2

The day was a bright one, and the sun glittered on the many-coloured rooftops of Noblegarden. The city’s bazaar, in the shadow of the Cathedral of the Primes, was teeming not only with the usual stalls of food, crafting materials and Commoner’s clothing, but with the barrows and awnings of the city’s artisans.

Some were potioners and victuallers who sold the consumables PCS went through rapidly when adventuring. A potioner who could brew various strengths of healing potion might shift a hundred or more to an adventuring party anticipating a combat-heavy quest. Some quests and encounters were impossible without the specialised potions giving them resistance to fire, frost or other damage types. The victuallers bought raw ingredients from Noblehearth’s hunters and turned them into crafted food, from Fine Roasted Fowl to Exquisite Unicorn Ribs, that PCs used to give themselves long-lasting stat boosts.

Other stallholders made arms and armour. Low-level enchanted blades and axes were laid out on trestle tables by the hundreds. Fletchers sold bundles of Keen Arrows or Preyfinder Quarrels. Armourers like Fodrish sold everything from unenchanted greaves and gorgets to full sets of Runic Full Plate and Shields of Invulnerability.

Fodrish had set up just before dawn, when the bazaar was crammed with proprietors making the most of their allotted and very small spaces in the square in front of the cathedral. Now the sun was up and shining strongly on the polished metal of his Breastplates of Protection as he loaded the last of them onto the table. He was already down five gold pieces hiring the space and the table, along with the cart and horse to bring his armour to the bazaar. If he sold half a dozen breastplates, he would be in profit.

‘Looking good, Fod!’ said Melagorn, approaching from between a pair of stalls selling lavish silk and velvet clothing. He pointed at the polished sections of armour. ‘I could see my face in those!’

‘Morning, Mel. Hope the PCs think the same.’

‘And I hope they’ve all put a few points into Cooking,’ said Fodrish. ‘I have more braces of Goldentail Hares than I know what to do with. They can turn it into a Rejuvenating Roasted Game and if I’m lucky each party has one member whose job it is to make all the food. I don’t have much Exceptional Hide, though. You’re going to outsell me this time.’

‘Only if they’re low-level,’ said Fodrish. ‘Combat classes with a couple of levels eat up +1 Breastplates like they’re roofing a house with them. But if they’re higher-level, nothing less than Thaumatite Plate or Yeti Leather will do.’

‘Down to chance, isn’t it?’ said Melagorn.

‘Like getting an Exceptional proc,’ said Fodrish. ‘Or hitting a Giant Rat.’

‘It’s the South Doomgrad Avengers!’ came a voice from the edge of the square, where one of the city’s main thoroughfares wound past the cathedral. Fodrish and Melagorn followed the commotion as the Commoners gathered to see. Every time Player Characters came to Noblehearth in numbers, it became an impromptu parade. Adventurers were rarely seen in the Commoner city of Noblehearth, especially once they acquired a few levels and their quests took them far across the Known Realms.

The South Doomgrad Avengers were led by a magnificent Paladin in gold and silver full plate armour, with an enormous crescent-bladed axe held nonchalantly on her shoulder. On her back was mounted a banner with the sunburst symbol of the Whetstone Confederates. Behind her walked a pair of Rangers, one with deep green armour and a cloak of woven leaves, and another in shimmering enchanted leather carrying a longbow carved from bone. The party’s Wizard was a tall and imposing man, with broad shoulders and a bear-like frame more suited to a Fighter, wielding a staff topped with a glowing orb and wearing half-robes of vivid blue silk. The fifth member was a shape of solid black, with only a pair of eyes visible. A Rogue, then, wearing magical armour or an enchanted cloak that drank in the light and rendered them invisible in the darkness.

Some of the onlookers cheered, and the Paladin greeted them with a wave. Her gilded gauntlet flashed in the sun.

Another band behind them all wore deep red, whether it was the dyed leather and hide of their green-haired Druid or the ruby-coloured armour plates of the huge Fighter carrying a mace and shield.

‘The Crimson Company,’ said Melagorn. ‘Spent half a Grey Dragon’s hoard on coordinating the look. They’re in the League of Far Wanderers.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Fodrish.

‘Word gets around! Talked with some fellows about it in the Tavern the other night. They’re not the only ones. Colours, themes, everyone with the same look. It’s what’s popular. There’s a band out of Kraken Harbour that all have a dragon thing going on. Dragon masks, dragon hilts on their swords, fireballs shaped like a dragon’s head. Maybe you should think about it? Find out what’s in, stick it on a breastplate.’

The first of the South Doomgrad Avengers were walking into the bazaar now. The artisans who could make higher-level armour were already heading back to their stalls in the hope the Paladin or the two Rangers would be looking for new plate or leather. The fletchers were already calling out the superior quality of their arrows.

‘About in the Tavern,’ Melagorn was saying. ‘Last night. I hope you don’t think I was criticising.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Fodrish. He felt his stomach tense. Melagorn was easy to talk to, but even with his friend, awkward conversations made him freeze up.

Behind the Crimson Company was yet another adventuring band, this one carrying a banner with a crescent moon and skull. A hulking warrior in black iron armour and a tall, regal Wizard with red and blue robes led them. Just behind them walked a Ranger in filigree silver splint mail and a Cleric with white robes and a staff topped with another crescent moon. Last was a Rogue in a fine set of doublet and breeches in slashed black silk, and a cloak over one shoulder.

‘Some people, you know, they aim for five points in Leadership so they can summon an NPC permanently,’ continued Melagorn. ‘One they decide all the details of. I’m not saying that’s you, but, you know, you being on your own, I was worried. If that’s your plan, you do what you want, but from what I’ve heard it never turns out how you expect. They’re not a real person. It gets hollow fast.’

Fodrish swallowed. His mouth was dry. ‘Can we… can we leave it?’

‘Of course! Of course. Just think about it. You haven’t put many points anywhere yet, plans can change. I’ll leave it, I promise, but just let me say one thing. Everyone I’ve heard of who did that, regretted it. Think about it. The Core Manual isn’t going to let us all sit back for a happy life with our NPC other half…’

‘Please,’ said Fodrish.

‘Sure. Sure, I’m done.’ Melagorn’s face changed. The concern dropped off it and the old Melagorn was there again. ‘That lot coming down the street look lower-level. They have a couple of plate wearers, too. You’d better be on the spot to sell them those Exceptional bonuses.’ Melagorn clapped Fodrish on the back. ‘Make that gold, Fod! Makes the world go round.’

The city’s artisans were flocking back to their stalls as the South Doomgrad Avengers began poring over magic items and glowing bottles of potions. The company Melagorn had mentioned, a low-level group with basic studded leather and battered half plate, were filling up their backpacks with dried rations. It would be a while before they got to Fodrish’s armour, if at all.

He walked back to his stall anyway. The raised voices hawking their wares became a blanket of noise he let fall over him. Melagorn’s words had stuck in his mind and the dull cacophony kept them from demanding all his attention.

He hadn’t told anyone about the plan. He hadn’t outlined it to himself in detail, just let it bubble away at the back of his thoughts. But Melagorn had known. Of course he had.

And of course, Fodrish knew it wouldn’t really work. It just seemed the only chance he had.

He was grateful when the chain of thoughts was cut off as he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t even sure why he noticed it at all. Perhaps he was unconsciously searching for something to occupy his attention. He tried to pick up the out of place movement again, and spotted the dark shape moving through the statuary beside the cathedral and into one of the side entrances. With all the activity in the bazaar it was easy to miss, but there had been something incongruous about it that had snagged Fodrish’s attention.

A person, dressed darkly. Just that, and nothing more. But they weren’t in the linens and leathers of a Commoner, nor hidden among the shadowy magical distortions of a Player Character with levels in Rogue. They didn’t belong.

The low-level party were haggling with a stallowner over the price of rations and rolls of bandages. They would be a while yet. Fodrish found himself winding between the awnings and barrows towards the Cathedral of the Primes, and the entrance where the out-of-place figure had vanished.

The Known Realms had so many gods it was said nobody could name them all. Among them were the Prime Deities who were worshipped widely enough to have an altar at the Cathedral of the Primes. Most large settlements had an equivalent, and elsewhere the Primes had their own churches and shrines dotted around wherever their worshippers felt the need to pray, or Clerics had to commune with their deity.

The side entrance led into the shrine of Arborah. While the morning was bright, inside the cathedral it was cool and dim. Fodrish’s footsteps echoed as he entered.

Over the forest god’s altar stood an enormous statue of a stag with antlers from which hung hundreds of tiny strips of parchment. Druids, hunters and others who needed the god’s assistance wrote their prayers on the parchment, and hung them there. Fodrish walked past the altar with its carved leaves and branches, and the heaps of offerings of animal pelts and small figures made from sticks and twine.

The cavernous main nave had fifty rows of pews facing the altar of Tyrhannyl, god of kings. The patron of cities, civilisation and leadership glowered over the altar in the form of a towering armoured statue. Fodrish crept towards the statue, aware of how many places there were for someone to hide among the statuary and side chambers of the cathedral. A yellow pool of light fell on the centre of the nave, the morning sun shining through the stained glass window depicting the sun symbol of Tyrhannyl. Outside its glow the shadows gathered deep.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

Great heroes of past generations had paid to have themselves carved in stone and positioned around the cathedral, bowing before Tyrhannyl’s statue. Some held fonts and collection plates in their outstretched hands. Every few rows of pews was a candelabra, well-blackened and encrusted with melted wax, to be lit for nighttime services. The roof’s ribs met far overhead, lost in shadow. Fodrish’s eyes flicked from one hiding place to another, and his hand went unconsciously to his tool belt and the small hammer he carried. He was proficient in it, but not as a weapon. Maybe he could take off a hit point or two, if it came to that.

Fodrish was alongside another side chapel, this one to Mhul the Warrior Beast. The god, in his form as an oversized feline creature, was carved in stone curled around his altar. On the wall beside it were newly-painted words, still fresh. Fodrish walked up to the archway to get a better look.

MACHINES IN YOUR BLOOD, read the painted words.

Crouching behind Mhul’s huge stony flank was the figure. It wore black, with a black rag tied around the lower half of its face. In its hand was a metal can with a nozzle on top, from which it was spraying paint to finish off the last letters.

‘Who are you?’ said Fodrish.

His voice echoed around the Shrine of Mhul as the figure jumped to its feet. Fodrish thought he could see the eyes of a woman above the rag, but he couldn’t be sure. The figure sprinted off through a second archway, towards the back of the cathedral.

‘Wait!’ shouted Fodrish. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

They weren’t a Commoner. They weren’t a Player Character. Who were they?

He had heard there were people who lived outside the whole system. They survived without XP. He had no idea how that was even possible. Heretics, some called them. Outsiders or Outcasts. Apostates. The Folk Beyond.

Fodrish followed them through a shrine dedicated to three Primes, less important than Mhul or Arborah but still with enough adherents to earn them a place in the cathedral. Lexos, God of Secrets, a rippling and asymmetrical shape of onyx with a single pale limestone eye. Aezinoth the Ethereal Dragon, a serpentine form inlaid with jade and lapis. Bristann, God of the Harvest, a sturdily-built man sculpted from grey marble with a bale of hay over one shoulder.

The black-clad figure was running to the back wall of the cathedral, where trophies from legendary quests and defeated high-level creatures were hung from the stone. A banner taken from Kruukor Backbreaker, High King of the Orcs. The skull of the Tyrant Wyrm of the Stonefang Coast. Dozens of captured weapons and shields, bones, dragon claws and beast fangs. Among the familiar treasures was a bundle of odd items, black boxes linked together with lengths of cable. Lights winked on several of them, and a glowing square mounted on top showed lines of letters and numbers.

The heretic was bending over the device, tapping on a panel of tiny switches. They picked up a small black box and spoke into it as they turned to face Fodrish.

‘I’ve been made.’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘Yes. Only one. We’re still a go.’ She lowered the box and spoke to Fodrish. ‘Get out of here,’ she said. ‘Run out the back.’

‘What’s happening?’ demanded Fodrish. ‘What is all this?’

‘We don’t want to hurt anyone,’ said the heretic. ‘I’m sorry. We didn’t know you’d all be out there today. This was the only time.’

Fodrish backed away from the devices, suddenly feeling the threat emanating from them. He took out his hammer, and it felt pathetically small in his hand. He wished he had his club with him.

‘I’m going to get some PCs,’ he said. ‘And send for the Elders. I don’t know what you’re doing but it’s not right.’

The heretic drew a small metallic object with a tube and trigger she held in one hand. She aimed it at Fodrish, and he guessed it was a weapon. The device looked crudely made of components welded together. It hadn’t been made on an anvil.

‘Don’t,’ said the heretic. ‘I won’t hurt you unless I have to, but if I have to, I will.’

There was truth in her voice, but her hands were shaking.

Fodrish let his hammer drop to the floor, and nodded at the weapon in her hand. ‘What are the stats on that?’

The small box device chirped and the heretic picked it up, not taking her eyes or her aim off Fodrish. ‘Yes,’ she said into it, ‘I’ve got him under control. Still a go here.’ She glanced at the glowing rectangle with the reams of text and numbers. ‘Connections are good. Say the word.’

‘You’re a heretic,’ said Fodrish, his hands held out to show he was no danger. ‘What do you want in Noblehearth?’

‘I’m not a heretic,’ she replied with a shake of the head. ‘Heretics are the enemies of the gods but there are no gods to oppose. Especially not the Core Manual.’

The smaller box bleeped again. The heretic glanced once at Fodrish, then pushed one of the switches.

The sound that erupted from the front of the cathedral was so loud it felt like someone had kicked Fodrish in the back of the head. It was a blinding, shattering sound, blanking out the rest of the world.

His head hit the floor. The concussion of the noise rattled his brain around in his skull. Fodrish could suddenly hear nothing except a high shrieking. The world felt dulled and distant, as if seen underwater. He gasped down a breath and shouted it out, but he could not hear it.

Dust flooded through the cathedral and darkness fell over Fodrish like a stifling blanket. He tried to get to his feet but his body seemed reluctant to obey. He dragged himself through the gloom until his hand found the armrest of a pew and he pulled himself up. The dust was clogging his nose and mouth and he spluttered and coughed each time he drew breath.

The eruption had come from the front of the cathedral. He made his way down the aisle of the nave, uncertain he was going in the right direction until the stone face of Tyrhannyl loomed down at him through the dust. Light filtered through the swirling cloud past the god of kings. The stained glass window had shattered and the struggling morning light was colourless.

Fodrish reached the archway through which he had entered the nave, and the first sight of what lay through it was so overwhelming Fodrish didn’t understand what he was looking at. A mess of shapes and colours had been dumped into his brain. As he stood confused, the chaos resolved into a mass of fallen masonry and rubble where the shrine of Arborah had been, and beyond that a riot of tattered awnings and splintered wood.

Broken ribs of the vaulted roof protruded from a heap of shattered stone. One of Arborah’s antlers, broken and crooked, lay on the floor. Fodrish could now hear shouting as if from very far away as his hearing drifted back. He picked his way through the loose rubble and past the remains of the cathedral’s front wall.

The bazaar was devastated. Dozens of barrows and stalls had been flattened. Pieces of armour and tattered fabric were everywhere, as if a great flood had picked everything up and deposited it at random across the flagstones of the square. People were stumbling about, as shocked and confused as Fodrish himself. Many lay among the wreckage with the limpness of limb that spoke of unconsciousness or worse.

Fodrish walked out into the square. Scattered items of food and broken wood crunched under his feet. He saw a tattered deer skin draped across a fallen stall, and felt a spark of recollection.

Melagorn’s stall was towards the cathedral side of the square. Fodrish tried to pick out the stall amid the confusion. More people were shouting and running towards the wreckage from the far side of the bazaar, adding to the tumult.

‘Mel!’ shouted Fodrish, and his own voice sounded like it was coming from the other side of the square. ‘Mel! Where are you?’

Melagorn’s stall was somewhere in a mass of torn fabric and broken wood. Fodrish clambered up onto a barrow that was thrown on its side, and scanned the unconscious and wounded for the shape of his friend. Commoners were waving PC Clerics over, or working to lift wreckage off people trapped underneath. Pieces of dented armour lay among heaps of shredded meat or shards of broken potion bottles. Every bottle in the bazaar must have been shattered in the blast.

Fodrish spotted a hand reaching out from beneath a heap of torn animal hides. He jumped down and weaved between the people clambering across the wreckage. He pulled the hides away and saw Melagorn beneath them, sprawled face-down where he had fallen when his stall was blown down.

‘I’ve got you,’ said Fodrish. Melagorn groaned in response and tried to turn over, rolling onto his side with a grimace. His face was stained with soot and tiny cuts from pieces of flying debris.

‘Fod…’ said Melagorn. ‘Gods, what was that?’

‘Heretics, would you believe,’ said Fodrish.

‘People are still doing that?’ said Melagorn with a weak smile. The expression soon changed as he tried to get himself onto his back. His teeth gritted and he growled in pain before flopping back to the ground.

A dark stain was spreading across his hide and leather clothes. The wet redness of an open wound glared up at Fodrish from Melagorn’s side, where he could see a shard of wood jutting from the skin.

‘I think the buggers got me,’ said Melagorn, his voice barely a whisper.

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Fodrish. ‘You’re level three! You have hit points to spare!’ He looked around for something he could use to staunch the bleeding, and saw through the broken awnings the sign of a herbalist who traded in consumables for low-level healing. ‘I’ll be right back, I promise,’ he said.

‘Don’t rush on my account,’ wheezed Melagorn. ‘I was just thinking, I could do with a lie down.’

Fodrish pushed aside some of the wreckage of the herbalist’s stall. He had no idea what most of the bundles and jars of herbs did. A stack of boxes had been thrown to the ground and he recognised them as healer’s kits, a set of tools that low-level Clerics might carry before they acquired their first magic items. He grabbed one and hurried back to Melagorn.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘See? You’ll be fine.’

Melagorn didn’t reply.

Fodrish opened the box. It contained a number of small, fine metal implements, rolls of bandages and jars of ointment. Fodrish pulled out a wad of the bandages but it felt bizarrely heavy in his hands, as if it was woven from lead. His hands shook and the bandage slipped through his fingers like water. He dropped it and picked out one of the implements, but it was as heavy as one of his blacksmith’s hammers and his numb, shaking fingers couldn’t hold it.

A character needed the right proficiency to use a healer’s kit properly. Fodrish’s only proficiencies were in blacksmith’s tools and clubs. Each time he tried to grab an item from the kit his fingers became as stiff as tree branches and it all clattered to the flagstones. Neither his Intelligence nor his Dexterity were high enough to overcome the penalty for non-proficiency.

‘I’ll… I’ll get someone,’ said Fodrish. He jumped up and tried to spot white robes or a golden staff among the Commoners swarming across the wreckage of the bazaar. ‘Cleric!’ he yelled. ‘Cleric! I have a wounded man! XP here for any Cleric!’

A Cleric from the lower-level PC group heard him and shouldered his way through the throng. He wore the green and white robes of Arborah, and the top of his wooden staff was carved into the head of a snake. Potions and scroll tubes hung from cords around his waist. ‘What level?’ he asked.

‘Commoner 3,’ said Fodrish.

The Cleric shook his head, turned, and was gone.

‘Wait!’ shouted Fodrish. ‘It’s only a few components! Just a Lesser Heal! You must have a potion! A scroll!’

But the Cleric’s white robes had been swallowed by the dozens of Commoners clambering through the chaos, and Fodrish’s words were lost among the wounded and their friends yelling for help.

Fodrish jumped back down to Melagorn. His friend was not moving. Kneeling beside him, Fodrish saw his eyes were closed and his mouth hung open.

‘Mel?’ said Fodrish. ‘There’ll be a Cleric free soon. There’s a lot of people hurt, they’ll get to you.’

Melagorn didn’t reply. Fodrish shook him by one shoulder, but there was no response.

Fodrish turned his attention to the wreckage lying on Melagorn. He hauled the tangle of broken poles and awnings away, and shoved the remains of a table laden with deer hides off Melagorn’s legs. Some of the other Commoners ran up to help, pulling the debris away until Melagorn was completely uncovered.

When they looked down at Melagorn sprawled on the flagstones, surrounded by a pool the colour of dark rust, their shoulders slumped and they shook their heads. Fodrish stayed there when they moved on, knowing his friend would stir and smile, and knowing at the same time he wouldn’t.

He stayed there until the sun passed noon and the injured were taken away, and after them the dead. Melagorn went with them, loaded into a cart, and Fodrish could do nothing but sit and stare at the place his friend had died.