It wasn’t the rescue Lawrence wanted. He didn’t unlock Access the way he’d thought. But he had come out ahead. After a quick discussion involving the other demons, it was decided Lawrence should re-summon Aurelio from the Outside and banish him to wherever he’d been. They might need him in case the Program needed another update. Or in case they wished to become gods.
Lawrence obeyed. He closed his mouth. While he worked, the demons reloaded. Some paced.
“We must leave,” Larissa said.
“Soon,” Ferg promised.
“Status,” Lawrence said. His head spun with the information. Admittedly, most of it was all ‘General Skills,’ the sort of thing governed by Prowess. Grinding their proficiency did little. They were a measure of his experience. Higher levels may unlock nice things, but there were no guarantees. They gave no stat points. Lawrence found it acceptable. Most of them would sit in the background while he trained.
Until he unlocked an Adventurer Job, he’d have to rely on his mutations to get by. He didn’t think he’d have any trouble.
“Lawrence,” Ferg said.
“Hmm? What?”
“Pay attention.”
“Sorry.” Lawrence looked at the floor.
“It's fine. How long will it take you to summon the Aurelio? I want to send him back where he came from. We may need him in the future.”
“Oh. Uh, one hour.”
“An hour?”
“Yeah.” Lawrence cocked his head. “Didn’t you know? Faustian rituals take a long time to work. And there’s no guarantee it will work. I have a chance. I need to unlock the actual Job, take it, then do a lot of rituals to grind. I’ll get better, sure, but there’ll always be a high chance for failure, and it takes a while. In addition, I may not have the ritual.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I have Access, now. I can take the Faustian Job, assuming I qualify.”
“What do you mean ‘assuming’? I thought you were a Faustian, already.”
“I’ve been casting using book-knowledge. I haven’t used the Program for anything—”
“Then why don’t you cast using your book knowledge on the Program?” Ferg raised her voice.
“Captain,” Larissa interrupted. “Stop interrupting and listen.”
Ferg’s face turned red. She threw Larissa a dirty look.
“Thank you, Larissa,” Lawrence said. “If you do the math, I’ve been casting rituals with something like a seventy-percent chance of spell failure.”
“What?” the dead mage said, shocked. “How have you been succeeding?”
“The short version,” Lawrence said after hesitating. “Is willpower combined with components.” He pointed at the ground. “This summoning circle is the largest I’ve ever seen. It’s inlaid with gold and jewels. These aren’t the raw, straight-from-the-mine kind. These are cut, polished. They gleam. Everything about this circle—size, gold, jewels, location—all stack to increase the chance of success.
“I’m using the most powerful summoning ritual available. I’ve got five layers of wards active, again, using the gold and jewels as a foundation. I’ve got a near-infinite supply of soul units in this place. And even though I can’t sense mana, I’ll bet you anything this location is on a mana leyline. People don't 'find' mana leylines. They make them by generating buckets of mana in one area over a period of time."
“How have you been getting iliaster?” Larissa asked after a pause.
“I’m drawing it from the silk.” Lawrence gestured. “The chains act as conduits. The spiders have their prey bound up in webs. Some species of spider wrap their prey up to four hundred times. The pressure of the webs crushes the prey. Swap the webbed-up giant cockroach for a soul, increase the size of the spider a couple hundred times, and stick the ritual chamber in a place like this? This whole area is designed for rituals. My willpower makes up the difference.”
“And your willpower is a lot?” Ferg asked, dubious. “You. A kid from the mortal world.”
“That’s why it works.” Lawrence smiled sadly. “Aurelio was the first one I summoned, and it failed. I had to do it twice before I succeeded. My willpower was shattered from the failure, the fight, everything else today. Once he cursed me with blindness and stuff, rituals became super-easy.”
“But why, though?” Ferg frowned. Her face still flushed, but no longer shouting. “A failure of that magnitude should have shattered you.”
“It did,” Lawrence admitted. “Still processing it. Prolly won’t sink in until my heritage and curse fully manifest.”
“The willpower,” Ferg said. “It doesn’t add up.”
“You’ve never had kids, have you?” Lawrence smiled, sad. “Basically? I want to go home. I miss my mom and dad. This whole adventure, this studying at Nimue’s Tower, learning to be a Faustian, starting a job at a corporation? All just a giant big waste of time. I failed. Now, I’m cursed with blindness, and I don’t get to be a mage. My stuff is all gonna manifest for real next time I sleep. Or, tomorrow, or today, or whenever--I don’t know. I just want to go home. This is the secret. The will of a kid who wants to go home.”
“A kid who wants his mom?” one of the demons asked, snide.
“Child. Boy. Girl. It doesn’t matter. Anyone young enough to want their parents has more desire for home than anything.” Lawrence gestured, “A skilled Faustian can take that desire and turn it into a weapon against the gods. Aurelio can rot in the Outside for all I care. As for summoning him, here’s the catch. Since I’m on the Program now, I use rituals the program gives me. You know what rituals you get at level one? Either the Three Keys: summon, bind, and ward one, or two tier-one Keys and any random tier-one ritual. Casting of Bones, for example.
“So yes,” Lawrence said. His mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “I can, in theory, bring him back. I’ve got the will. But I haven’t unlocked the Summon 5 ritual in the Program yet. I’ll need to cast Summon 1 to show proficiency, then I’ll get Summon 2. Banishing is a high-tier ritual. Directed banishment—so he ends up in a different place—cyberspace—instead of where he is now—the Outside—is even higher. Each ritual takes an hour to cast, but I only get credit if the casting is successful. And even if all the elements are coming together, and I’m using the equipment, there’s only a fifty-fifty chance of success.”
“You were better off without the Program.” Larissa stared.
“With my knowledge, acting a glorified slave? You guys definitely were,” Lawrence replied. He put his journal away. “But my stats were so low I was a liability. I had no free will. Now, I can start catching up.”
Ferg took a deep breath, closed her eyes, raised her eyebrows, and sighed.
“Okay. New plan. Lawrence, you’ll stay here and cast. Kat, you stay here and guard him. Everyone else? We’re going dungeon crawling.”
“Wait.” Lawrence looked around. “You’re not gonna stay?”
“New patch,” Hyene said. He lifted his spear. “Breeds reset. Mutations reworked. Levels remain. We go train.”
“If the patch affected all that,” Lawrence said. “The economy must be. . .”
“Chaos,” Josephine supplied. “Those who gain the most experience will become the most influential. It is a race.”
“Wow.” Lawrence reeled with the implication. To his knowledge, Program patches did not happen. Certainly not in his lifetime. Aurelio’s decision was big. The implications its effects had on the mortal world were staggering.
“And the spider god is still out there. The Alizarin,” Ferg said. “Lawrence, start chanting. Everyone else, let’s go.”
Lawrence took a seat. Everyone except the cat demon trooped off to grind. The cat in question gave Lawrence a look of profound disappointment, then turned away. She ignored him.
“Your name is Kat, right?” Lawrence asked.
“Get to work, human.”
Lawrence began chanting. While he worked, he alternated studying the cat demon and his Status. She was a beast, like him, but she had a kitty-cat’s body. Her fur had a military-style camouflage pattern. Despite looking like a house-cat, she was the size of a lion. She curled up on the ground.
“Status,” Kat whispered. After a long time, she turned her head. Without looking at Lawrence, she said, “Human? Screw you.”
Lawrence kept chanting. He closed his status. He looked sideways.
“As a result of the patch, I have lost several Skills I liked. I was a level 45 Crossbreed, now I’m level 40. I was a level 60 Blood-Soaked Hunter. Now, I’m a level thirty Hunter. Several of my existing Skills have new names. Others were removed. My stats have been recalculated. I hope you die in a fire.”
Lawrence looked away. He heaved a great sigh.
“If you’re looking for sympathy, there is none. Many demons have lost something. We are no longer able to freely pick our mutations.” Kat huffed. “As a Crossbreed and a fellow half-demon, I thought you would know better. Natural demons will grow more powerful than us.”
Lawrence reopened his status. As she said, beasts had a list of Skills. Several Lawrence considered important were not on it. Telepathy. Mortal Shape. He leaned over. He patted Kat’s shoulder. She hissed.
Ritual cast: Summoning 5 Color Job: Aurelio Archivist summoned.
The summoning circle’s rings descended deep into the void. They retracted a moment later supporting an oily mass of black tentacles and eyes. A yellow leather robe and matching mask stood above the slime.
“Mister Aurelio.” Lawrence bowed his head.
“Human. Why have you summoned me?”
“My boss told me to.” Lawrence worked his jaw. “She wants me to banish you back where you came from.”
“I was in cyberspace,” the mask said. Its chin waggled. “How do you propose to send me there? You. . . have not taken the Faustian Job.”
Faustian Job selected. +2 KNW, +2 MNT, +2 SOL. Skills unlocked. Job Description: All Cultists are involved in some freaky stuff. The worst and most powerful barter deals with those who would become Patrons. Instead of making a deal, some Cultists seek to dominate and control the patron. These Cultists become Faustians. Hated, feared, and grudgingly respected by all hellkin, Faustians occupy an uncertain niche in Infernal society. Skill selected: Blasphemous Chant. +3 MNT, +2 SOL Description: More powerful than the Cultist’s Dark Chant, the Blasphemous Chant allows a Faustian to ape the sorcery of angels. Effect: The Faustian intones blasphemous words over a period of time to enact a miraculous effect. While this Skill is active, the Faustian cannot take any other actions, but can be interrupted. When the Chant ends, the spell is automatically and immediately cast.
“A good Skill. Wise decision. Many Faustians choose to leverage their high mana with Mana Shield. Still, it will take you another hour to send me back to cyberspace.”
“I’m working on it. I can level up the Skill, right? What happens when I do?”
“The chance of success increases and the time to chant decreases.”
“Sweet. Well, hold still.” Lawrence chanted for another hour. Bored, Kat began pacing. Lawrence finished the chant. The Aurelio Archivist disappeared.
Summon I: Mastered. Summon II unlocked. Faustian Job Lvl 2 (+2 KNW, +2 MNT, +2 SOL). Warding I: Mastered. Warding II unlocked. Faustian Job Lvl 3 (+2 KNW, +2 MNT, +2 SOL). Binding I: Proficient. Random ritual unlocked: Ritual Preparation Faustian Job Lvl 4 (+2 KNW, +2 MNT, +2 SOL). Blasphemous Chant Lvl. 2 (+3 MNT, +2 SOL).
Lawrence blinked.
“Did you send him to cyberspace?” Kat asked.
“After a fashion.” Lawrence stretched. “There’s a server farm with a couple hundred machines hooked up. It isn’t connected to anything. It’s a database. From what I remember, the technology is ancient. It hasn’t been shut down because the stuff on it is one of those ‘dirty little secrets’ the human government has.”
“Why don’t they erase the secrets?” Kat frowned.
“I dunno. Record-keeping, maybe? Maybe if they go through the process, then the secret becomes public knowledge. Easier to just lock the doors and turn the lights off. Quieter.”
“Shall we search for the others?” Kat rose and stretched. First her forelegs, spreading her paws while leaning backward. Then thrusting her chest forward to stretch her back legs. “Two hours sitting here. I’m bored.”
“I have a favor to ask.” Lawrence looked up from his journal. “I just unlocked three new rituals.”
“So?”
“If I cast something higher than what the Program says I know, I sort of prove to it I deserve to be higher level than I am. I can power-level.”
“No.” Kat gave him a look of impatience. “You may stay and cast, if you want. I will go and find the others. No doubt they have gotten tangled up in some kind of mess and they need me to sort them out. Stupid bipeds.”
Without further ado, Kat padded over to one of the great silken chains. She jumped to the first link of one. Her claws sank into the material. She marched up the lengthy chain with her bushy tail dragging. Heedless of the bottomless pit below her, her posture remained casual.
Lawrence shook his head. He looked around once more to verify he was alone. He drew a Warding II around himself. He made certain it was ‘extroverted,’ which meant it was shielded from outside attacks. He made a second ward of the same strength outside it. Satisfied, he began Ritual Preparation. While he worked, he reviewed his notes.
There are three rituals all Faustians learn first. These are the strongest and most important of any in the Maelstrom. Each must be learned separately, as they allow more powerful entities to be affected. They do not have to be learned in order, so long as one possesses the prerequisites. It is, however, recommended. Learning them in order allows one to collect all the available Stat increases.
Faustian sorcery transcends time and space; there are no defined limits on how far it can reach. Any ritual without a pre-defined limit can affect anything within one world. Maelstrom counts as a single world. Faustian sorcery lasts indefinitely unless otherwise indicated. Killing the Faustian does not automatically cancel any spells she has cast.
A Faustian knows a number of rituals equal to the level of her Sorcery Prowess. When a Faustian demonstrates mastery of a ritual, she learns a new one. She may also attempt to perform rituals she has not Learned via the Program if she has a book or text describing the ritual at hand. In this manner, she may learn new rituals in addition to those the Program has granted.
Lawrence smirked.
Ritual Reparation Prerequisite: Prowess: Sorcery 1 Components: Ritual robes (Sorcery DC -2), staff or rod (Sorcery DC -2), oils and incense (consumed, Sorcery DC -2) Cost: Varies Casting Time: 1 hour Sorcery difficulty: 10 Failure: No effect Resist: None Effect: The most common ritual. Ritual Preparation focuses the sorcerer’s mind. The caster gains +1 to their Sorcery Prowess per point of SOL spent on this ritual to a maximum of +10. The second ritual must be started immediately after Ritual Preparation’s completion.
Thanks to Blasphemous Chant’s level two, it took a little bit less than an hour for Lawrence to complete the ritual. But not a lot less. With his new units and the local supply, he added plus-ten to his Prowess. The spell was a success. He immediately began his summoning.
Summoning I Prerequisites: Prowess: Sorcery 1 Components: Name of the Demon (-15), or name of one who holds a debt from the demon (-10), a sword (-5), incense (consumed, -2), a sacrifice pleasing to the demon (consumed, -2) Cost: 1 SOL per level of the demon and 40% of their VIG. Casting time: 1 hour. Sorcery DC (FCE): 10 + level of the demon. Failure: Demon fails to appear but knows the name of the summoner. Resist: Will save against result of Sorcery check -10 Effect: The summoning ritual calls a demon to attend the caster. The caster holds the sword at arm’s length and recites the demon’s name three times at the height of the ritual. The demon must then resist the caster’s will or be summoned.
“Caster. Caster. Caster. I summon thee,” Lawrence chanted. Lawrence did not bother with his sword. Summoning III did not require it. Summoning III required six ranks in Sorcery, which Lawrence did not possess, 13 Face, and summoning I.
Summoning V had a prerequisite of Sorcery 18, with a Face of 18, and Summoning IV. The ritual was so powerful, Lawrence could have reached out to the mortal world and summoned his mom or his dad. Or the bookseller. Or anyone he didn’t like.
Instead, he summoned a higher-level version of himself. The four-horned sheep materialized in the center of the circle with a bewildered expression. He knew how powerful the ritual used to summon him was. One look at Lawrence was all he needed to do the math. He might be an idiot, in Lawrence’s mind, but he was still a beast. He was intelligent.
“Human.”
“Not human,” Lawrence gloated. “Cambion. I have full Access. I am now a level one—” he checked his status. “Sorry, level five Faustian. Ooo, I leveled up.”
Summon II mastered. Summon III unlocked. Warding II proficient. Ritual Preparation proficient. Faustian Lvl. 5 (+2 KNW, +2 MNT, +2 SOL) Skill Selection available: Sorcerer’s Soul, Sorcerer’s Will, Mana Shield
“I am deeply sorry for everything I’ve done to you,” Caster ducked his head. “Please have mercy on me.”
“In exchange for what?” Lawrence smiled with perfect malice.
“I will do whatever you ask,” the demon bent its front legs. “I will swear any level of Contract.”
Lawrence drummed his fingers. He checked his notes. Decisions, decisions.
“I can be useful,” the demon begged.
“The problem is I hate your guts,” Lawrence said without looking at him. “You have something I want. You’re not strong enough to stop me. And you already tried to kill me once. Almost succeeded.”
“Please.”
“There’s a mutation I need, but I don’t much care where I get it.”
“I know the names of many demons.” Caster lifted his chin. “Many beasts. I will give them to you in exchange for my life.”
“Let me get a pen.” Lawrence uncapped his pen. He opened a fresh sheet of clean paper not from his journal. “Fire away.”
Caster rattled off the names of a dozen different demons. A few were beasts, several were not. Caster, being a Faustian, preferred to operate alone so no one replaced him. He made few friends. He was more than happy to turn over their information to Lawrence to save his own wretched skin. Lawrence wrote it all down.
“Thank you, master,” the demon sighed with relief after finishing. “Now, hold up your end of the bargain and let me go. Please,” he added.
Lawrence took a deep breath. He savored the rush. He felt powerful. For the first time in his life, strong. It was an intoxicating cocktail. Lawrence wondered what kind of rush he’d get from binding someone powerful. Someone whose death would create echoes.
“You get a lot more polite when I have you over a barrel,” Lawrence said.
The demon’s mouth twitched, as if he couldn’t decide how to react.
“Tell me something, Caster.” Lawrence closed his journal. “If the situations were reversed, would you let me go?”
“Yes,” the demon said without hesitation.
“Liar,” Lawrence said, but without accusation. “I’m afraid I don’t know the ritual to let you leave. I’ll have to banish you. It will take a few hours.”
“Okay,” the demon said. His voice shook. “Thank you.”
Lawrence began chanting. He felt good. Better than he’d been in a while. He’d been wondering when Caster had outlived his usefulness. When it would be good to pounce on him, to quote Kat. Wait until he got home? He’d draw Hell’s attention and maybe cause a Hellgout to bring to himself back. Do it on the surface? It would take too long, assuming he could do it at all. Wait until he needed the Skill?
Bind I mastered. Bind II unlocked. Faustian Lvl. 6 (+2 KNW, +2 MNT, +2 SOL). Skill Selected: Sorcerer’s Soul – Max level. (SOL regeneration per day: 2)
Better to do it now while he could still see. He wasn’t happy about losing his face so soon. He’d have to borrow a shape-changing ring from Frost. Still, it was a choice between having a wolf’s head, a cow’s head, or a llama’s head. His mom was a wolf. Cosmic was totally ‘him.’ But the cow’s head was required to rank up into a dragon.
On the other hand, llama wool could be harvested and spun into yarn. Dragon manes could, but they were not as. . . they had different properties. Not all dragons had manes.
“Human,” Caster begged. “I don’t think you’re banishing me where I came.”
Lawrence rolled his eyes. This was the part which sucked. Having to listen to inane prattle while he worked.
And boy, did Caster complain. He begged. He threatened. He bargained. He offered wealth. Treasure. Knowledge beyond imagining. Lawrence closed his eyes. It was easier to focus if he could not see.
“Wait, mi’lord. There is something you do not know. If you bind my mutations,” the demon’s voice got faster. “I will try to possess you. Your will cannot erase me. No matter how long you live, a part of me will always live within you. I will always be there. I will whisper. I will complain. I will fight. Nothing you do will ever conquer me. I will not—I cannot leave.”
Lawrence’s blasphemous chant halted. He froze with his mouth open. Which meant the entire hour-long chant was a complete waste of time. Regardless, the demon had a point. Lawrence was stealing a part of the little monster and grafting it to his body. The demon could try to possess him. Worse, Lawrence’s track record for resisting possession attempts or psychic damage was low. He was allowing the demon a literal backdoor into his mind. A vulnerability.
Even worse was the Skill Lawrence was attempting to steal. Beast Form, or Animal Aspect, was the most common mutation for beasts. After the Patch, one required beast heritage to get it. Lawrence would take its Rank Ups when he was ready. If he was going to use this ritual, he could not have picked a worse victim.
A better option would be a mutation restricted to a different breed. Doofy's Rage Mode, for example, or a rival corporation’s noble mutation. Lawrence took a deep breath.
“All right. Get out of here.”
“You need to give me permission. Use License to Depart.”
“Say please.”
“Please.” Caster sounded relieved and infuriated.
License to Depart was a simple ritual. Lawrence was about to begin when he had a moment of insight. Rule 5 of the Faustian Code stated a demon should not be allowed to go free with anger in its heart. It must be kept bound or placed in chains. Most demons still thought of Faustians as arrogant enemies to be knocked off their high horses and crushed.
It was clear Caster had the same opinion. Lawrence flipped through his journal. He thought for long moment. He took out one of the bottles of agony.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“Agony wine?” Caster’s eyes widened. “Where did you acquire it?”
Lawrence took a sip. The wine tasted like the hottest, spiciest pepper in the world. His skin flushed. His heart hammered. A feeling like burning lava scoured his veins. A feeling like a delicious thrill overwrought the pain. It was as if all the pain someone felt had been transmuted into liquid pleasure. If he wasn’t a demon, no doubt Lawrence would have screamed.
Lawrence poured the remaining amount into the chalice. With the empty bottle, he began chanting.
Binding II Prerequisites: Prowess: Sorcery 5. Ritual: Binding I. Components: iron chain (-8). Cost: 5 SOL, 1 FCE. Casting time: 10 minutes. Sorcery DC (FCE): 10. Failure: Apply the normal results of the ritual, but swap the roles of demon and caster. Resist: None, but see effects. Effect:
The second form of the binding ritual attempts to force the demon into service by creating a Contract between the two. Unlike a normal Contract, where the two parties can try to influence the final bond through honeyed words or a show of force, the ritualistic binding cuts through all niceties. The Contract begins at strength-50. The two then resist it with their will, and add or subtract the difference from the Contract strength. If the demon reduces the strength to zero, the spell fails.
Unlike normal Contracts, Contracts created this way do not stack with existing Contracts between the debtor and holder. This Contract replaces them, even if this new Contract is weaker.
“You monster,” Caster hypocritically exclaimed.
Contract completed. Contract strength: 100. Congratulations. You have convinced the beast demon known as Caster to sell his soul to you. You have gained more EXP than you would by killing him. For signing the Contract without giving him anything in return, you have gained a bonus EXP multiplier. Cambion Job Lvl. 2 (+2 PWR, +4 SKL, +2 KNW, +2 AGI, +2 PER). Binding II mastered. Binding III unlocked.
“You stupid mud-crawling, slime-eating, worm-writhing—”
“Call me ‘master,’ I command you.”
“Yes master,” Caster amended. “Master is a stupid, mud-crawling—”
“Keep your mouth shut until I tell you to speak.”
The demon’s lips snapped closed. He continued to move his jaw and make sounds through his nose.
“Be silent. I don’t want to hear you.”
The demon quieted. He paced around the circle, glaring horns—since it was pretty hard to glare daggers when one has no hands.
Lawrence took a deep breath. Conquering and or humiliating foes brought more experience than killing. He would have to get creative. He placed the empty bottle on the ground. He began chanting again.
Binding III Prerequisites: Sorcery 11, binding I. Components: Iron chain (-8), ritual oils and incense (consumed, -4), host object (consumed, -8). Cost: 4 FCE Casting Time: 10 minutes Sorcery DC: 15 Failure: None. Resist: Victim’s Will opposed by Caster’s Sorcery. Effect: Forces the demon into a host object, generally called a demon flask. Should the victim fail, they are trapped within the flask until it is opened again. If the flask is broken, the demon is released. The demon is unaware of the world outside and is in essence out of existence while bound inside the flask. It cannot be summoned and is much more difficult to locate by sorcery. Its Contracts still hold. A common punishment is to force the demon into a Contract, then seal the demon into a flask, and have the Contract transfer itself to whomever opens the flask.
“Nooo,” Caster wailed. His body turned into a gas. Like a genie getting sucked into a lamp, or Jumanji drawing Alan Parish into its nightmare jungle, so Caster was forced into the bottle. Lawrence corked the bottle. He held it up. The inside held a ruby-red liquid like transparent wine. In the middle floated a miniature version of the demon. The demon’s Status and Contracts appeared on the bottle as a label.
Binding III mastered. Binding IV unlocked.
“Problem solved.” Lawrence put the bottle in his bag of holding. He went over the list of demons Caster had given him. In a perfect world, he’d steal mutations from all of them. But doing so meant he’d have a dozen demons ganging up on him with possession attempts. Unless the theft was for something priceless, it was not worth it. Even a valuable theft carried risks. The greater the value, the greater the possessor’s influence. Binding five was a powerful ritual, but not one he much wanted.
Putting the demon inside the bottle had cost Lawrence five points of his Face stat. He wouldn’t get those back. Binding the demon into servitude, then prison, literally made Lawrence uglier. He shook his head. To Do: get either a Skill or ritual for draining stats from victims.
He took out the bottle. He wrapped it in some spare t-shirts and a sweater. Then he put it back.
If he summoned and bound the remaining demons, he’d lose all his Face points. Without them, there were a handful of rituals he could cast. Not to mention he’d be uglier than a warthog’s wet backside. The most important were the ones to escape Hell and change his species. He wanted to give his acquaintances a chance to come along. Ferg, especially. She was human. Didn’t she deserve a chance at redemption?
Lawrence smiled to himself. Level 2 Cambion and Level 6 Faustian. He had one more Job Slot available, but the Program specified it had to be anything other than Adventurer. He knew what he wanted. He still had to qualify.
His stomach growled. It was then he realized he was hungry. How long had he been casting? If each ritual took an hour. . . all the rest of the day and most of the night? Hell operated on a forty-eight-hour day. He still thought in terms of twenty-four-hour days. Lawrence yawned.
Ferg said she’d be back after two hours. It had been much longer. Which meant she had run into trouble. Lawrence considered what kind of enemy would cause trouble for thirty-odd high level demons who were doubtless more than a little frustrated at the lack of treasure. Something nasty, he thought.
Well, they were demons. Larissa was nice, but she shoved him first into a boss room knowing the door would slam shut. Kat was mean. Hyene. . . he didn’t know Hyene. He didn’t trust Josephine. He didn’t like Ferg, but she was human. Did he trust Ferg more or less than Lilith? It depended on many factors.
What he should do was cast the ritual required to leave Hell. It required few components. He had the soul units. He could do it without requiring the components a regular version needed. Namely, an iron cage and a breathing apparatus. Something like a giant submarine to make it through the Lethe clouds and the Void without losing one’s memories or falling prey to psychic energy. Gellar fields didn’t exist, as far as he knew.
Lawrence reviewed the Scrying spell in his journal. After another slightly-less-than-an-hour of chanting, an image appeared. The spell called for a magic mirror or crystal ball. Non-magic mirrors were also acceptable. Lawrence used his phone. To him, the scrying spell manifested as Facetime.
He saw a cluster of webbed-up bodies. He panned around. He saw Larissa’s parasol jutting from a poorly-wrapped cocoon. Ferg’s shotgun lay on the ground. A pair of mutated spiders kept trying to wrap a hissing, spitting, clawing Kat.
“Oh crap.”
The saving grace was silk covered everything. Wait, how was silk a saving grace? Lawrence frowned as his brain ran several steps ahead of him. He had the makings of a plan. Not a real plan, as it would not accomplish the goal he wanted. Then who or what did the plan benefit?
He blinked. He considered burning the webs. The demons had resistance to fire. Ferg didn’t, Josephine he didn’t know, but they had health potions. The demons would survive. More important, the entire inverted valley-city of spiders would burn. The great summoning circle, a marvel of engineering and resource management, would be lost. Worse, the silk connected to the silkways above the Ring. A third of the ring would burn. Most of Thug Swarm’s estates, the sky-ports, the Minotaur line, Dalheim. All of it would burn. It was a lot of EXP free for the taking.
It was also evil. Deliberate mass murder was a sin worth many corruption points. Many mortal servants and slaves would die. But in the end, the vast majority of storm denizens were unrepentant demons requiring the suffering of the damned to survive. Given the chance, they would do the same to him and his world.
His father would say it was wrong. Mom, not so much. Mom might burn it all for the free EXP and then spend a fortune on SOL lowering her COR. Would Lawrence? He sighed.
He drew his knife. Leaving the safety of his summoning circle, he approached the magnificent one. He knelt at the edge. With his knife, he pried a few of the bigger stones out of the gold. He didn’t have the tools or time to harvest the gold. Such was a task for machinists.
Lawrence took a few handfuls of baubles. Some of them were valuable. A tanzanite the size of a chicken’s egg, cut, clear, flawless, and no window. A fire opal. Sunset rubies. Black opals. A white pearl the size of a baseball. A cluster of platinum-colored Tahitian pearls the size of marbles. Diamonds, of course. An amethyst. “Regular” rubies, sapphires, and emeralds. All were oversized and flawless, which meant their prices ranged from thousands to tens of thousands of dollars.
Lawrence preferred the pearls. Perhaps it had something to do with his request of a sea silk mutation. He had always wanted to see the sea. He bet it was beautiful. After stealing the umpteenth jewel, the circle broke. It wasn’t a conscious thing. There was no electric background hum going silent. It was no different from smearing the chalk outlines he drew.
The difference here being without the stones, the circle may not be able to be repaired. Other stones could fix it, but Lawrence doubted many craftsmen would be willing to try. Destroying this circle was akin to destroying a priceless treasure of art. He took a few pictures with his phone. Mom would appreciate all the stones.
Finished, Lawrence climbed the silk chain Kat had taken. Lacking claws, traversing its links proved treacherous. The wind howled below him. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. Lawrence feared he’d lose his grip and fall.
At last, he made it. Tracks in the dust led the way. Where the dust ended, body parts and fresh blood marked a path. He followed the path down a series of tunnels. He avoided the obvious traps. The non-obvious ones had layers of dust covering them. Wherever Lawrence did not see dust, he assumed the spiders walked.
Lawrence stepped into a vast cavern. Silver nets covered every surface. Vast columns of silk hung from the ceiling. Hanging from the columns were boulders the size of buildings. There was no floor. Spiders had created a great net between the rocks. Everything was covered in silk. Lawrence saw hundreds of dead demons. Body parts had been swept into piles. Not all the corpses were dead. A few of them lay dying or wounded. Healing was not going to happen. These demons were no different from any other, except where no one cared if they survived.
His party hung from the ceiling trapped in webs. Most were upside-down. All of them were silken mummies in various states of cocooning. They writhed as several spiders worked to finish sealing them up. Lawrence summoned his Jade Claw. He walked quiet. He took down the first spider with a single slash. The others leaped into motion. Demons screeched as Lawrence fought.
He retreated from his party for more space. Ichor and body parts flew. Lawrence did not panic. In fact, the demons seemed kind of weak. Lawrence decapitated the final one. He turned toward the mummies when the boss appeared.
“Hello,” said a man. He had onyx skin, pointed elven ears, long white hair, and blood-red eyes. He wore a suit of silver-gray chainmail, over which was a black cloak. He had boots made from the same material as his armor. In his right hand he held an arming sword covered in green fluid. In his left hand was a small crossbow. He pointed it pointed straight at Lawrence’s heart.
“I am the matron’s consort,” the man said. “My name is Welvor Despath, first son of House Despath of the Shadowlands. Have you come to kill me?”
“No.” Lawrence shook his head. He dismissed the claw and put his hands up. “I’m just a kid from the mortal world. I was just gonna collect my, uh, acquaintances and leave.”
“These people?” the elf gestured with his sword. “They killed my mistress. I demand justice.”
“I know.” Lawrence’s mouth twisted. “I’m sorry. I wish I could bring her back.”
“Why?” the elf frowned. “She was evil and cruel. She would have killed you all, and then feasted on your souls forever.”
“Yeeeahhh,” Lawrence said, uncomprehending. “Then why?”
“Because she was my mistress.” The elf raised his crossbow. “And our children are dead. So you must die.”
Lawrence ducked as the bolt shot toward him. He ran sideways as the elf reloaded. He ran around a pillar. Another bolt flew past his ear. Lawrence kept running. He dashed around a second pillar.
“What kind of elf are you?” he shouted.
“I am a Shadow Elf,” Welvor Despath replied. His voice came from the other side of the pillar.
Lawrence sank his fingernails into the material. He pulled himself up.
“Are those poisoned?” he called.
“Yes,” Welvor said from next to the pillar. His voice moved.
Lawrence climbed faster.
“The poison I am using is generated from my mutation. I have selected paralysis. Your muscles lock. You become unable to move. Then my children tie you up. Were my mistress alive, she would eat you. As it is.” He came around the pillar. “My children are hungry.”
He looked left and right. He saw a lantern on the floor. Thankfully, its dangerous warm flame was sealed inside a glass bottle. Welvor’s eyes hurt from the light. He had to look away.
“Where are you, child?” Welvor called. “You cannot hide.”
A gunshot pierced the quiet. A bullet hit Welvor in the back of his head. He staggered from the blow. His cloak caught the projectile, preventing penetration. But it still hurt. He crouched. He searched the darkness. Another gunshot spoke.
Finally, he looked up. The mortal clung to the side of a stalactite cluster. Welvor shot a bolt toward him. The mortal did not move. Welvor’s eyes needed to readjust from the lantern. His shot went wide. The mortal’s shot did not. Welvor took the bullet in the head.
A mortal would have died. Welvor was made of sterner stuff. His health took a hit, but he kept moving. He blocked the next shot with his sword.
“Stop hiding and come fight me, you coward,” Welvor called.
“Poison is a woman’s weapon,” Lawrence replied. “Are you a woman?”
“Is that a serious question, boy?” Welvor snapped. He backed away.
Lawrence fired twice. Welvor blocked the first shot but not the second. Welvor fired his crossbow. He hit the rocks above Lawrence’s head. Welvor took another bullet to his forehead. Another hit his cheek.
“Actually yes,” Lawrence said while reloading. “I can’t tell you apart. I think it’s the long hair and dominatrix outfit.”
“This isn’t a dominatrix uniform,” Welvor retorted. “This armor is spidersilk mail. It is standard-issue for the Shadow Elf army. Both my cloak and mail are made from it.”
“Anything resistant to bullets has my respect,” Lawrence said. “You wouldn’t believe how much the adventuring landscape changed when we introduced guns. Steamrolled everything in our path,” he added.
He continued shooting. Welvor continued backing away and blocking, but his health chipped down. He tripped over something. He heard glass shatter. He glanced away for a precious second. Four bullets smacked into his unprotected head.
Welvor reeled as his health dropped into the red.
“Wait,” the elf yelled. His vision blurred. He went to his knees. Another bullet tore into his shoulder. “Before you kill me, I have a request.”
Quiet descended. Welvor’s ears rang from the guns. He knew he’d lost much of his hearing.
“I’m listening.”
“My house’s symbol.” Welvor fished an amulet from under his shirt. “It’s enchanted. It allows one to use the Blink Strike Skill. Let me live and it’s yours.”
There was a pause.
“I’m really more interested in your armor,” Lawrence said. “One of my goals is to learn how to weave spidersilk. I’m pretty close to achieving it. I’d like to learn how your people do it.”
“Spidersilk armor is one of our species secrets,” Welvor said. He bent over toward the human, as if prostrating. His hand went to his belt. “It is forbidden to share it with a human.”
“I’m a half-demon,” Lawrence said. “Half-beast and half-spider. And half-starling, like a demigod."
Lawrence slid down one of the silk ropes. He hit the ground hard.
“Die.” Welvor jumped up. He dropped an empty health potion vial.
Lawrence was ready. He spread his feet. He bent his knees. He held his gun with both hands. His thumbs lay parallel, cradling the weapon. He fired every bullet in his magazine into the elf’s face. He ejected the magazine and slapped in another. He racked the slide.
The elf stumbled as his health depleted. It went almost to zero, but the potion was still active.
“Die you insignificant—” Welvor began.
Lawrence emptied another magazine into Welvor’s face. And so died Welvor Dispath, of House Dispath, of the whatever-it-was. Lawrence put his sidearm away. He drew his pocket revolver.
The elf groaned.
Lawrence blinked.
Welvor’s amulet glowed with ultraviolet light. It crumbled to dust in the next few seconds. His health rapidly regenerated.
“Second Chance,” Welvor said.
"So not Blink Strike?"
"I lied."
"Huh." Lawrence fired six bullets from his pocket revolver into the elf’s head. He reloaded using moon clips.
The elf stood. Welvor staggered toward him with murder in its eyes.
Lawrence fired his remaining six bullets. He went for his sword. The elf slashed. Lawrence’s arm moved of its own accord. Two blades met in a flash of sparks. Lawrence’s buckler appeared in his hand. He used it to bat the elf’s crossbow aside as they traded blows.
His body moved, but Lawrence did not know how. His saber training was not advanced enough for this.
Focus. Help me.
He put the questions out of his mind. He pushed forward. The elf was desperate, but so was Lawrence. They seemed to be evenly matched. Lawrence had never been a good swordsman. His mind raced even as his arm moved to block.
Focus.
The silk armor was pretty. Lawrence thought about how he could duplicate it. Perhaps a knitting stitch? It resembled chainmail, thus knitting. But the cloak was a complete piece of fabric, thus weaving. And sewing, to tie it all together. Lawrence had never liked sewing.
"I can kill you," Welvor said.
"Please don't," Lawrence replied. "This is kinda fun."
Welvor growled, "You are fighting for your life."
"I think I'm possessed by a demon's soul. Maybe just a small piece," Lawrence said. His mouth gave voice to his thoughts. He realized he wasn't blinking. His arms moved in response to Welvor, directing or blocking or cutting. Lawrence had the advantage. Welvor couldn't use his crossbow this close. Lawrence kept batting it out of the way with his buckler. Their swords met in the air like two lovers having a furious shouting match. Sparks showered. "I think he's the one fighting."
Focus.
Lawrence tried. He really did. His mind kept wandering off on a tangent. He heard the clanging steel and the yellow sparks flying, and he saw it was beautiful. It reminded him of a sunset. Oh, how he wanted to see a sunset. He imagined seeing the last rays reflecting off the clouds, turning the colony's sky purple and magenta, drawing out the hues of the red grass, refracting off the glittering glass-and-steel habitat towers, the smell of wet earth after the rainstorm.
Focus.
Any time Lawrence did a repetitive, boring task he zoned out. He realized his arm felt heavier. He was tiring.
"I am tired of fighting." Welvor's scarlet eyes blazed. "Die worm," he shouted.
Welvor stepped back. He raised his sword for an overhead slash. His arm shot down as he activated a Skill.
Lawrence stepped forward. He raised his own sword at an angle. When Welvor's blade hit, Lawrence's arm shook from the impact. His own sword flew out of his hand. Welvor cut deep into his shoulder. Lawrence felt his poncho vibrate. It wasn't enchanted in the traditional sense. It had been made by a male witch. The poncho had been woven with the llama's love and protection. Lawrence felt the impact deaden, as if the sword tried to slash an over-stuffed pillow. Lawrence took damage. His health fell into the red, but he didn't lose the arm. He stepped forward as if to hug the elf. Then his jaw unhinged.
“What the—?” the elf exclaimed.
Lawrence bit down on Welvor’s exposed neck. His teeth sank through flesh. He tasted sweaty skin, then hot blood. His teeth met. He regained full control over his body. He ripped his head away. He wasn’t certain if he was the one pulling back or if the elf shoved him. Either way, he took out a chunk from the Shadow Elf’s neck. Instead of swallowing, Lawrence spat.
"No," the elf whispered. He clapped a hand to his neck. It did not matter. His legs gave out like a puppet with its strings cut.
And so died Welvor Dispath. Again. This time he stayed dead. Lawrence picked up the elf's thirty-inch arming sword. He wiped it on his pant leg and put it away.
Light grew in the cavern. Fire licked up the side of a silk column. There would be no stopping it now. Lawrence put his boot on the elf’s crossbow. He pulled it out of the elf’s hand. Blood spilled over the ground. Lawrence wasted no time in removing the elf’s cloak and gear. Everything went into his bag of holding. If Lawrence couldn’t use it, he’d sell it.
With the consort taken care of, Lawrence moved back to the mummies. He cut them open one by one. He yoinked someone's potion and drained it.
“Hello captain.”
“Lawrence?” Ferg blinked at him from upside-down. "What are you doing here?"
“You’re lucky I stopped by. Any longer ‘n you’d have been—”
“GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE.”
Lawrence cut the cords on her wrists. Ferg did the rest herself. She felt to the ground in an undignified heap. Lawrence cut the rest of the demons out. They searched for and reclaimed their stolen weapons.
“Thank you for saving us, Lawrence,” Larissa said.
“Yeah, thanks,” Hyene said.
“Let’s get out of here, people,” Ferg yelled. “This whole place is burning down. Lawrence. Did you bag the treasure?”
“What treasure?” Lawrence frowned. He gestured to an alcove where the consort had been living. The accommodations were spartan. There was no treasure chest. Instead, there was a pile of discarded gear gathered from previous adventurers.
Ferg and the demons studied the pile for all of two seconds. Then they stuffed the best pieces into their packs.
“What a colossal waste,” Josephine declaimed. “No treasure from the matron. Nothing from the consort. Doesn’t this dungeon have anything of value?”
“Just one,” Lawrence said. “Follow me.”
He ran back down the hall toward the central valley. The demons followed. Lawrence had the distinct impression they were not following him. Rather, the tunnel was the only exit. Fire raced along the silk. Out in the open air, the howling winds fanned the flames.
“We need to get high,” Ferg shouted.
“The fire is moving too fast,” Larissa screamed. “We can’t cross the bridges.”
“We’re trapped,” one of the demons observed.
“Guys,” Lawrence waved. “If I use the Hellgout ritual, we can ride it out. We’ll leave Hell, but we’ll be safe.”
“We need iliaster to survive, Lawrence,” Larissa said. “How do you propose we get it?”
“I can change your species to something that doesn’t require it. Half-demons, or regular mortals. Any species.” Lawrence gestured toward the summoning platform. “We get on that. We hold out as long as possible, then we leave.”
The demons looked at each other.
“Hell won’t allow us to leave,” Ferg said. “Our corruption is too high.”
“I can do it,” Lawrence said.
More looks. Ferg looked for support. Josephine was silent.
“All right, Lawrence,” Larissa said. “We’ll give it a try.”
Lawrence dashed along the cliff’s edge toward the great chains. The demons followed. He began chanting even before he started the climb. He pushed his glasses up. Wind howled all around. Fire climbed the walls. The chain shuddered under their motion.
“Let’s get off this thing, everyone,” Ferg ordered.
Lawrence picked up the pace. He made it safely to the other side. He now had a fear of bridges. He ran to the summoning circle. He fished out the jewels. He placed them back in their places. He didn’t know which ones he got right. He drew a ward. The demons stepped over the line. Lawrence drew a ward.
“Come on, Lawrence,” Ferg ordered.
Lawrence’s chanting changed to an irritated tone. He shot her a glare, received one. He finished the layers of wards. The platform groaned as the fire reached one of the chains. Lawrence kept chanting.
The chain snapped. The entire platform listed. Lawrence held his palm parallel to the floor. He moved his arm up and down.
“You want us to sit?” Ferg asked.
Lawrence nodded. The group sat.
The second chain groaned, opposite the first. Lawrence pulled the chalice and the remaining bottle of agony. He offered the bottle to Josephine. As a Lady, she liked to believe she was first in line.
“Thank you, Lawrence.” Josephine took a sip and passed the bottle to Ferg. Ferg did the same and passed it to one of the demons.
The second chain snapped. The platform tilted sideways. Everyone on it slid toward the edge. Everyone screamed. Light flared from the ward. A wall of technicolor light blocked them. The third chain groaned. It snapped a moment later, followed by the fourth. The platform fell.
Everyone screamed. Lawrence held his glasses to his nose with one hand. With his other he held onto his poncho for dear life. He finished the chant. He opened his eyes. The platform tumbled in the storm like a piece of cardboard. A dome of light prevented anyone from leaving the circle. Lawrence’s stomach somersaulted.
He heard a roar. Fire whooshed. A river of vermilion shot up like a geyser. It impacted the platform. Everyone flattened as the world’s fastest elevator changed direction. The fire carried them up, up, up. Higher and higher. Through the upside-down valley, past the burning dungeon, up into the underside of mountains and then through, like a cork exploding from a bottle, the mountaintop shot skyward, borne by the platform. The river of fire carried it up, through the silkways, burning as it went. Up, through the sky that was always on fire, past the false-sun Morningstar making its final, cooling descent. Darkness descended on the Maelstrom. Still the geyser blew.
The mountaintop slid off. It descended to one of the other rings, where it would crush anything unfortunate enough to be in its way. Still the platform rose. The fiery gout carried it higher, past the white featureless deserts of Emptiness, past the towering cliffs stretching to the sky. The platform approached the chartreuse Lethe clouds.
“Deep breath,” Lawrence screamed. He covered his face. He sucked in a great lungful of air. The platform hit the wall of memory-erasing clouds. They did not part. The fire roared through them. To Lawrence’s immense relief, the wards blocked the clouds. Lightning flashed around them as the Storm of Hell tried to prevent their escape. The platform kept rising.
“When Icarus needed to escape from King Minos,” Lawrence bellowed. “His father made him wings. He warned Icarus not to fly too high, but the exhilaration of flying was too great. So, he flew higher and higher, until the sun melted the glue on his wings, and he fell into the sea.
“But our wings are not made from wood and paper. Our wings are marble and gold. Our glue is the fires of Hell powered by the ancient Malefic Arts, which predate the Program and its god. Our wings will not fall apart under the Storm. The sun will not melt our glue. We will make it. We will survive.”
The clouds parted. Lawrence saw a starless sky with scattered black clouds. An enormous pale moon hung overhead. Towering crags and plunging gorges filled the space. It reminded him of Tempest, but it was clearly different. For one thing, it had a moon. For another, no silk. No snow.
The fire illuminated everything. Lawrence thought he saw a bipedal figure standing on a slope. The platform flew past miles-high mountains which scraped the sky. The fire arced over a great, vast city of dark stone. Lawrence saw people with pale skin manning the battlements. A great king, a giant, sat on a throne on a roof above the city. The throne was carved from white bone. The king lifted his eyes to the plume of fire overhead. Raising one crooked finger, he pointed.
The platform flew past. Lawrence saw lakes and rivers. Deserts. Swamps. Tundra. Forests. Volcanoes. Oceans. The fire descended through the sky toward a cluster of buildings on a field of blood. The fire impacted the ground outside the cluster. The platform slid along the fire like a waterslide. When it hit the grass, it kept sliding like a granite puck on ice.
The platform came to a halt outside the town’s borders. The fiery plume vanished.
“Thank you for riding blasphemous miracles,” Lawrence intoned. “Remember to remain seated until the captain has turned off the seatbelt sign. Please collect all personal items from the overhead storage bin before disembarking. Please remember to take your children with you. Abandoned children will be sold as slaves. Thank you and have a nice day.”
“Nice job, kid,” Ferg said. She untangled herself from the mass of demons. “Can we leave?”
“Just a sec.” Lawrence deactivated the wards. “Wards are down. It looks like we’re still in the shadow realm. I need to use the Shadow Passage ritual-thing to get us back to the mortal world. Otherwise, we’re trapped here until a Hellgout drags us back.”
“How long will until a Hellgout drags us back?” Larissa asked.
“About three weeks, give or take."
"And how long until the ritual is cast?" Josephine asked.
"About five seconds.”
“I smell adventure,” one of the demons said.
“Let’s get out of here,” Josephine said. “By the way, thanks for sharing the wine. I didn’t think we’d survive.”
“You’re welcome.” Lawrence cast the ritual. A hole appeared in the air. Lawrence saw blue sky through it. Warm sunlight shone on the shadow realm’s ground. He glanced at the demons. “I’m not waiting.”
Lawrence walked through the portal. He closed his eyes. The sun hurt after so long in the dark. Lawrence stopped. He felt warm for the first time in he didn’t know how long. He tugged his hood lower. He shaded his eyes. He stood inside the colony limits. The colony was one of the few settlements not to have a wall. Foolish, Lawrence thought.
In the time since he’d been away, machine gun nests had been erected around the perimeter. Lawrence saw robot-controlled turrets mixed among them. Soldiers jogged the perimeter in groups. They all wore combat gear. Beyond them, Lawrence saw a barbed wire fence and a sign with one word: minefield.
No Bronze Age wall surrounded the city, but a modern wall of mines and barbed wire did. Beyond the minefield lay red grass and red trees. The local aliens called it the Forest of Forever Fall. Lawrence was just glad to see the blue sky.
“We made it.” Captain Ferg looked around. “After all this time. I can’t believe it.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Lawrence said. “I need to lower your Corruption stat ASAP. Same with the demons. I can do one ritual a day, but doing them increases my own corruption. In Hell it wasn’t a problem. Out here. . .”
“I understand,” Ferg said. She helped Lady Josephine through the portal. Following them came thirty demons and two damned souls. Everyone looked around with great interest.
“At least the weather’s nice here,” Wormwood said.
“This place has a lot of rules,” Lawrence told them. “The first thing to do is get you registered as Clay-Rank adventurers. My government can’t touch you if you’re registered.”
“What happens if we don’t?” Wormwood asked.
“You’ll get vivisected and studied,” Lawrence said. “Demons don’t have the same rights as aliens. Most aliens don’t have the same rights as humans. Aliens like to follow the spirit of the law rather the letter. For them, Earth-human litigation is something of a nightmare.”
“Where is the adventurers’ guild, kid?” Larissa smiled at him. “Lead the way.”
Lawrence gestured. Turning, he wandered off in its general direction. The buildings were not made of wood. Concrete and steel had been imported from Earth. Lawrence stuck to the sidewalk. Paved roads were a thing in this world, but asphalt was an invention.
There were few cars. Horses and carriages were the mode of travel.
“There doesn’t seem to be many people here,” Josephine observed.
“They’re all inside enjoying the air conditioning,” Lawrence said. “One of the people groups who immigrated, the Greeks, have this cultural quirk they love. It’s called siesta. The entire town gets up early in the morning and works until lunch. Then siesta kicks in, and everyone goes on break for four hours. Once the sun goes down the heat of the day is over. Businesses reopen.”
“Siesta,” Larissa sounded the syllables, tasting the word. “I like it.”
“Here is the adventurers’ guild.” Lawrence pointed to a wooden building modeled after a Renaissance tavern. It had existed before the concrete and steel. Chatter and the smells of hot food emanated. Lawrence’s stomach growled.
“The Imperial Registry of Independent Itinerant Agents.” Ferg read the sign. “Da-fuq?”
“The official words.” Lawrence pushed the door open. Inside, adventurers and mercenaries sat around tables. Gunslingers, swordsmen, spellcasters—Lawrence felt a pang of hurt—and rogues drank, ate, and gambled. Lawrence led the way to the counter. As the party of demons and damned entered, conversation died.
“Hello.” Lawrence said to the drake woman behind the counter.
“How may I help you?” the woman asked. She had lime-green scales, claws, and yellow-green eyes. She wore a dress in the Roman style.
“These people all need to get registered as Clay-Ranks.”
“Ooo-kay,” the drake lady said. She pulled up pen and a pad of paper. “I’ll need some information to get started.”
Lawrence stepped aside.
“I’ll go first,” Wormwood said. He stepped up to the counter. He smiled, but on him it looked scary. He wore baggy black pants and no shirt. He was bald. He had a gut. At ten feet tall, he towered over everyone. “Hi. My name is Wormwood.”
“Species, Job, and Level, please.”
“Demon, drone. Iron Shepherd of the Damned, level 50.”
The secretary’s eyes got round.
Lawrence tapped Ferg and Josephine. He pointed outside. He left. They followed.
“You think the demons will be all right?” Ferg asked.
“Once they get registered, sure.” Lawrence set off at a brisk walk. “They’re mercenaries. They know what they’re doing. You’re their leader. Once I introduce to my parents you can show the demons how to find me.”
“We’re not going to an inn?” Josephine asked.
“We don’t have inns.” Lawrence turned a corner. “We have motels and hotels. Not sure what the difference is. Maybe price and location.”
He lapsed into silence. The women didn’t ask too many questions, for which Lawrence was grateful. He was tired of talking. Tired of fighting. Tired of just. . . everything. Just tired.
He let his feet carry him home. He could retrace his footsteps by memory. He walked past the high school. He turned his head to see it. He would be a junior this year. Funny how worrying about homework seemed so far from important.
He skipped the bookshop. The bookseller would understand.
He found his home right were he left it. He marched up the long drive to the house. He rang the doorbell. Diana answered the door.
“Lawrence?” His mom pushed open the screen door. “You’re back. I didn’t expect—who is this?”
“United States Army Captain Ferguson, ma’am.” Ferg saluted.
“Lady Josephine Zhizu,” Josephine said.
Something about the way Josephine introduced herself bothered Lawrence.
“Please come in,” Diana ushered.
Lawrence stopped paying close attention. Scott appeared wearing a uniform. Introductions were re-made.
“This is Colonel Lawrence,” Lawrence said.
“General,” Scott gently corrected. He pointed to the silver star. Ferg saluted.
“How long was I gone?” Lawrence asked.
“Almost all summer,” Diana said. “School starts in a week. I’m surprised you returned. I thought you’d join Infernal Innovations or Blood Well.”
“Must be quite a story,” Scott agreed.
“You two are staying for dinner,” Diana declared.
“I’m gonna go. . . sit,” Lawrence said. He went to his room while the adults chatted. Everything was as he left it. He began pulling items from his bag of holding. He replaced much of them where they belonged. He peeled off his boots and socks. He took off his poncho and laid it on the bed.
While he was away, his parents had installed new carpeting. Lawrence’s feet sank into it. His desk now boasted one of those plastic sheets people put in carpeted offices so their desk chairs could still roll. Lawrence looked around. It was still his room. His stuff. Everything was the same. He had changed.
He stripped off his dirty clothes and took a hot shower. Then he put some clean clothes on. They smelled a little musty from sitting in his closet all summer. But they were cleaner than the ones he had on. Lawrence realized he was shaking.
His face screwed up. He sank to the floor. Notifications appeared in his mind as the tears fell.