Tim’s brief escape from forest trolls and the freaking panthers they rode on landed him on the steps of a hopefully not completely abandoned… castle? Fort? He pounded on the thick doors. “Hello!”
The reverberation had shaken creaky hinges. Danger Sense recognized aura power inside, but the life was hard to read.
The only response he heard was the same critter symphony buzzing at feverish excitement since he entered this prairie a mile or two before reaching this… tell you what, I’ll call you a castle if you can help me out. I’m too tired to run any farther.
He stepped back to get a view over the twenty-foot stone walls encircling the structure. A second story of dwellings with dark, empty windows led up to an equally dormant tower wide enough to house a watcher.
Magic Hunt pulled him there as it had drawn him here.
He pounded the thick wooden door three more times, then rested his forehead on the flat metal bracers. His heart beat like a race horse and his hand trembled. He pounded once more.
If someone didn’t answer in the next few seconds, he’d use his last tincture and climb the wall himself.
In the distant woods behind him, his Danger Sense trail kept an eye on six goblin riders. A shiver wracked him at the thought of the last one that leaped out of the shadows. Unholy magic tainted the muscle-ripped, ever-hungry panther monsters. Over the last few days, these slaves to the wicked goblins had been hunting Tim for sport.
When they ambushed his camp, he’d teamed with Ky and Jil to put many down. He couldn’t believe the carnage and sustaining power he’d grown into, keeping up enough to let them strike the strongest ones. Ultimately, the goblin riders’ numbers and levels were superior. He’d been separated and let them use the horses to try and draw them away. Their endurance was winning by attrition.
His head pounded and his ears rang with the memory of the grenades the goblins had lofted into his path.
Thankfully his skill’s growth showed itself in seams he wove through their flanking attacks. He didn’t think that was them letting him get here. Aura Blades and his improving Double Whammo saved his butt several times, but he was no match for six, not even close. And certainly not with his current state of exhaustion.
Two days he’d been on the run, with last night’s surprise of the golden parakeets. He’d needed every bit of his dexterity and levels to cut them down. From too short of sleep to an all-day run, he was ready to collapse. Unfortunately, his fight was far from over. If he managed to secure this fort for his own, they knew where he was.
Tim took a breath and stepped back. If there’s a trap, I can’t sense it.
I’m going in. Dryfu flew over the top of the wall. I don’t see anyone. Just rats and birds.
Tim felt something more than just vermin. A power waited within, and he intended to meet it for fair or foul.
That meant using his last tincture. The mana booster concoction Melody taught him how to make might have been the single most important skill to surviving this long. Without that, he would have been forced to use his hand to hand without magic protections. His constitution still sucked, but he’d spent his last point on it and leaned on his protections to slow his pursuers. Heck, the dynamite boots the goblins threw would have killed him two days ago if he didn’t have constant protection spells on himself and enchanted in his Takekuma armor.
Just be thankful, he told himself. You made it this far. Tim drank his tincture and studied the cracks in the stone wall. Instant focus and a rejuvenated strength filled him. The polished marble had a skilled craftsman behind its cuts and placement. Someone put money into making this fort. He wondered if the Farar were spread too thin and the artisans or cartel had taken this without having to destroy it. Though that didn’t explain why it was so quiet. An ominous feeling swept through him at what dark magic might lie on the other side. If there was, he’d deal with it then. With the river and falls on the other side of the fort, he was trapped and needed a place to defend himself.
Thunder cats, activate. Tim cast Aura Blades to create two aura knives with a cultivation boost to their sharpness and durability. A beautiful pair of pink-purple aura flowing daggers fit into his grip. He stabbed one at a time into the cracks in the wall, climbing to the top and over to a walkway leading along the top.
He let go of the aura and the blades disappeared before his MP sank too low, then sent out a new wave of Danger Sense. “Squire’s Castle 1282” was stenciled into a fine brass plate nailed into the stone. Danger Sense rolled over an essence of fear. Urgency. Abandonment. It flushed out from a central stairway leading into the basement, fading into tunnels and sewers. The remnant of long past visitors stank of desperate and immediate escape.
Tim lowered himself down to the other side using a corner in the wall to slide down into the fort. He poured c-mana through his feet for added control, then also to pull truth from the grit. Life essence gravitated around something that left its stink on top and smeared in with its preys’. The predator hid within a well too far to discern. Its mark remained all over the floors and walls of this city.
Tim hopped to the ground as quietly as possible, attuning his focus on the fort within.
His right hand shook with a tremor of nerves. Whatever it was that chased these people had its fill on those who didn’t escape. Tim kept his Danger Sense spreading to see if he’d woken the predator yet.
He shook his hand twice more, flexing against the tingle of fade creeping back into dominance. The bracers Gregor made him helped; he’d just been burning through a lot of MPs. He needed to rest long enough to let his eyes and muscles cool.
Lord help Chris and my friends. Bring them here safely.
Danger Sense behind him warned of goblins closing in on the castle.
Tim sent another ping. It lit orange aura smeared in with the brown stains of death all over. The courtyard used second floor walkways to connect offices and chambers while leaving open spaces to light the market spaces on the main floor below. In their hurry to flee, the market tents and shops were still there. Just ramshackle and stained with rotten produce and bird poop.
A rat as wide as his hand scurried out of a broken clay pot. Not a blip on Tim’s radar, until—a blue specter appeared from a stack of boxes. His hunched figure and translucent skin were wrinkled with age. Cheeks sucked in and ribs exposed where his shirt was mottled. His brief burst of attack snatched the rat in a blink, scooping it by the body, then letting it dangle by its tail. He stretched his jaw, skin separating across his cheeks as his face made room to swallow the morsel whole. Once gulped inside, the specter’s jaw snapped back into place across multiple popping joints, pushing the lump down his throat with each flexion.
Within the specter’s translucent form, the rat’s grey fur split open. Its juice made a squelch and then a gulp sucked it down. Ripples of white light shimmered in the stomach acid as fresh blood produced new aura. As the morsel’s energy drained, the specter’s wrinkles faded. His back straightened and his form filled enough to be noticeable.
The ghost locked eyes on Tim in wonder and scrutiny, as though he shouldn’t be here, yet might not be his problem yet.
Also, the aura within did not match the source of power he’d tracked here, but he sure was interesting. “Welcome,” Tim said, resorting back to security guard greeting 101.
The ghost raised a brow and hovered slowly forward. He raised a finger to his lips and then to a basket tipped over on a ledge.
He stabbed his hand through the woven fibers as though they were imaginary. The squealing rat on the other end certainly wasn’t. The specter’s stomach filled out a little more as the meal absorbed into his body. His floating stride wagged at the hips and a humming escaped him in a sweet song.
Had the ghost already accepted him as neighbor and now aimed to live merrily on rats and guano shakes?
“My name’s Tim, and this is Dryfu,” he said, with a thumb to his stykiller.
The ghost spared a look back and tipped a hat he wasn’t wearing. His hair grew thicker as he ate, the curls and white locks added distinction to his age. “I’m Ptolemy.”
His eyes tracked another prey and he lashed out, twice the distance to this kill as his last.
Tim walked after him, content to search this strange aura glowing around the city. “Goblins separated me from my friends. Do you mind if I stay here the night? I—”
Bright aura drew Tim’s attention to an open doorway leading into some kind of defensive post for when invaders try to break through the front doors. It was about ten by ten with metal slabs that looked like they were meant to slide away and open to whatever attack this side of the battle wanted to throw down. A ladder built into the wall on the door side must have been where they stood and attacked, while someone stood on the right, ready to slide all or individual windows back shut. Whatever happened last time left profile marks where three humans had been in the way of an explosion. Chips were broken out of the ladder and cratered closer to the windows.
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Tim set his boot in the aura.
He woke to looking at the ceiling while his brothers shouted and moaned in pain. His shaking hands were burned to the nubs and blackened by the goblin powder bomb. Excilris had done this. Sefigh had failed to protect his family from the cartel hitman and his goblin troops. Memory swept him back like a mother’s guiding hand to when he was five years old and chasing his older brother Mothet. Giggling as he rounded their brown couch with the yogurt stains. Laughter like flapping birds fluttered in his chest when Mothet doubled back and caught him, tickling his ribs and sending him into pure joy. Sefigh didn’t know life beyond that moment. He wasn’t sure why his face was so hot, but the tears on his cheek were nice. “I’m gonna take a nap, Mo. I love you.”
Tim jerked back into his body. The aura puddle was gone. He rolled his ankle to test the strange strength collecting there.
Magic Hunt gained a level! Now Level 9.
Magic Hunt has evolved to create the New Skill: Spirit Memory. Those who have gone before you sometimes leave the best treasures.
And at quite the cost, Tim thought.
“You okay?” Ptolemy asked, with a sweetness strikingly converse from the ferocious rat killer side.
“Yes. Thank you. I just saw someone die. It felt like I had.” His ankle vibrated as though awakening to the mention of the spirit absorbing into his aura. Is that where its afterlife is taking him? Tim thought to Dryfu.
Am I God?
“You’re an aura mage,” Ptolemy said, floating closer, drawn in by his curiosity. And only mildly distracted by Dryfu flying off after a bird. “But you’ve only just now seen life from the remnant.”
Dryfu’s ear flicked at that.
Then the bird took wing, beak open and his stykiller spun into a kick that snapped the bird’s head off axis.
Ptolemy turned at the sound. “You gonna eat that, friend?”
Dryfu hopped over, lifted a wing and chopped his own hard and quick. The bird’s wing broke, and he yanked it free to drink the marrow. He flew off and landed on a nearby ledge to nibble at the wing. “You can have the rest.”
Ptolemy gave Tim a look like, ain’t he a sweet peach, then took off to grab his portion.
“After Sefigh’s vision my Magic Hunt skill evolved to gain Spirit Memory,” Tim said. “Is it safe for me to glean more of the aura remnants?”
Ptolemy nodded, ran his tongue sideways between one of several gaps in his teeth. “That would be good. It’ll provide relief for their spirits and aura power you could see as a gift to you for taking up their fight.”
And it was. Across the board, his cultivation capsules increased from 30-50% with a heavier push across Magic Hunt, Danger Sense and Aura Blades.
Tim walked it off until the aura vibrations settled down, residing in his shin. Similar to the absorption of Gregor’s thirst for vengeance against Chane and the cartel, Sefigh’s fight thickened his drive for revenge. It felt like America at war, he was so rooted to this new realm.
Ptolemy sniffed. “Victims of cartel violence,” he said, waving a hand at the fort’s graveyard of remnant stains. “How fitting the Eiyero they killed for would strengthen a new hero to fight against them. “Was Gregor among your friends?” he asked, pointing to the Ferar sigil on Tim’s vest.
“He was. Is. I didn’t see any of our party perish in the ambush, but I got cut off.”
“You don’t sound like you’re Farar. How did you get their armor? And Takekuma bracers and boots? An Urchin cloak. I bet you have quite the story, too.”
“Eh. It’s okay,” Dryfu said. Then winked at Tim. All love apparently not lost.
“I’ll get to you, too, Dryfu. Believe it or not, I’ve heard of you and your former partner. Not much good,” he said, trailing off to redirect his attention on Tim.
He shared their history from artisans to fivel, the safety of Oke’s burg, and how he was given the vest before they rogue leveled.
“I’m hopeful your party will be okay. Gregor is a hound dog for his people. He’ll find you somehow.”
Tim nodded, smiling thanks for the encouragement as he walked through the alley toward the ghost, slowly enough to let his Takekuma boots absorb the aura. He pushed down the memories as something he could retrieve later, at least with the small doses. There were several visible puddles in the fort’s ground floor he’d save for later. Those would likely be too strong to avoid the memory flood.
“How did you get here?” Tim asked. “Is there anyone looking for you?”
Ptolemy chuckled, his smile warm and his eyes full of sorrow. He shook his head. “Not anymore. I mean if the cartel found out I was here, they’d want me back. I used to be one of their Eiyero enchanters.”
He looked down in shame. “I’m still paying for that. Not that I started out to work for them. I could have refused…”
Tim let him have a moment, then when he didn’t seem to track where to pick up next, Tim offered, “You don’t have to get into it. That’s fine. I. We’re here to help. Whatever that means.”
“You can help by hunting. We’ll both need our strength. My escape from the cartel wiped me out. I traveled through their rings, ate my fill of the rats and birds in this floor and went into some kind of hibernation.”
“Were you… like this, when you were their slave?”
“A ghost? Not at first.” Ptolemy touched his forehead. The pad of his finger disturbed the projection of stability, like a stone breaking the surface of a puddle and spreading ripples across what had just appeared flat and solid. He tugged a grin into one cheek. “The initials on your axe. I knew Koryhn from his childhood. I too was Farar, Magic Division, Four Star Master Mage.”
He stood straight, puffing his chest with old man strength. The kind where seventy wouldn't be too old to get down and give him twenty. Those rats were helping. His gaze sank into a well of grief. “That was a long time ago, I’m afraid. I’m not the same class and barely have a semblance of what I was before the Dutchy captured me. Name’s Ptolemy Trey. Young ones in my family used to call me Papa or Uncle. Papa Tol.” His eyes drifted in the pleasure of sweet memories. “Back when I was alive I would have shook your hand,” he said. “But my present form would harm you. And I think we might become friends. I already like you, and it would seem we share common goals against the cartel and their rogue artisans. I was their prisoner when they first created the enchanted nixstone skulls. Rogue leveling exists because of the work they made me do. The warhorse they’re creating with that is going to blow the top off our world as we know it. This’ll be the last Hunt where they’re long-term future control is not at risk, so we better make sure we—”
His eyes caught sight of more prey. “Ugh. Get it…” He stalked toward the two rats scurrying along a ledge. “Forgive me. I must eat. I’m almost done.”
While he pursued his rats, Tim walked over the aura remnants. His Takekuma armor absorbed it better because of the mana fusion Gregor built them with. When Tim fled, he’d found them beside his bedding. Gregor must have spent the night finishing his boots, bracers and the new grip on his axe and dagger. His work was impeccable, and they’d been a life saver, especially the bracers. His hands were getting calloused, but they were still broken open in places and the soft, leather-like grip on the woven handlepads were significantly helpful in battle. And there were still two hides in his bad of holding, if he could figure out how to make them. Maybe Papa Ptol could help.
So quick to assume I can’t?
You didn’t—
You didn’t ask. Your aura mage and ranger classes both perpetuate potential skill in armor weaving.
That sounds good. Tim wondered if he could make a breastplate and sleeves.
We can try.
“I just escaped a few weeks ago,” Papa Ptol said on his way back from catching his meal. The posture in his lower back was more easily controlled as he walked and his stride moved a little quicker. “Your arrival and nixstone skull aroma woke me. That smell has haunted my nightmares like a drip in the dark. At least now I’m awake and we can fight together. Gain your strength because if the Murphy is still here, it might wake soon, too.”
“What’s the Murphy?” Tim asked, wondering if it lived in the tower or was from the aura belowground. “Not that I don’t think you could answer,” he said to Dryfu.
Papa Ptol grinned at the stykiller. “I’m sure he could. By all means. It’s already an enigma to see a stykiller not serving the Dutchy. I can’t wait to learn more about what that’s been like for you to start over.” The edge in his tone suggested a rivalry between them. Tim didn’t know stykillers typically served in the Dutchy. Several questions bloomed before Dryfu said, “The magistrate handed down the decision to banish us this month.”
“Interesting timing,” Papa Ptol said. “And ironic that you’d be partnered with someone here to clean up the stink you contributed to.”
Dryfu flew up into Papa Ptol’s face.
The old ghost didn’t flinch.
“Our kind were recruited for the protection and service of immigrants to Vignyia. We weren’t the police. You are. Or were. Now we’re in the company of a ranger aura mage with potential to clean up that mess.” Dryfu fluttered over to the ghost’s eye and leaned in. “I haven’t completely started over.”
The stykiller’s pose favored his right side, just like he did before striking.
Papa Ptol twitched his nose. “I’m still hungry. It might work better if you not disturb my dinner plate.”
Tim’s mind went to those gray, white plates still hot from the heat lamps and glistening with fresh scrambled eggs, a heavy dose of melted cheddar, crispy bacon strips, buttered hashbrowns and toasted english muffins. His stomach rumbled with a painful growl. “Now you’re making me hungry. Dryfu has been nothing but honorable in his service as my guide. Whatever happened before, we’re partners now, and I’ll protect him. I hope you two can get along.”
“I think we can,” Ptolemy said. “Friends call me Uncle or Papa Ptol.”
Dryfu flew back to Tim’s shoulder. The same place he took post when in battle. Over their time together, the more of it spent on Tim's shoulder and fighting at his side had strengthened their bond.
Thanks, TIm.
My pleasure. “He’s Killer D,” Tim said, thumb back at his friend. “Bzzz, watch out. Killa D it’s a swarm. Watch out. Killa D. It’s a swarm.” He hummed with Method Man’s voice in his head. His own blend of Rza beats fueled a little dance. “Alright guys. Now that we’re friends and all. Unless you’re gonna battle rap–and I’d pay to see that–maybe we move on to what we do when my goblin friends arrive. They pack some serious detonation. Good thing we got clan in da front.”
“Now I know you’re from Earth,” Papa Ptol said.
“Central Iowa farm life y’all. Represent. Seriously though. We’ve got about thirty minutes to get ready for our guests and I’ve got two questions.”
Don’t ask any questions, played in his mind in his wife’s mock angry voice, resetting the mental motion picture of one of their last funny moments while packing to go to the hospital and have a baby.
“You all right?” Papa Ptol asked.
“Yeah.” Tim steeled his nerves. Rachel was gone. He had to learn to live and thrive with her memories more as a gift than the burden he’d let them become. A burden of guilt that he hadn’t saved her. Not that anyone expected it. Still, it no less had cracked him to his foundation, leaving him forever unsure if he could withstand significant weight or pressure.
“Yeah. I’m good,” he lied. “First question: Is there anything I can make a tincture or healing potion? The aura remnant is giving me a little each time, but I need to get full fast.”
Papa Ptol smiled and spread his arms to the open space of the fort’s market center, in all its blemished glory. “Maybe?” he said, his early show of confidence fading with an undercurrent of humor. “I’ll be glad to hunt beside you. What’s the second?”
“I’m still waiting to find out what the Murphy is.”
Papa Ptol’s form shivered in his sigh. His eyes beckoned Tim’s attention and grit to follow. “Of course… come with me.”