6
The slopes of the Devilfrost Mountains gave way to forested valleys and gentle grasslands, home to the picturesque NPC farms of the Dalesfolk Confederation. Scattered grottoes and sacred circles could be found in the depths of the ancient, mossy woods or behind the waterfalls of the region’s riverways. Fishing villages clustered by the Sky Mirror Sea. Wizard’s towers and temples to forgotten gods told stories of lost bloodlines, buried history, hidden magic and creatures of folklore made manifest.
‘Bloody hate this place,’ said Ghorborosh as the Company of the Waning Moon rounded a bend to reveal a dainty hamlet ahead of them, nestling between flower-covered hills.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Reynard. ‘At least there’s no skeletons.’
‘Skeletons give us something to do,’ said Ghorborosh. ‘The Daleswhatever got nothing. The quests are all ‘find my daughter in the woods’ or ‘answer the Wizard’s three riddles’ bullshit.’
‘It can’t all be dark and edgy stuff,’ said Reynard. ‘Plus the weather’s good.’
‘Yeah, it’s peachy if you’re not lugging plate armour. I’m sweating my balls off.’
‘That’s the coaching inn,’ said Asphodel from up ahead. ‘The Red Centaur.’
‘What’s the beer like there?’ said Ghorborosh. ‘They’d better not have that real ale piss. Tastes like potato water.’
‘You want to try not whingeing, Ghor?’ asked Asphodel. ‘You know, just to change things up.’
Severina led the way, with Bartholomeo dawdling behind the rest, leafing through his spellbook as he often did to while away travel time. Along with their regular gear, the adventurers were all laden down with the treasure they had taken from the dungeon, including the particularly valuable pieces looted from the hydra’s lair. The three surviving NPC soldiers were just behind Bartholomeo in turn, with one of them carrying the huge hydra’s heart on his shoulder. The heart was wrapped in a blanket, but it still oozed the green-black hydra blood onto the soldier’s tunic.
‘How much further?’ asked Fodrish. ‘I’ll have to put this thing down eventually.’
‘It’s the next village,’ said Bartholomeo, his voice little louder than a mumble. ‘And you shouldn’t talk too much. The others will notice you.’
‘They haven’t yet.’
‘I admit you have done a fine job of being insignificant. But if they spot us talking, you’re rumbled.’
‘Can I at least give this to one of the other soldiers?’
‘Carrying the heart explains why you don’t have a sword and shield. Hang in there, Mr Ablewright.’
The Red Centaur was the largest building in the hamlet, with a two-storey lodging-house and a walled courtyard for horses and carts. As the party approached, a rotund innkeeper, red-faced and jolly, opened the gate and beamed in their direction.
‘Welcome, friends, to the Red Centaur!’ he boomed in a voice hearty enough to shake the ground. ‘Finest hospitality in all the Dales! Come in and enjoy a simple meal!’
‘You got a daughter?’ said Ghorborosh as he stomped through the gate.
‘Keep it in your codpiece, Ghor,’ said Severina. ‘Gods, you’re worse than a Bard.’
‘Have you steeds we can stable?’ asked innkeeper, ignoring the Fighter.
‘Horses don’t live long in the Devilfrost Mountains,’ said Severina to the NPC. ‘Five rooms, good sir, and place in your stables for the soldiers.’
‘By the gods, the Devilfrosts!’ exclaimed the innkeeper. ‘A terrible place, haunted by many monsters! Only true heroes can venture there.’
‘Yep, that’s what we are,’ said Reynard. ‘Big old heroes who got our arses handed to us by the Skellyqueen. Don’t suppose you’re in the market for a hydra heart?’
The Red Centaur’s stables were clean and mercifully free of horses that day. The other two soldiers dutifully unfurled their bedrolls on the straw while Fodrish heaved the heart onto the floor. As unappealing as the stables were, they were better than the chill mountains or the empty hall under Noblehearth stocked with NPCs for summoning.
Fodrish gratefully sat down with his back against the stable wall, taking the weight off his feet. The late afternoon sun lit the courtyard in peach-coloured light. He was forming the thought that it would be a relief to sleep properly, when that same sleep overtook him.
A prod in his side woke Fodrish again. Night had fallen and the Red Centaur was lit from within with the glow of a roaring hearth. Fodrish gasped awake, suddenly aware of the darkness and how much time had passed. The sleep had been deep and without dreams.
‘I thought you would be hungry,’ said the slender figure silhouetted against the stars of the night sky. Fodrish peered at him and recognised Bartholomeo. The Wizard stepped into the stable and placed a plate of meat and crusty bread on the floor beside Fodrish.
‘Thanks.’
‘Think nothing of it. A player character has to eat. Speaking of which, I have questions.’
‘I thought you might.’
Fodrish looked back at the inn to check no one was watching him, and with a snap of his fingers conjured a small light in the palm of his hand. ‘The Devilfrost Mountains are a high-level zone. You’re definitely not high-level.’
‘No. I’m a Commoner.’
‘And quite an unusual one.’ Bartholomeo smiled. ‘Is that a contradiction in terms? An unusual Commoner? You are a paradox, Fodrish Ablewright. And a Wizard loves a good paradox.’
Fodrish took a mouthful of the roasted meat. It was beef, flavoured with herbs, and it was delicious. The stew served at Noblehearth’s Tavern was bland gruel in comparison. He had to command himself not to wolf the whole lot down in a few bites.
Bartholomeo sat on the fence of one of the stable’s stalls. ‘How did a Commoner come to be in the Devilfrost Mountains?’
Fodrish could have made something up, but none of the thoughts that went through his mind were in the least bit plausible and he felt Bartholomeo would spot a lie even if he could invent a good one. ‘Ghorborosh summoned me,’ he said. ‘I was with the soldiers, in the place where they’re stored. I just… walked into the light.’
‘So that’s how it works,’ said Bartholomeo, furrowing his brow. ‘Where was this place?’
‘Noblehearth.’
‘I’m from Shieldhaven. There was never an NPC storage place there. And I’ve met plenty from Noblehearth, they never mentioned it.’
‘I don’t think anyone else can go in there,’ said Fodrish. ‘Not a Player Character. They can’t even see it.’
Bartholomeo called up Fodrish’s character sheet, and the figures and letters appeared in the air in front of the Wizard’s face. He looked confused as his eyes ran over Fodrish’s meagre stats.
‘Commoner 0?’ he said. ‘How is that possible? We all come out of the Meadows at level one.’
‘I think it’s a glitch,’ said Fodrish. It wasn’t much of a lie, and it seemed more believable than the truth. Also, he wouldn’t have to answer Bartholomeo’s inevitable question of why Fodrish would strip himself of his sole Commoner level. Fodrish himself still didn’t know.
‘The Core Manual doesn’t get things wrong,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘Glitches are just legends.’
‘So is Hypoxia. And the Halls of Darrnagar.’
‘I mean real legends. Literal legends, things that aren’t real. I’ve never heard of a glitch that didn’t happen to a friend of a friend that no one can name.’
Fodrish shrugged. ‘The sheet doesn’t lie.’
Bartholomeo peered at the character sheet some more, as if there was anything else to divine from the tiny handful of information that defined the man in front of him. ‘So a level zero can get into this storage place?’
‘The world thinks I’m an NPC.’
Bartholomeo fell silent for a long moment, and dismissed the character sheet. Fodrish filled the time with mouthfuls of bread.
‘That would explain it,’ he said. ‘ A Player Character who is an NPC. A person… who is not a person.’
Fodrish nodded. ‘That’s me.’
‘I think it better the rest of the Company don’t know what you are,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘They are in a fractious mood. I can’t promise they won’t just leave you behind.’
‘They’re different to what I expected,’ said Fodrish. It was an unguarded thought that, if he had a moment longer to consider it, he would have kept to himself.
‘They are not in the merriest of spirits,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘They will come around. We are used to winning, you see. The world is designed to give us challenges we can overcome. Only just, but overcome all the same. We adventurers are ill-prepared to accept disappointment.’
‘Ill-prepared to accept grinding, too.’
‘You have been eavesdropping.’ Bartholomeo said it with a slight smile. It didn’t sound like an accusation.
‘I’m not sure what grinding is,’ said Fodrish. ‘But it didn’t sound like fun.’
‘An unfortunate necessity of the XP ladder. Grinding is the Core Manual’s gift to those who find themselves confronted by a quest that is beyond their abilities. We go to a region with lots of monsters we find easy to kill, and kill them. They each give us a few XP and we go on doing it until we earn enough for our next level. It can take years. So, as you can imagine, we are not particularly looking forward to the prospect. Some say the quest progression was designed precisely to force grinding here and there, to ensure no party of adventurers ascends to the highest levels too quickly.’
‘Would the Core Manual do that?’
‘The Core Manual can do anything. The quests are tweaked from time to time, new areas open up and old ones disappear. The only constant is, there is always a plan to it.’
‘I don’t think I’m a part of that plan.’
‘If you really are a glitch, that is true. Quite the curious position you find yourself in. So, non-person Ablewright. What are you going to do now?’
Fodrish hadn't been able to give the matter much thought. His mind had been full either of immediate survival, or the unfamiliar emotions that had hammered against him the last few days. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve just tried to stay safe, I suppose.’
‘Are you planning to return to Noblehearth?’
‘I don’t think I can survive anywhere else on my own. I had to stick close to you guys to avoid wandering monsters. If I step outside this coaching inn, I’d probably get eaten by a dire wolf or a giant boar. I could barely take down a giant rat, and that was when I had my level. I don’t… I don’t even know where this is.’
‘The Dales Confederation? Far enough from Noblehearth. You’ve got about thirteen levels of regions to cross.’
‘That doesn’t sound very promising. Then where are you going?’
‘The Company? To the Wrathbringer’s Eyrie, another day or so from here once we get horses. It’s a high-level quest hub. No wandering dire wolves.’
‘Then I could follow you there and decide what to do next once we arrive. Would I still have to carry the heart?’
‘I think it would be for the best.’
Fodrish finished off the food on his plate. It felt like he had eaten a decent meal for the first time in his life. ‘Thanks for this,’ he said, indicating the empty plate.
‘You’re welcome. As I said, a Player Character has to eat, even if he isn’t a Player Character.’ Bartholomeo glanced back at the inviting glow of the inn. ‘I’d have them find you a decent bed, but…’
‘I know. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you in the morning, then.’
‘In the morning, Fodrish Ablewright.’
The horses were there at daybreak, having appeared in the stable during the night. The innkeeper and a couple of hearty village lads led them out into the courtyard as the Company of the Waning Moon finished breakfast and emerged into the bright morning. A flock of griffons flew overhead and a cock crowed, while a bell rang in the village temple to Arborah.
Fodrish dragged the wrapped hydra heart out of the stable behind him. The huge chunk of meat and artery was starting to emit an evil smell. The five horses pawed the dirt and shook out their manes as the village lads saddled them ready for the player characters. The horses were sturdy walkers, bred for stamina and temperament.
‘And one for our minion!’ called Barthlomeo from the doorway of the Red Centaur Inn. ‘That’s only five. We’re not leaving our treasure-bearer behind!’
‘Don’t tell me we’re bringing the heart?’ said Asphodel, emerging from the doorway behind the Wizard. Her long blonde hair was out of its regular braid, hanging around her mailed shoulders. ‘That thing must be on the turn by now.’
‘It would break little Reynard’s heart if we left it,’ replied Bartholomeo.
‘Fine. Another horse, then.’
One of the stable lads went into the stable and came out leading a sixth horse, a chestnut mare, that had not been there before. In a hidden chamber somewhere, summonable mounts and familiars were stored just like the soldiers and sages were, ready to be reformed when and where a player character or the Core Manual desired it. Fodrish looked around the stable as the horse was led out, and saw the other two soldiers were gone. Unsummoned by Ghorborosh, he assumed. He wondered if he could be unsummoned, too. What would that even mean?
The rest of the Company of the Waning Moon came out of the inn and saddled up. Severina gave Fodrish a curious look that lingered a little too long as he tied the heart behind his horse’s saddle. The others paid him no mind. He was a minion, an NPC. He was no more to them than the arrows in Asphodel’s quill.
Fodrish had never ridden before. It felt awkward and unnatural to be balancing on another creature, and he knew no more than to hold the reins and put his feet in the stirrups. Thankfully the horse was obedient and well-trained, and simply walked along behind the Player Characters as they rode. This was downtime, after all. The stretches between questing or journeying through hostile regions was not supposed to be full of challenges. It was for gathering, crafting and practising skills. There was no proficiency or skill level required for riding a horse unless it was in combat, so it gave Fodrish no trouble.
The Dales Confederacy was beautiful. Fodrish could appreciate it for the first time perched on the back of his horse. The rolling hills crested like green waves topped with the canopies of dense forests. Tumbledown temples and isolated follies dotted the countryside. Cleared land formed dainty patchworks of tiny farms. Outcrops of rock, forced up through the land by some primaeval upwelling, broke through in fingers of splintered granite. The cart track the adventurers rode along wound between water mills on meandering rivers and the lower floors of collapsed towers. On a distant hillside, an enormous image of a white dragon had been created by cutting through the ground to the chalk beneath, the work of a forgotten people.
Morning became afternoon and the Company of the Waning Moon paused to eat. Bartholomeo sneaked Fodrish a lunch of bread and smoked sausage.
‘How did the hydra even get down there?’ asked Reynard as he sat in the shade of an oak tree, drinking from his waterskin.
‘What are you on about now?’ Severina asked.
‘It couldn’t fit through any of the doors, or most of the hallways,’ continued the Rogue. ‘How did it get to the throne chamber?’
‘Maybe it got down there as an egg,’ said Ghorborosh. He ate noticeably more than the other members and spoke through a mouthful of bread and cheese.
‘What, it rolled down there?’ said Reynard.
‘No, the dwarves brought it.’
‘I thought the dwarves had been gone for thousands of years? How long do hydras live?’
Asphodel, who was restringing her bow, nodded towards the heart still tied to the back of Fodrish’s horse. ‘That one didn’t last long.’
The landscape became rockier and more rugged. The farms petered out to be replaced with dramatic cliffs and formations of volcanic stone. Parts of the landscape were broken by deep ravines and heaved-up ridges, the scars of some ancient cataclysm. Squawking seabirds wheeled overhead. Fodrish tasted salt on the air.
If the Dales were beautiful, the coast was breathtaking. Destruction mingled with the elegance of nature. Floating islands hung the sky, trailing constellations of rocks suspended by wild magic. The honeycombed reaches of the world’s depths were glimpsed in the crevasses and cliffsides. It was so wondrous, the proportions of perfect and shattered so finely balanced, that Fodrish felt he was committing a transgression just looking at it.
He felt a dark sadness behind his eyes. Part of his mind demanded beauty like this could not go unchallenged. He felt, welling up like oil, the warmth of Melagorn’s blood on his hands and the uselessness of the healer’s implements in his hands. He had to look down at the ground and cling on to his horse’s saddle and reins, until the queasy pressure of emotion subsided.
It was always there, just beneath. Ready to burst up and break him. And the supposed NPC would be made obvious to the whole Company of the Waning Moon when he burst into tears.
The only changes that ever truly happen for the better, come about through compassion.
There was an answer there, somewhere.
‘The Wrathbringer’s Eyrie!’ said Bartholomeo grandly from up ahead. Fodrish looked up to see a spire of rock in a halo of circling seabirds, rising beyond a crest in the ground ahead of them..
‘We know, Bart,’ said Asphodel. ‘We’ve been there before.’
‘I wish I could see it again for the first time,’ said Bartholomeo, ignoring the Ranger.
‘It’s just another quest hub,’ said Reynard. ‘It’s the highest one that lets us in, that’s all.’
The Eyrie emerged from behind the ridge as the Company approached, and the upper levels with their caverns and balconies were revealed. The Eyrie was not a building but a natural formation turned into a vertical city. It was a spire of rock that reached up from the ocean just off the coast, and as the Company kept riding without coming in sight of the ocean he understood just how astonishingly tall it was. What he had thought were seabirds were far larger creatures, drakes like winged lizards and flights of griffons, that nested among the caverns of the summit.
Finally, the Company came within sight of the waves crashing against the jagged rocks of the shore. Through a cloud of spray loomed a slender bridge that reached from the mainland to the spire, guarded by watchtowers and two sets of enormous gates. Banners of adventuring companies and guilds hung from the bridge and the entrance gates, fluttering in streaks of colour against the dark grey basalt. Shapes on the top of the gates resolved into armoured NPC guards who levelled crossbows and mounted ballistas at the Company as they came into the gate’s shadow.
‘Company of the Waning Moon!’ proclaimed Severina. ‘Conquerors of the Spine Eater Tribe! Slayers of the Darrnagaran Hydra! Champions of the Siege of Silverspire!’
The NPCs lowered their weapons and the gates swung open. The Company trotted onto the bridge, and Fodrish felt the cold of the sea spray on his face. It took a good fifteen minutes to cross the bridge, during which Fodrish could not shake the discomfort brought about by the fact the bridge had no handrails. NPCs in polished breastplates and winged helms waited to take the horses and one of the enormous studded bronze doors opened wide enough to allow a person to walk inside.
Fodrish shouldered the hydra’s heart again before the NPC took his horse’s reins. The heart had become unpleasantly squishy.
‘Think anyone from the guild will be in?’ asked Ghorborosh, whose horse had seemed untroubled by carrying the weight of the armoured Fighter and all his gear.
‘There’s always someone,’ said Severina. ‘Half the guild’s here for the free room and board.’
‘I mean someone who might know something.’
‘About what?’
‘About beating Hypoxia.’
Severina sighed. ‘Let’s just sell this junk and rest up. We’ll talk about it later.’
Bartholomeo sidled up to Fodrish as the other Player Characters were talking. ‘Stay close and try not to get into anything,’ he said quietly.
‘You’re going to have to be more specific.’
Bartholomeo waved a hand. ‘Just… anything that might make people think you’re real. I’ll keep an eye out for somewhere you can hide. There are plenty of nooks and crannies. We’ll have to make you fetch and carry so there’s a reason to keep you around.’
‘If I’m doing NPC work then I might as well be one.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ Bartholomeo turned back to the Company. ‘Shall we?’
Fodrish followed the Company through the door. He did not know what to expect, other than that the Wrathbringer’s Eyrie would dazzle a low-level character with its scale. In this, he was not disappointed.
The cavernous entrance chamber was dominated by an enormous model of the heavenly bodies, circling around the world on which the Known Realms were situated. The world was a huge sphere of bronze, inlaid with silver continents and cities of gold and gemstones. The stars and planets swung around the chamber on gigantic circular tracks, controlled by a contraption of gears and pendulums beneath the floor. The walls were black stone, polished and cut, with passageways leading off through sculpted archways.
The Eyrie’s NPCs, in the uniform of winged helm and breastplate, were everywhere, guarding each doorway in pairs or marching in squads of six on some inscrutable duty. More banners hung from the high ceiling and Fodrish recognised some from the guild board in Noblehearth’s Tavern: the Whetstone Confederacy’s stylised axe, the inhuman skull of the Goblin Slayers’ Union, the hand and sword of the Free and Honourable League.
A few Player Characters were dotted around the chamber. Fodrish saw adventurers he recognised as Fighters in gilded armour, Rogues in black layered leather and Wizards in their shimmering robes. He spotted examples of less common character classes, too. A Bard was heading through one of the archways, wearing an outlandish outfit with legs and sleeves of billowing slashed satin in red and blue. He had a complicated instrument, like a lute or harp with gears and plucking fingers, slung over one shoulder. A Druid in floor-length furs and a hood with stag antlers was chatting with a group of Fighters and Rangers beneath the looping shadow of the armillary mechanism.
‘Hit up the guild?’ said Asphodel. ‘Get ourselves some digs first. Then look at what the quest situation is.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Severina. ‘We’ll dump all the sellable junk and worry about the auction house later. Preferable after a meal and a bath.’
‘Gods, I need a bath,’ said Ghorborosh. ‘Been chafing like a bastard since Dead Goblin Pass.’
Fodrish followed the party through one of the archways and up a grand winding stairway of black stone inlaid with gold. Banners depicting a lit torch on a green field hung on either side of the doorway at the top, which opened as the Company of the Waning Moon approached. The sound of voices and laughter emanated from beyond, along with the smell of rich ale and cooking food.
‘The Cartographers’ Guild,’ whispered Bartholomeo, just enough for Fodrish to hear.
‘You belong to this one?’
‘We do. Lots of Player Characters here. Watch yourself.’
The guild hall was cavernous and lavish. One side was a tavern similar to the one in Noblehearth but rather better-appointed, with upholstered seats, NPC servers carrying platters of food and a bar stocked with bottles of fine wine and spirits. Several parties of Player Characters ate, drank and talked, from knights in silver armour to swamp witch Druids with wild hair full of twigs and frogs. They were such a bizarre and diverse array of armour, weapons and archetypes that Fodrish couldn’t take it all in, and turned away from it to keep from just standing there and staring.
The rest of the guild hall had a number of nooks and separated areas, each with a prominent figure sitting or engaged in bland busywork. One was a robed magistrate, an elderly man with a deeply lined face and bristly grey hair, leafing through an illuminated leatherbound tome. Another held a hunter, a sturdy woman with a bearskin over her shoulders, surrounded by stuffed and mounted beasts displayed as trophies. They were NPCs, similar to the hooded stranger back in the Tavern at Noblehearth, although there were many more of them here. Vendors and questgivers, Fodrish guessed, providing members of the Cartographers’ Guild with the information and services they required to climb the next rung on the XP ladder.
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Bartholomeo cleared his throat and glanced back at Fodrish, who got the message to keep up. Severina was speaking with one of the guild NPCs, a woman in an unexpectedly revealing dress of gold straps and beads topped with a tall powdered wig.
‘We are the Company of the Waning Moon,’ Severina was saying. ‘We require lodgings for five.’
The NPC looked through a ledger that magically appeared in the air in front of her. ‘I see you are guild members in good standing,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Aside from your guild dues being in arrears, which I can remedy immediately!’
‘How much?’ sighed Severina.
‘One thousand, four hundred gold,’ came the breezy reply.
‘Reynard!’
The Rogue rummaged through the many pouches and pockets beneath his cloak, eventually taking out handfuls of gold coins and gemstones. ‘Here. Two black diamonds, four opals and… twenty platinum pieces.’ He handed the riches to the NPCs. ‘And I thought I was the thief.’
‘Your lodgings are prepared for you,’ said the NPC as the coins and gemstones vanished from her palm. ‘Please, follow the fairy.’
A tiny translucent winged figure appeared beside Severina and flew at walking pace towards one of the many passageways leading off from the guild hall, leaving a trail of sparkles.
‘Not much point paying guild rates if we never use it,’ said Ghorborosh.
‘What are you drivelling about?’ retorted Severina. ‘We’re using it now!’
‘Yeah, for a room we can get for a silver piece and wink at a coaching inn. I mean the wipe protection. Getting ressed!’
‘Not this again,’ said Asphodel wearily.
‘I’m just saying, we pay all this so the guild brings us back when we die and we don’t take advantage. We could have another go at Hypoxia, learn the encounter better.’
‘Dump the treasure, eat, bathe, sleep,’ said Severina sharply. ‘Leave it until then.’
The party followed the fairy to one of the many doors in the passageway. The fairy reached the door and burst in a spray of glitter. They entered and Fodrish saw it was a finely-appointed room with five beds, a large claw-footed bath, and cupboards and wardrobes. A table with five chairs stood in the middle. The room was decorated in the deep green of the guild’s colours, and accented with the ever-present gold.
‘Dump it all,’ said Severina, and the party offloaded their gear. They piled the various pieces of treasure they had acquired on the table. Fodrish hefted the hydra’s heart onto the pile and stood unobtrusively in a corner.
‘I’m going to eat, said Asphodel. ‘You coming?’
The rest of the party made agreeing noises and left the room, only Bartholomeo hanging back.
‘I need you to do something for us,’ he said.
‘I might look like an NPC but I’m not one,’ replied Fodrish. ‘I’m grateful, but I don’t serve you.’
‘You’ll be a lot more believable if we keep you doing busywork,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘And Ghorborosh won’t have a reason to unsummon you, then wonder why you’re still here.’
Fodrish sighed. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
Bartholomeo took one of the pieces of treasure from the pile, a golden necklace with a dragon’s head pendant set with a ruby. ‘I have a plan, but we need quick cash. This is a Periapt of Fire, it should get a decent price. I need you to take it to the Valiant Gladiators’ Auction House, two floors up from the entrance hall. Ask a guard for directions.’
‘You sure that’ll be okay? I don’t want to be recognised as the only Commoner in this half of the world.’
‘Keep a low profile, get there and back. And here, there’s an auction fee.’ Bartholomeo handed Fodrish a single platinum piece. It felt unnaturally heavy in his hand. A platinum piece was worth ten gold pieces, which in turn was worth ten silver. The coin Fodrish held was good for three months’ wages for most of the Commoners in Noblehearth.
‘How are you going to get me home?’ asked Fodrish.
‘I told you, I have a plan. Hold on in there, Ablewright.’ Bartholomeo flashed Fodrish a smile, and left to join his party.
Wrathbringer’s Eyrie had its own history, one written into the stone. A forgotten race had once lived there, carving out its galleries and passageways. They had left statues of faceless, long-limbed figures that glowered down from the ritual chambers and oubliettes of the Eyrie’s lower reaches. Generations of adventurers had left their mark in turn, transforming the larger caverns into sparring halls and Wizard’s libraries. Ceremonial chambers covered in painted murals were used for major quest resolutions, when victorious parties would be granted their rewards by questgiving NPCs. Side chambers had become charming stallfronts for NPC vendors selling everything from trail rations and bandages to vials of Rogue’s poison. High-level crafters used the anvils and forges beside the pool of lava that broke through beneath the entrance chamber, hammering blades and armour pieces in the heat and glow of the spire’s molten core.
Druids and Rangers could find griffon and sky drake eggs around the Eyrie’s pinnacle, to be raised as mounts or animal companions. Player Characters who had levelled their Fishing skill could hone it further hauling up glimmerscale eels and sharkodons from the cavern openings on the seaward side. The Eyrie’s nominal lords, the grandly-dressed fae of the Unicorn Court, held lavish dances and banquets for Player Characters to interact and tick up their social XP. And, of course, countless minor quests and full quest lines could be acquired by Player Characters with the right levels and prerequisites, granted by the many NPCs who walked its basalt halls. The Wrathbringer’s Eyrie held everything a high-level adventurer needed to serve as a base for pursuing the upper reaches of the XP ladder.
It had less, of course, to offer a Commoner 0.
Fodrish avoided the gaze of the NPCs and Player Characters as he made his way to the Valiant Gladiators’ Auction House. It lay several flights of stone stairs above the guild hall, one of numerous auction houses and specialised markets pointed out by the occasional signs carved into the walls. After what seemed dozens of opportunities to be scrutinised and exposed, he reached a set of studded bronze doors with the image of a merchant’s scales surrounded by piles of coins. He gingerly pushed it open to see yet another chamber made from an expanded and dressed natural cavern, with stalagmites carved and gilded to serve as columns and half the room cut off by a chest-high wooden wall surmounted by narrow steel bars. Tellers stood at regular intervals behind small openings in the bars. A single Player Character was also inside, a Monk in deep yellow robes with a shaven head and several daggers strapped across her chest. The Monk did not seem to notice Fodrish as he entered.
Opposite the tellers were a number of items for sale, rendered as glowing images hovering at eye level. Each was displayed in its halo of light as if it was a holy relic descending from the sky into the hands of a righteous Paladin. One was a longsword with a bright silver blade and a hilt and pommel carved from bone. Next to that was a shield with its steel face wrought into an intricate relief of battle. Fodrish found himself drawn to the sword in particular, displayed like the prize at the end of a years-long quest.
He called up the information about the sword. DRAGONSLAYER’S LONGSWORD, read the words appearing above it. BASE DAMAGE 251-279 SLASHING. +15 ATTACK POWER VS DRAGONS.
PROFICIENCIES: LONGSWORD
PREREQUISITES: LEVEL 17, STRENGTH 8, SPIRIT 11
Human stats only went up to ten. The wielder of the Dragonslayer’s Longsword would need to increase their Spirit with other magic items or the Divine Boons granted by the lengthiest quest lines.
Fodrish remembered Melagorn’s longsword proficiency. His friend would have looked very at home swinging the Dragonslayer’s Longsword. He imagined Melagorn beaming as he plucked the weapon from a treasure hoard, the light flashing off its blade.
‘Just the thing!’ he would say, giving it a few test swings. Of course, Melagorn would have been the Player Character who always found the perfect piece of gear whenever a party defeated a boss encounter and rummaged through the riches left behind. ‘Luck’s holding out!’ he would say, grinning at the rest of the party. ‘Your time will come my friends! You’ll be neck-deep in Armours of Resistance and Archwizard’s Robes!’
Fodrish shook the images out of his head. They would never play out in reality.
He saw the final line of the item description, picked out in red lettering instead of gold.
CURRENT PRICE: 850,000 GP
Fodrish had never heard of so much gold in one place. Even in gemstones, it would be a huge amount just to carry around.
INDOMITABLE BULWARK, read the next item’s description. The shield depicted gigantic humanoids smashing tiny devilish figures aside in battle. BLOCK BASE 320-351. +2 TOUGHNESS. CHANCE ON BLOCK: +4 TOUGHNESS, +100 BLOCK BASE FOR 5 SECONDS.
PROFICIENCIES: SHIELD
PREREQUISITES: LEVEL 18, FIGHTER CLASS
CURRENT PRICE: 550,000 GP
Ghorgoroth would appreciate the Indomitable Bulwark, though Fodrish. It was a tanking shield that could absorb enormous amounts of damage, just right for protecting the wielder against hydra’s teeth or shards of flying ice conjured by an angry lich.
Fodrish noticed a third item was on display that was far less impressive than the other two. A stone slab little larger than Fodrish’s palm floated in its pool of light. It had an intricately carved border but the space where lettering should have been incised was blank.
TABULA RASA, read the description.
USE (CONSUMED ON USE): RESET ALL SKILL POINTS TO 0. RESET ALL LEVELS TO 0. REFUND ALL SPENT XP.
‘SOME SAY THIS STRANGE ITEM WAS MADE BY DWARVES. THE TRULY WISE BELIEVE IT WAS CARVED BY HANDS FAR OLDER STILL.’
CURRENT PRICE: 4,511,000 GP
Fodrish stared at the price. It must have been the most valuable object in the entire Known Realms. More than four million gold pieces could have bought up half of Noblehearth.
He was suddenly aware the Monk was standing just behind him, also focused on the tabula rasa.
‘One day,’ she said quietly.
Fodrish froze, but again she did not notice him. She sighed and turned away from the tabula rasa, walking towards the doorway.
Fodrish remembered the task Bartholomeo had set him and walked up to the nearest opening in the bars. The NPC behind the bars was a wizened man with a long, melancholy face and unusually large ears..
‘Is this the Valiant Gladiator’s Auction House?’ asked Fodrish.
‘It is,’ replied the NPC in a low, dusty voice. ‘How may I humbly assist you, sir?’
‘I have something to sell.’ Fodrish pushed the Periapt of Fire through the opening. ‘Here.’ Remembering the fee, he pulled out the platinum coin and slid it through.
The teller picked up the necklace in fingers long and spindly as spider legs. He scrutinised the necklace, holding it up to one eye so the ruby flashed in the light. He placed the necklace in an unseen receptacle behind the wall and then peered at the coin as if searching for evidence it was a fake. He dropped the coin into another hidden compartment and regarded Fodrish again. ‘Name the minimum price.’
Fodrish had no idea what a reasonable minimum price would be for a Periapt of Fire. He didn’t even know what the Periapt of Fire did. Allow the wearer to breathe fire? Provide resistance to fire damage? Even had he known, he could not guess how valuable those properties might be to a level sixteen.
‘Five hundred gold,’ said Fodrish uncertainly. It seemed an outlandish amount of money.
The teller looked intently at Fodrish as if examining his face pore by pore.
‘Very well,’ said the Teller. ‘The deal is struck.’ With a flourish, the teller opened a large ledger with yellowing pages and stamped it twice.
‘Do I… do anything else?’ asked Fodrish. The teller replied with another stare. Fodrish took this as an answer in the negative, and hurried for the door.
‘Your change,’ said the teller, holding out a handful of coins.
‘Sorry,’ breathed Fodrish, and took the coins before heading again for the door. This time nothing stopped him and he paused outside the auction house, feeling safer now in the darkness of the passageway and suddenly aware he had been clenching his jaw and holding his shoulders tense.
He looked at the coins in his hand. Two gold pieces and three silver. They were minted with the image of the Wrathbringers’ Eyrie, its spire rising from stylised waves. Around the edge of each coin were stamped the words that momentarily confused Fodrish with their strange sense of familiarity.
ONCE, THERE WAS CHAOS.
The guild hall was louder when Fodrish returned. A crowd of Fighters, Rangers and Rogues took up much of the area in front of the bar and were in the middle of a heroic drinking session, with the many NPC servers seemingly unflustered by the bawdy songs and semi-serious punches being thrown. Fodrish edged around the guild hall to avoid the drinkers, hoping their raucous celebration would draw attention away from him.
As he ran his hand along the wall beside him, he felt the texture change and turned to see it was deeply carved with a ceiling-high relief map. The Wrathbringers’ Eyrie was in the centre of the map, picked out in ivory. The ocean that stretched beyond it ended at a jagged coastline dotted with angry volcanoes, each caldera formed from an inset ruby. In the other direction, the Dales Confederacy was a dismayingly narrow strip of relatively calm lands that quickly gave way to the Balebark Forest and the deeply carved ravines marked Frozen Scarlands. Fodrish could not take in all the different regions on either side of the Sea of Many Serpents. He had heard of hardly any of the names inscribed on the map. He read Kazkhakuur Hold, The Tree of Eternity, Demon Wastes, and a dozen others, without recognition.
‘You know what’s… what’s off the map?’ came a voice from behind him. Fodrish turned into a fug of beery breath emanating from a rotund, broad-shouldered man with a voluminous beard and a fur-trimmed set of mail armour.
‘What’s that?’ asked Fodrish, reflexively answering to avoid offending the stranger with silence.
‘They got… whole lands over here.’ The man waved a hand past the edge of the map across the ocean. ‘Continents and such. You heard that?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Bloody idiot. Everyone knows. No one says it but everyone knows.’
Fodrish guessed the man was a Fighter or a melee-focused Ranger who had wandered off from the revels at the bar. He had a mug in his hand that spilled as he gesticulated. ‘You know what all this is? All this XP shit? You think… you think we do it for fun? It’s what’s at the end! The end of the road! The top… the top of the ladder.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Fodrish was torn between trying to get rid of the drunk Player Character, and placating him to avoid any trouble.
The man placed a heavy hand on Fodrish’s shoulder. ‘Over there. To the East. Past the Glacier. You know the Glacier? Level twenty, nothing there. Just yetis. But there’s something past there. All sunny and beautiful, flowers and… birds and stuff. But you gotta be twenty to get there. And the land costs… millions an acre. But if you got the gold, the levels, you build a bloody great palace! Lakes of wine, hot and cold running wenches, everything you want.’
‘That’s out there?’
‘No one says it but everyone knows. First you get to twenty, then you get millions and millions of gold… and you… get ‘cross the Glacier. Sit back by the pool drinking wine for the rest of your life.’
‘That’s what’s at the top of the ladder,’ said Fodrish. ‘A palace past the Glacier.’
‘That’s why these bastards are always squabbling! Not enough seats by the pool!’
Fodrish looked back at the map with its jumble of regions and quest sites, fallen empires and strongholds of the wicked. ‘Where’s Noblehearth?’ he asked.
‘That puddle of piss?’ The Fighter indicated the western edge of the map. ‘There somewhere. Gods, haven’t heard about that place for ten levels. I’m from Twinrivers. Thought the Noblehearthers were all stuck-up pricks.’ He grabbed Fodrish by the shoulders and turned him round, looking right into his face. ‘You from Noblehearth? Who… where you from?’
Fodrish returned the drunk man’s questions with a bland smile. ‘How may I humbly assist you, sir?’
The drunk man’s face fell. ‘Been talking to a soddin’ NPC. Waste of my… of my bloody time…’ He let Fodrish go and lurched back towards the bar, where an impromptu wrestling match had broken out.
The heap of treasure was gone when Fodrish returned to the quarters assigned to the Company of the Waning Moon. In its place were some bags of platinum coins and gemstones, and thankfully a plate of cold meat and bread. Fodrish ate, once again forcing himself not to devour it all in a few huge mouthfuls. He found a pipe in the wall that let warm water flow into the bath, and scrubbed himself off as best he could. Adventuring was a filthy business, much like working at his forge, and he had learned to make his ablutions whenever possible.
There were only five beds, which made sense since five seemed to be the most common size of an adventuring party. Nowhere for the NPC minion to sleep, of course. Fodrish found himself some spare bedding and a cushion with which he made himself a bed in the corner of the room, not willing to excite the attention and ire of one of the Player Characters by being in their bed when they returned. He found himself staring at the ceiling, thinking about a palace in a lush and sunny world where he was attended by legions of beautiful NPCs and had everything he could ask for.
There was an emptiness to the picture that dulled the allure. Was this what kept the adventuring parties of the world seeking out the next chain of quests? It should have been intoxicating to imagine a life free of want or pressure, a lifetime to enjoy the fruits of his adventuring. But there was something missing. What was it?
Compassion, Grumcrag the Wise had told him. That was the only thing that changed anything for the better. Was it compassion he had shown to the prisoner in the gibbet in the Devilfrost Mountains? He had not given it a name at the time, it had just seemed a natural reaction to the awfulness of what the Core Manual had created there.
Was Bartholomeo showing him compassion, allowing him to stay with the party and not leaving him helpless in the Devilfrosts?
There was an answer somewhere, trying to catch at his attention and memory as he brushed close to it. He saw Melagorn’s face again: not bloodied and dying, but the beaming face of the adventurer he should have been, brandishing his Dragonslayer’s Longsword. Fodrish felt the pain tightening in him and let the image of his friend pass by.
The idea of the splendid palace in its idyllic setting slipped away, too, and was replaced with nothing.
When Fodrish awoke, it was to the sound of splashing water. He opened one eye to see the broad, well-thatched back of a huge and well-muscled man sitting in the bathtub. Old scars covered the shoulders.
Fodrish realised he was looking at Ghorborosh. The party’s Fighter was busy washing off the many days of grime that came with battle and travel. He had laced the water with various soaps and oils, filling the room with the smell of flowers.
Ghorborosh hummed an atonal song as he twisted around to scrub his back with a bristly brush on a stick. Before Fodrish could pretend to be asleep again, Ghorborosh’s eyes fell on him and the two stared at each other for a long moment. Ghorborosh frowned in momentary confusion, then turned back around and stuck a leg out of the water to scrub it in turn.
The door opened and the rest of the party walked into the chamber, mid-conversation.
‘Ye gods,’ said Asphodel as she noticed Ghorborosh. ‘Don’t stand up.’
‘Lady Arrowbright, your feminine mind could not take the avalanche of manliness you would witness!’ retorted Ghorborosh. ‘Such potency would render you with child upon sight!’
‘The only thing you’d render me is sick,’ replied Asphodel.
‘You still got your eye on that Axe of the Mountain’s Rage?’ asked Reynard, who brandished a jingling leather bag. ‘Six-fifty, baby! The hydra heart came good!’
‘Someone actually bought it,’ said Severina, who was carefully averting her eyes from any possibility of seeing too much of Ghorborosh.
‘Then that axe is mine!’ exclaimed Ghorborosh. ‘Is it still in the auction house?’
‘I checked before I left,’ said Reynard. ‘Still up there, twelve thousand and fifty. I reserved it for an hour. You owe me, big man.’
‘You seemed to be doing fine with the ultra greatsword,’ said Asphodel, taking a seat at the table.
‘Sure,’ replied Ghorborosh, ‘but the axe procs an armour break debuff and reduces holy damage resist. Slap a Rune of Heavenly Fury on that and it’ll crit to the moon!’
‘You’re a tank, Ghor,’ said Severina with a glower. ‘Worry about reducing the damage coming in, not increasing it going out.’
‘More damage, more aggro!’ retorted Ghorborosh. ‘More aggro, the bad guys stay off you guys! Bigger numbers, better tank!’ Ghorborosh sat back in the bath, making water splosh over the edge of the bath. He squirmed around to look at Fodrish, who had been observing the conversation as quietly and invisibly as possible. ‘That’s the NPC who carried the heart, right?’
‘Looks like it,’ replied Reynard.
‘I thought I dismissed them all. What’s he doing here?’
‘Must be a glitch,’ said Reynard.
‘There are no glitches,’ countered Asphodel.
‘Curious you should mention that,’ said Bartholomeo, pulling up a chair. ‘We have auctioned most of our treasure already. The Eyrie’s auction houses move quickly. But there’s one we haven’t collected on yet.’
‘Yeah, nobody bought the dragon necklace,’ said Reynard. ‘Weird, I thought it made you breathe fire? Someone must want that.’
‘Someone did want it,’ said Bartholomeo, with a smirk. The rest of the Company of the Waning Moon had their eyes on him and he let their attention hang in silence for a few moments before taking a small leather purse from a pocket hidden among his robes. With a flourish, he poured its contents out onto the table.
A handful of tiny bright blue rectangular tokens spilled out.
‘They paid in these,’ said Bartholomeo.
Asphodel picked up one of the tokens. ‘These had better be worth something.’
‘They are,’ said Severina. ‘Those are Demon Marks.’
‘The currency of Pandaemonium,’ said Bartholomeo.
Severina rounded on the Wizard. ‘Where in the hells did you get these?’
‘What’s the big deal with them?’ asked Asphodel, turning the odd item over in her fingers.
‘They drop in the Lava Sumps and the Path of Torment,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘Very low drop rate. Parties farm them from the demon packs. The bosses there give a few each, too. Vendors take them in return for enchantments and runes. Buyers take them as payment from items in the Valiant Gladiators’ Auction House.’
‘That’s… that’s level eighteen,’ said Reynard.
Asphodel sighed and sat back in her chair. ‘Damnit, Bart. What did you do?’
‘What is it?’ said Ghorborosh, sloshing upright. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Bart here sold that necklace in an auction house you have to be level eighteen to enter,’ replied Asphodel. ’That’s how he got hold of Demon Marks that only drop in regions for eighteens and above. And even you will remember we’re all level sixteen.’
‘Oh shit,’ said Ghorborosh.
‘Exactly,’ said Asphodel. ‘We’re going to get the bloody hellhounds on us.’
‘I don’t see them,’ replied Bartholomeo, evidently unshaken. ‘The Core Manual isn’t known for giving exploiters a long time to hide. There aren’t any hellhounds in Wrathbringers’ Eyrie. I’d say we’re in the clear.’
‘This smug prick is itching to tell us how he did it,’ said Asphodel.
‘I didn’t do it,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘He did.’
Bartholomeo pointed at Fodrish. The whole party were suddenly looking at him. Ghorborosh turned around in the bath and jabbed a soapy finger at him. ‘This guy? The NPC?’
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomeo, ‘and no. Fodrish, I must confess I have used you most selfishly in a little experiment of mine. The fact you could enter the Eyrie at all was impressive enough. But you definitely should have been blocked from walking through that auction house door. For any of us it would have been like walking into a wall. But you went in there, sold my necklace, and got us the payment. None of us will be able to do that for another two levels. But you did.’
‘Who is he?’ asked Asphodel.
‘I told you,’ replied Ghorborosh. ‘One of the soldiers I summoned back at Hypoxia.’
‘Again, yes and no,’ replied Bartholomeo.
‘Bart,’ snapped Severina, ‘if you’ve found yourself an exploit, the Core Manual will work it out and we’re all dead. Proper dead, no ressing no matter what we pay the guild. So stop showing us all how clever you are and give us some answers.’
‘Fodrish, come out from there,’ said Bartholomeo.
With his cover fully blown, Fodrish got out of his makeshift bed and walked up to the table. In his shabby Commoner’s garb, he was intensely aware of how meaningless he looked in the midst of five high-level characters.
‘So, who is he?’ asked Severina. She peered at Fodrish looking unimpressed, her arms folded.
‘Fodrish Ablewright. From Noblehearth,’ replied Fodrish.
‘You’re a long way from bloody Noblehearth,’ came Ghorborosh’s voice from the bath behind him.
‘Call up his character sheet,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘See for yourself.’
Reynard walked up to Fodrish and the character sheet sprang up in front of him.
FODRISH ABLEWRIGHT
COMMONER 0
XP: 0. XP to next level: 1000
‘Commoner 0?’ said Reynard. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ said Severina, suddenly much more interested in Fodrish than a moment ago. ‘It’s not possible.’
‘Now we all know someone who has seen a glitch,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘He’s right here.’
‘How did it happen?’ asked Severina, addressing Fodrish this time.
‘I woke up one morning and I was a Commoner 0. I wish there was more of a story, but here we are.’ Repeating the lie seemed a minimal risk, especially compared to trying to tell the truth.
‘The world thinks he’s an NPC,’ continued Bartholomeo, ‘but he’s a Player Character. He can go through level-locked doors. You see what this means?’
‘He can go anywhere?’ asked Reynard.
‘Only one way to find out,’ replied Bartholomeo. ‘We just have to get him there alive.’
‘Wait,’ said Ghorborosh. ‘Where were you thinking?’
Bartholomeo, with his customary flourish, unrolled a parchment map on the table. It showed the region around the Devilfrost Mountains, with the Eyrie in one corner. Hypoxia’s realm and the peak where she lurked were marked out, as were a long, deep canyon named the Schism of Centuries and a bleak-looking swampland marked as the Forgotten Morass. ‘Here’ he said, pointing to a cross drawn in one wall of the canyon. ‘The House of the Hallowed.’
‘That’s for a level nineteen quest,’ said Reynard.
‘That’s the point,’ said Asphodel tetchily. ‘The quest appears when you hit nineteen. It sends you there for the treasure hoard. It’s to make sure you have the minimum kit for the next area.’
‘And because the hoard is level-locked,’ said Bartholomeo, ‘none of it has a level requirement to use. Doesn’t need it. You have to be nineteen to even get in there.’
‘Well, shit,’ said Ghorborosh. ‘When do we leave?’
‘Wait!’ barked Severina. ‘This is a full-on exploit. Remember what happened to the Red River Slayers.’
‘They were idiots!’ said Reynard.
‘And we’re not?’ retorted Severina.
‘The Slayers found the architecture underneath,’ said Asphodel. ‘They changed the rules themselves to make a teleport exploit. This is nothing like that.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re actually considering this?’ said Severina.
‘I’m just saying,’ said Asphodel. ‘We found him like this, we didn’t make him.’
‘You think the Core Manual will care about the difference?’ A note in Severina’s voice suggested she was genuinely hurt the Ranger was not on her side.
‘I think a lot more parties have got a slap on the wrist than have vanished down a hellhound’s throat.’ Asphodel met Severina’s angry glare.
‘Or, Sevvy, we could head to the Orzenti Coast,’ said Bartholomeo, ‘and find ourselves some ogres and krakenfolk to kill. And do it over and over again, for… two years? Three? Until we grind ourselves to seventeen and hope that gives us enough edge to take down Hypoxia.’
‘Not bloody likely,’ growled Ghorborosh.
‘Good luck doing any of this without a Cleric,’ said Severina darkly.
The rest of the party had no answer. None, at least they would voice aloud. Asphodel stared at the table, as if afraid the words would escape her.
So Fodrish said it instead.
‘I don’t know how things work between parties,’ he said, ‘but I’m guessing there’s more than one Cleric in Wrathbringers’ Eyrie.’
Severina slapped the table and broke the long silence that followed Fodrish’s words. ‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘You’re really going to ditch me and find some healer for hire if I don’t go along with this insanity?’’
‘We’re not ditching anyone,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘He said it.’
‘You were thinking it.’
‘I didn’t know Clerics got Read Thoughts,’ replied Bartholomeo slickly.
‘We can give it all back after we’ve killed Hypoxia,’ said Ghorborosh. ‘ Or chuck it all in a river or something.’
‘Sounds like it’s decided,’ said Severina.
‘You can’t pretend you’d be happy grinding the Orzenti Coast.’ Asphodel took the Cleric’s hand in hers. ‘We’re in this together, Sevvy. You know this is going to happen. We all have to go.’
Severina looked at Asphodel, then down at the table. She shook her head and let out a long, sighing breath heavy with resignation. ‘Just Hypoxia,’ she said.
‘Just Hypoxia,’ agreed Bartholomeo.
‘And then we get rid of it. Every scroll and potion.’
‘Straight into the sea if we have to,’ said Ghorborosh.
Severina flopped into a chair and sat back as if suddenly exhausted. ‘Then we’re going to the House of the Hallowed,’ she said, defeated.
‘We’ll hire a sky cutter,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘It’ll cost us but it’ll be worth it to get him there without any random encounters. And-’
‘Maybe not,’ said Fodrish.
‘Excuse me?’ said Bartholomeo with the raise of an eyebrow.
‘Like I told you once before, I might not be a full Player Character but I’m not an NPC either. You need me for this. No one else can do it. Right?’
Reynard sighed. ‘He wants paying.’
‘I think perhaps you forget your situation,’ said Bartholomeo. ‘You are very far from Noblehearth. You’re well out of your level.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Fodrish. ‘Wrathbringers’ Eyrie doesn’t seem such a bad place to be stuck. Maybe I can find a party heading for Noblehearth and work my passage carrying hydra hearts for them. I saw half a dozen parties just today in the guild hall. How many guild halls are there? That’s a lot of parties. One of them will have a need for a dogsbody and no points in Leadership to summon one.’
‘What do you want?’ said Asphodel with a stern look.
‘A share of the treasure from Hypoxia,’ said Fodrish.
‘Of course,’ said Reynard.
‘Sounds fair,’ said Asphodel. ‘Sevvy?’
‘Sounds fair,’ agreed the Cleric.
‘And you take me back to Noblehearth.’
‘There’s no way to fast travel you,’ said Bartholomeo.
‘Then we’ll ride,’ replied Fodrish. ‘However you do it, you get me back there.’
‘Deal,’ said Severina.
Fodrish swallowed. His mouth was very suddenly dry. ‘And I want someone resurrected.’
The Player Characters seemed to sag. Severina rubbed her temples. ‘It’s not that simple.’
‘I don’t care. You provide all the materials, you do everything. That’s the payment.’
‘Our spells are for bringing back party members,’ said Severina. ‘People who fall in battle. They’re not designed for… for finding some random on the other side and bringing them back.’
‘But it’s possible,’ said Fodrish.
Severina fought to find the right words. ‘It’s not that it’s impossible. More like… more like not feasible.’
‘I see.’ Fodrish looked between the party members. Even Bartholomeo no longer looked certain. ‘And do you believe you will ever get past the Glacier without an edge?’
That hit them all. Fodrish was never the best at reading people but even he could tell they were taken aback that this Commoner, this less than nobody, would ever speak about the secret at the top of the ladder.
‘That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?’ continued Fodrish. ‘You reach level twenty and amass enough gold to build your palace in the land past the Glacier. How many parties are trying to get there? All of them? Is there enough room beyond the Glacier for everyone? I’ve seen you bicker about what to do next. You don’t have a plan beyond hoping you can get past the next quest without wiping. None of you are min-maxed. You could grind for however many years it takes, you still won’t get there. It might end at Hypoxia, it might end at level eighteen or nineteen, but it will end. The whole world is designed to stop you. Unless you have an edge that better parties don’t.’
‘We can do it, Sev,’ said Reynard.
‘We’ll have to go over to the other side,’ said Severina. ‘No way do we have the resources for that. The ritual alone needs abyssal emeralds and a unicorn horn, that’s tens of thousands.’
‘We’ll have that after Hypoxia,’ said Ghorborosh. ‘It’s not the treasure we need from her, it’s the XP and unlocking the next lot of quests.’
Severina held up her hands as if trying to silence a crowd. ‘Fine. Do you have the body?’
Fodrish’s thoughts went back to the devastation at the cathedral square. He hadn’t seen what had happened to Melagorn’s body after it was carted away. It was probably buried or burned in the cemeteries outside the city. ‘I don’t,’ he said.
‘That makes it more difficult. But not impossible. We kill Hypoxia, give you a share of the treasure, do the ritual to find the soul and then the res spell, and cart you back to Noblehearth. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ said Fodrish.
Bartholomeo clapped once, as if putting a punctuation mark at the end of the negotiation. ‘The Company of the Waning Moon shall languish no more! Hypoxia is as good as dead! Do we have any more business at the Eyrie?’
‘Not me,’ said Severina.
‘Don’t need to buy that axe now!’ exclaimed Ghorborosh. ‘I’ll be looting something way better. Let’s get shot of this dump. Someone give me a towel.’