,” Orion replied, rolling his shoulders. “I am giving you the chance to walk away, and you are failing to see that that is in your best interests.”
“You’re brave for a lone traveler!” Wrenching his sword from its sheath, the man flourished it in a manner that made Orion want to take the blade from him and use it as a teaching aid. Being slapped with the flat of your own sword was always an effective lesson.
“Brave, but foolish,” the man continued. “I have twenty-seven men with me, and… stop right there! Didn’t you hear me?”
“This is not a play, and bandits do not converse with their victims. I suggest you gather…” a scream from within the trees covered what Orion might have said.
The Al’rashian paused a dozen feet from the supposed robber. His hand tightened around his staff as Reann lightly called out, “Three Archers taken care of. Last one didn’t go easy as the rest.”
“There are four Archers.” Orion briefly considered not warning the woman. He had told her to wait. He had said that things were not as they seemed, but Reann had a reasonable hatred for those that attacked travelers. He hoped she would not regret her actions. He suspected she would unless Orion killed all the ambushers before they could speak.
“Four?” Reann’s question was accompanied by the twang of a bowstring, and she cursed. The sound of breaking branches followed, then a rushing swish and a gurgled scream. Seco
nds later, Reann stepped back onto the road, knives in hand.
“You were right; there were four.” Reann’s cloak was thrown back over her shoulders, revealing her red leather armor and chainmail shoulder guards. There were several twigs stuck in her long brown hair, and sweat covered her oval face. “That was closer than I'm happy to admit.”
“And the spellcasters?” Orion asked flatly.
“Mages! They have…" Reann threw herself to the side as a Firebolt lanced towards her. She activated a Skill as she fell and a green light in the shape of a blade was launched in the direction the Spell had come from. The Wind Cut was rushed, but as Reann rolled back to her feet, an older man tumbled out of the woods, clutching his side.
A second Firebolt from the other side of the road narrowly missed the fat man in the hat as it raced towards Orion. Orion lifted his staff, the tip glowing red, in time to intercept the Spell, and the Firebolt vanished, absorbed by an Elemental.
A bearded man with a staff stepped out of cover, but instead of continuing his assault, he threw his weapon in the dirt. “Spare us, Archmage!”
“Archmage?” The leader of the bandits hurriedly took a step backward.
“What else could he be? He cast Mage Shield without a chant!” The bearded spellcaster screamed, “You’ve brought us to ruin with your moronic plans, Paulus!”
“Enough!” Orion chanted the Spell for Entanglement and, with his left hand, slammed the butt of his staff against the earth. Startled cries came from the trees. Orion concentrated as Qoeveht had taught him. He had not spent much time at the practice of altering his magic, but a tier-one Spell should be within his grasp.
The process did not go as smoothly as Orion imagined. Tier-one Spells were not meant to be modified, they were beginner’s tools. Orion managed, but, as thick vines dragged men from the cover of the trees, he noticed several faces were strained as their owners’ bodies were being squeezed by his Spell. Orion almost lost control of Entanglement as he forced the vines to allow the prisoners some breathing room.
With four archers dead, two spellcasters out of the fight, and twenty-one men captured with a single Spell, it was enough to convince the man who had surrendered that he had done the right thing. “I told you, Paulus! An Archmage! Get on your knees and beg, you fool!”
“Quiet, Samuel!” Paulus shouted. “I'm still free, and the Al’rashian is no Archmage! Unhand my men or…"
Paulus gulped as the metal of Orion’s sword pressed against his neck.
“You are free because your life has been in my hands from the start.” Orion swatted the short sword from Paulus's hand with his staff. “You can answer my questions or…"
“Should I kill the Mages?” Reann had a distasteful twist to her lips. Both men she assumed were Mages were cowering on the ground. One knelt and pressed his forehead to the earth, and the other was holding the slight cut on his side as if he were preventing his insides from falling out.
“Scribes, not Mages,” Orion never took his eyes from Paulus, “And you can kill them if you like, though why you would escapes me.”
“Scribes? You said they were Mages! Why would Scribes be working with Bandits?” Reann made her way through the squirming vines and their captives to stand beside Orion.
“I said spellcasters, you said Mages,” Orion corrected. “And they aren’t Bandits, not yet. There are no combatants here, just Profession holders who have been listening to the wrong stories.”
“No combatants? What about the Archers?” Reann’s eyes widened at Orion’s words.
“They weren’t Archers!” Paulus said shrilly, “They were Laborers! You murdered…"
“Watch your tone… Carpenter,” Orion pressed his sword harder against Paulus’s neck and made a guess at the man’s Profession based on his calluses. “You should have known men would die when you set your trap. She isn’t at fault here. You are.”
Paulus clamped his mouth shut and tried to glare at Orion. He carried too much guilt in his expression to intimidate, and the way his body sagged announced his acceptance of the truth. “Well, you’ve won Al’rashian! What will you do now?”
“Now?” Orion lifted an eyebrow. “Now, I will release your men, and they will tend to the wounded Scribe while you answer my questions.”
Orion did not wait for the fat man’s reply. He released his Spell and sheathed his sword. While Reann stood uneasily beside him, several of the freed men dropped their weapons running to help the bleeding spellcaster, and Orion pinned Paulus in place with a stare.
“Are things so bad in Wallander that Carpenters must become highwaymen?”
“Bad? You could say that,” Paulus grunted. “Three Dungeons collapsed. It’s a guess, but it can’t be less than three, not with the number of Beasts roaming the countryside.”
Orion kept his expression neutral. Bad did not cover it if three Trials had collapsed. That would almost explain why Paulus had brought these men out to claim this section of the road, but it was hard to believe even one Trial had dissolved.
There were Adventurers who made it their trade looking for new or unclaimed Trials. Finding a Dungeon could make an Adventurer rich. With so many eyes on the lookout, it was unheard of for a Trial to collapse in a populated area.
Trials are meant to be challenged. When they go without challengers, a Dungeon’s domain weakens until it fails, and when it fails, all the Beasts it contains are released. A small Trial might unleash a few hundred creatures but a larger one…
“How did this happen?” Orion asked, slightly breathless.
Paulus shrugged. “No one knows. Some suspect a plot against Wallander's governor.”
Orion closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “If that’s true, why are you here, attempting to rob travelers? Wallander and the surrounding towns have walls and Trials of their own. They should be able to hold.”
“We would have!” Paulus flushed, his hands balling. “But the fighting in the cities is worse than what is happening in the countryside. Some of the Noble families are rebelling in the chaos.
“Rebelling, pah.” Paulus spit to the side. “They call it rebellion, but we can all see that they’re trying to seize power for themselves. They’re fighting each other as much as the Governor’s men, and they'll cut the throats of any Commoner that doesn’t declare for their side!”
“I've heard there are Al’rashian clans working in the area. Who has hired them?” Orion’s stomach clenched. In such an unsettled situation, there was a possibility that more than one clan might have been offered a contract. It was something that Al'rashians tried to avoid, but mercenary work had its own issues. From time to time, one clan might be pitted against another.
“Governor Kalis. Some of the others tried to hire the Ridings, but from what I heard, they were turned down. Al’rashians refused to get swept up in the infighting. They’re doing the work of the Governor’s armies. Trying to contain the collapse and escorting refugees,” Paulus’s bluster leaked out of him. “It was Riders that saw us safe on the road south.”
It wasn’t an apology, and his eyes were still hard when they looked at Reann, but there was pleading in them when they turned to Orion. Pleading, if not for forgiveness, then understanding.
“Do you know which clans have sent Riders?”
“Nah, the Riders aren’t much for gossip.” Paulus hurriedly added, “Not that I blame them. They’ve got their hands full. Focused on their business. I can appreciate that.”
“The men what saw us down the road wore red and yellow, if that helps,” Paulus volunteered, seeing Orion’s mood sour.
“Red and yellow?” Orion almost rolled his eyes. “Clan Borrain's colors are crimson and gold with…”
Explaining the intricacies of a clan's colors to a Carpenter was an exercise in futility, and Orion did not bother correcting the man. Besides, for all Orion knew, Paulus was correct. He might have seen red and yellow. He could have been escorted by a minor clan or a group of mercenaries and not Clan Borrain�
��s Riders.
“I'll have to see for myself,” Orion said under his breath. Louder, he said, “A word of advice for you Carpenter, or a caution. Take it how you will.”
Paulus and his men had been thoroughly cowed. Orion might not be the Archmage that the Scribe claimed, but his single Spell had wrapped them up smartly enough. Every ear listened closely to what Orion had to say. “The stories you have heard are true. But it will take more than a robbery to achieve your goals. You’ll need to get your hands bloody. From what I've seen, you don’t have the stomach for it.”
Pushing Paulus to the side with his staff, Orion started out. The man would heed his warning or not; it wasn’t Orion’s concern. Though if the defeated looks on the faces of the men he and Reann passed were any indication, there would be one less group of highwaymen in the area come tomorrow.
Once they were out of earshot, Reann spoke up, her voice falsely cheerful, “What was that about? Giving them lessons on throat cutting?”
“It’s an ancient story. Most dismiss it as an old wives’ tale, but desperate men will listen to it.” Orion’s staff tapped against the ground as he walked. “A story about how a Profession holder can gain a Class.”
Reann snatched up a stalk of grass and chewed at it. “Yeah? Never heard of that happening outside a Dungeon. How’s it done?”
“The easy way?” Orion almost didn’t answer; some knowledge was better forgotten. “Murder, torture, and worse. Paulus probably thinks he can become a Bandit with a little roadside robbery. He can’t, but if he works up the nerve, he can kill his way to a Class. The World recognizes deeds.”
The stalk fell from Reann’s lips. “That’s the easy way?” She swallowed and coughed on grass seed. “What’s the hard way?”
Orion snorted a laugh. “Any man, woman or child can become a Hero.” He did not add that nearly all died trying. Gleefully cutting down another for a handful of coppers could earn you the Murderer or Bandit Class, but to become a Hero required knowingly facing your own death, and you might not see the change to your Status as you breathed your last.