[40]
Heart pounding in my ears, I lurched from the stone throne that housed my body during my dungeon run. A gasp of relief made its way from my lips as the actual world came into focus around me. I took several deep breaths, calming my heart, and tried to ignore the memory of dying. It had all felt so real. I know they said it would, but nothing could prepare you for that. At the end there, I was certain I was going to meet my goddess.
Instructor Ivo gave me a demure smile, “It gets easier the more you do it,” he said.
Making a show of taking his word for it, I gave him a polite nod. Getting eaten by an undead jackass was something I doubted anyone could grow accustomed to.
“You failed,” he added, still smiling. “Current rank will remain F-1.”
That bothered me less than I think he intended. For someone with so little combat experience, I felt like I had done well. I would not go as far as saying the result pleased me, but neither was I disappointed in my performance.
“Can you tell me what that undead thing was that spoke? The man in the apron?” I asked.
Instructor Ivo frowned. “He was a ghoul. One of those sad souls that turn to Gozmyr willingly.”
That rocked me on my feet. How could anyone do that? No, why would anyone do it?
“They are very rare, and each swears with Gozmyr for different reasons. Some are insane, others want revenge, or power. The important thing is that you remember to never underestimate them. Just like the descended servants of the Demon Lords, warlocks of the titans have their own power structure and can be formidable.” Instructor Ivo explained.
The more I learned about the things happening in the Ruinlands, the better I understood why a geas had to compel people to fight. It sounded more horrible than I was told growing up. If anything, Ergentein sheltered us from the truth—at least the people in my home village of Weston. I mean, we knew things were not great; a lot of conscripts did not return home. But fighting a war against monsters was not the same thing as fighting against descended and warlocks. Until a few seconds ago, I had never heard either term. There was a much bigger game afoot than I ever suspected.
Standing from my seat, I looked over to my right to see that Elaine had already gone. Raxx was still sitting in the chair to my left. Not knowing how much longer he would be under, I grabbed Izzy and left.
Suddenly having the rest of the morning free gave me the precious time I needed to complete my new quest to buy Elaine a garment to wear.
Against my better judgement, I asked Izzy her opinion. We stood outside the tower, where I had just liquidated 7 contribution points for 70 silver coins. I dearly hoped it was enough for something nice. Ten contribution points were all I had left, and I loathed the thought of using those last few. Especially now that I knew I would need extra training in the dungeons.
“A shiny axe. That’s what I would want. Miss princess, though? She’d probably want a ring, or other shiny thing.” Izzy said, waving a hand for effect.
“I thought you were more of a hammer girl,” I said, pointing toward her collection of war hammers on her belt.
“I like to fight with hammers. You asked what I would want to wear as a gift. Nothing pulls a sexy outfit together like a gleaming axe. You can take my word for it. Cen-Boleman woo’d me over wearing the biggest notched axe I ever seen. Chopped clean through my heart.” Izzy recounted.
“Huh, I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. I did not believe that human women worked quite that way, but throwing an enormous axe over my shoulder would at the very least make me look more masculine. Maybe that fact would come in handy one day.
Izzy gave me a smug look, happy to be of service.
We browsed the market stalls first. I knew from personal experience street vendors were more likely to haggle than shop owners. It was a difference in mindset. Walking into a store meant they had something you wanted. Street vendors on the other hand, had to shout you down to get attention. Also, there was the fact that store owners had less wiggle room for their prices due to the higher taxes they paid for owning property. Ashmere was a mini-kingdom unto itself, ruled by a council, but I suspected taxing merchants was more of a universal law than a regional one.
An old maid showed me a table of beautifully colored scarves. Each item was hand made using a variety of fabrics and dyes. I spent an inordinate amount of time looking over each offering, but none of them felt right. The seller was none too happy about me leaving without a purchase, giving me a nasty scowl. Not even my good looks could overcome the loss of potential commerce. That I understood.
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I went through a jewelry phase afterward. Taking Izzy’s advice, I searched for a shiny knickknack, going stall to table. Wildling flower chain necklaces, gem encrusted broaches, bands of metal, none of it felt right. At one point, I ventured into a store that specialized in noble finery, but walked out almost as soon as I entered. The “low” price shelf had items far over my paltry budget.
Izzy could tell I was getting distraught, as time moved from morning to noon. The two of us stopped for kebabs, and she offered another piece of advice.
“You know, maybe we should try looking for something that would compliment the outfit she bought you. I’m willing to bet that whatever she is wearing will match it, so just look from a garment like that.” Izzy said.
Having no better idea, I followed her lead.
Stoneblood dwarf women tended to be more feminine in the human sense of the word than Izzy was. The few I spotted were still large, and generally as muscular as a horse, but they adapted to wearing human clothing. They would wear colorful garments and wraps that stressed the differences between them and their male counterparts.
Nonetheless, Izzy’s armor wearing, hammer toting presence was an absolute godsend when I entered the first women’s clothing store. Two middle-aged hens honed in on me like mosquitoes at a summer night lake party, badgering me with questions. In between fits of “ooo’s” and “ahhh’s” they held up risque sleepwear for me to consider. It was more humiliating than the first time I had a public erection. Had Izzy not been there to give me a breather, I would have gladly spent all the money I had left for them to leave me alone.
The next several stores, while not quite as bad, were more of the same. I had no earthly idea what I was doing and continued to feel like a pervert as I browsed between the shelves and racks.
Physical fitness class would start soon, and I despaired I would fail my goddess. However, right as Izzy and I were about to leave The Damsel’s Delight, I caught sight of a black velvet shawl with a gold-colored clasp.
“Ah, I see this has caught your eye,” said the smiling owner, a short woman well into her grandma years.
“Hmm,” I said, knowing how to barter more than most. “I was just wondering if that was genuine gold on the clasp, or a paint.” Of course, I knew it was paint. Gold set into a shawl would be ludicrous; no one would risk the precious metal falling out.
“It is painted,” the owner confirmed. “But I used the highest quality dyes and fabrics to design this.”
“Still, the paint ruins the overall effect. I’ll pay 40 coins for it.” I said.
“Don’t be absurd, young man. Selling it to you for 100 would be a bargain.” she countered.
“Is that a tear on the corner?” I said, lifting it up to point an inconceivably minor flaw that no person in their right mind would care about.
“I will part with it for 90 coins, not a single less,” she said.
“This is Jalmese silk, isn’t it?” I asked, running a finger over the backside of the shawl.
“You know your fabrics,” she said, throwing me a thoughtful look.
“Well, I know that there is an oversupply of the stuff. Has been for two years. 55 coins.” I said, face expressionless.
“Okay, that is true, but that doesn’t diminish the quality! 80 coins!”
I looked down at her, giving her my best winning smile. She blushed, but her attraction gave me less pleasure than a bargain well fought.
“70 coins, my last offer.” I said, leaning in to whisper close enough that my breath tickled her ear.
“Fine!” she said, waving her hand like a fan, and turning red as a tomato.
Damn, it was good to be a Horste.
…
Elaine and Raxx were chatting like old chums when I showed up to physical fitness class. Izzy and I had to stop off at the safe house to drop off the shawl I bought for Elaine. The whole walk to class, I fantasized about her smiling face when she saw it.
No one was happy to see I had brought along Cen-Boleman’s wife with me again. Tedric, Reynold’s meathead friend, decidedly was not happy to see us, and spit a huge wad of phlegm at my feet.
“Fucking coward,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.
I walked toward him, stopping just as he turned to face me.
“Back at you, big guy!” I said, slapping his arm amicably and heading toward my spot in line. After a good bartering, there was no way he could get my spirits down.
Behind me, I heard him move forward to grab me, but I did not stop or look back. Raxx stepped around me, cutting him off with his yelping laugh and beastly form.
“What’s the matter Teddy?” Raxx asked. “If you want a fight, I'll fight you.”
I turned to watch how Tedric responded to Raxx’s challenge. Predictably, he backed down from the Harak. Raxx had crushed him repeatedly, sparring in the sandpit. He knew it was a fight he could not win.
Reynold spoke up for his friend. “Hiding behind another, I see. Is that all that you do?”
“Funny you should bring that up, Reynold. I’m getting low on contribution points. You wouldn’t have another thousand, would you?” I said, giving him a toothy grin.
Reynold snarled. If he was not so close to attacking me with a sword right there on the spot, I might have laughed at the absurd look.
Unfortunately, Cen-Boleman had seen enough of our antics. “It’s good to see you all have so much energy. I have something special today. I couldn’t live with myself knowing you all slacked off during combat training this morning. We are going to have so much fun!”