Chapter Three – Tutorial Quest I
Tara’s confidence flagged when she heard footsteps coming down to the hold from the main deck. It was one thing to be brave in theory, another to prepare yourself for real conflict.
If she were sitting in front of the computer with the game controller in her hands, a glass of water at her elbow and a bag of chips at her side, Tara knew this would all be very different. In an actual slave ship, the stink of death and suffering made it difficult, horrible. The thrill of welcome she had felt at realizing where she was, was gone.
Wenrik motioned to her and the rest of the captives to be silent.
“Remember what I told you,” he said. “When the slavers come for us, that is not our moment. When they bring our strongest to handle the oars and help bring this ship into harbor—that's when we will attack. Otherwise, they will trap us here like rats in a hole. We won’t have a chance.”
“Do you remember the signal?” asked the gnome urgently, looking into another prisoner’s terrified face. “When you hear the wolf howl—then we begin.”
“How can they fight?” whispered Tara to Horon. “They’ll be trapped here.”
The big, sour man considered her grimly. “That’s what you think, witch,” he said. “The truth is, they are more free than we are. Enita is clever with her hands, with tools. The chains these slavers use are no match for her cleverness. All except the healthiest are already free. The slavers will not think to check them. They won't know until it's too late.”
“What does Enita mean—‘when the wolf howls’?” pressed Tara.
“I’m surprised, witch, that you don’t already know.”
“I’m not a witch!”
Horon looked at her bleakly. He was not a Borzerk hailing from the Windscape, or a Skor of the cliffs. He was a Fen, one of the hardy, practical people who made their way across Allerion’s harsh countryside as either farmers or merchants. They were not the most warlike people, but they were the backbone of civilized human society.
Character Class Class Details Base Stats
Fen
A nomadic human race, the Fen are primarily merchants, although some built farms on the Grayscape despite the threat of Borzerk raids. The Fen are a hardy, pragmatic people who have learned to survive on their wits.
Stamina: 100
Strength: 80
Intelligence: 100
Dexterity: 100
Magic: 80
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Special Skill: Speechcraft - in tight situations, the Fen use their gift of persuasion to temporarily calm or confuse a threat. Cost: 70 dexterity.
“I do not trust a stranger who seems to know us and what will come,” said Horon. “You are either a witch or a prophet. You do not look like a prophet.”
The Fen’s words stung, but Tara didn’t have a chance to reply. The hatch was thrown open and they saw several armored figures descend the ladder into the hold.
Wenrik rose to his feet at once, awkward because of his hobbled legs. In spite of his own warning not to resist until the right moment, the Borzerk’s scarlet eyes gleamed with dangerous light.
“What curse will be on you for this?” he said. “Can you dare look into the eyes of the dead?”
One of the slavers struck his face with the back of his armored fist. He drew his sword when Horon loomed forward to intervene.
“Unless you want to join the dead,” said the slaver, “stand down.” He gestured to those with him. “This one, and the big oaf. That man there with one eye, and the woman gaping like a fish. They seem to be the strongest. Rats and filth must agree with them.”
Tara was shocked. How was it possible that this could be exactly like it was in the game, and so different? She actually flinched when one of the slavers loosened the manacles around her ankles, startled by the realness of the violence. In the brighter light from the slavers’ torches, she could see the blood on Wenrik’s face.
Wenrik saw her staring. His wolfish grin startled her, brief but immediate.
“Take care,” whispered Elita, watching them go. “May the Mover of Mountains be with you.”
“Shut up,” snarled one of the slavers, pushing the little gnome and forcing her to sit down.
At the ladder, even some of the strongest slaves had to be helped. Tara herself hadn’t realized how stiff her frozen limbs were. Pain shot from her ankles up her calves as she tried to balance on numb feet. She gripped the rail tightly, struggling after the others. Each step was heavy and painful.
“Don’t be afraid of them,” came Wenrik’s low murmur, and Tara realized he was ahead of her. “It’s fear they feed on. Make them know what it is to starve.”
The raw anger in his voice was unmistakable. Tara tried to gather strength from his energy, but it was difficult. When she licked her lips, she didn’t even feel her tongue. How was it possible to be this cold?
She couldn’t die in-game. Could she?
The question came to her like a shock. It had never occurred to Tara until now, standing huddled on the oar deck with the others, that this dream didn’t seem to be ending no matter how nightmarish it became. The wet rags she was forced to wear, her feet wrapped in soaking cloth for even slight protection, felt uncomfortably real. But this was all a game. Wasn’t it?
“What are you waiting for?” One of the slavers pushed her roughly forward. “Take one of those oars.”
They were forcing the slaves to row them into the harbor. It must have been difficult to maneuver the big ship in shallow water between the rocks that were common along the coast, forcing the need for manual labor. Tara’s cheeks burned against the lashing wind as she reached for an oar.
In a wrenching, animal motion, Wenrik made his move. The slavers on the oar deck didn’t expect resistance from anyone, least of all an already beaten slave, and his violence cracked the skull of the nearest of their captors. Immediately, Wenrik grasped the slaver’s sword.
The Borzerk captive’s practiced stance kept the other slavers from rushing him. None of them were ready for a fight.
Wenrik threw back his head at their open fear, and howled.
When you hear the wolf howl—then you join us, Elita had said.
Horon took advantage of their guards' distraction to force another down with a knee in his back, breaking his neck.
“What are you waiting for, witch?” he grunted. “Here. Can you use a sword?”
It was a short iron sword. Tara nearly dropped it, surprised by the weight in her hand. The gleam of the sharp blade sent a shiver through her.
“WHAT IS THIS?”
A roar from above them made Tara jump. The slaves, already struggling to hold their own, seemed to shrink with new terror.
“Ah,” said Horon. “That will be the captain.”
The slavers stepped back, almost as cowed as the slaves by the fall of heavy steps coming towards them. Tara held her sword out in front of her awkwardly.
“You don’t know how to fight, do you?” said Wenrik, looking at her sideways. “Stand as I do. Not so straight—that will make it easier for your opponent to upset your balance. Bend your knees.”
Tara obeyed, feeling foolish and terrified.
“I thought you said we were going to survive this,” muttered Horon at her other side. “Why do you look like a hunted rabbit?”
“It’s—it’s so real,” gasped Tara.
There was no denying it. It was shockingly authentic when the master of the ship stormed down at last, a giant troll that Tara recognized at once as the first in-game boss fight, Ikor the Skorge.