CHAPTER 07 — TO THE WOODS
The instant Flint opened his eyes, a yellow warning appeared above his Skill Bar:
Illness: Severe Hangover
This was accompanied by a tool-tip:
You are physically and mentally weakened as a result of overindulgence. Skills now cost an additional 25% Stamina and your Health is reduced by 10%.
He glanced around. He was in one of the tavern’s private rooms. The door was open to the corridor, allowing sound to drift in. Vardock was in a seat next to the doorway.
“Morning suh— suh— sunshine.”
He squinted at his arch-nemesis turned Party Leader. “What are you doing here?”
“Where else am I gunna go? Stuck with you, aren’t I?”
Flint sat up and was hit with a stabbing pain behind the eyeballs. He groaned and clutched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Ah…” he grimaced. “Feels like I got smashed in the face with a brick.”
“Innkeeper said you smoked that Carja stuff. Can’t mix Ale with Carja or it fuh— fuh— messes you up.”
He thought back to puffing on the smoke-stick with the girl outside. “Lesson learned.”
He tried standing, felt a wave of nausea course through his guts. “Am I supposed to feel this sick in a freaking video game?”
“I got hit with an arrow during that Culling match,” Vardock said. “The pain was very real. Wouldn’t be surprised to catch the shuh— shits from bad food.”
He remembered the gut-wrenching pain from similar battle injuries yesterday and couldn’t help but agree.
Vardock reached in his pocket and produced a small vial of golden liquid. He tossed it over. “Here.”
Flint caught it in one hand. “What’s this?”
“Hangover antidote. Your friend EsseCount bought it.”
Flint almost forgot about Esmeralda. Last he remembered, she was traipsing about the tavern drunk off her ass. “Where is she?”
“Two doors down.”
He pushed himself off the bed.
“Wouldn’t disturb her if I were you,” Vardock said.
“Why not?”
“She’s with that Retarded Fetus guy.”
Flint froze in the doorway. He turned around, blood draining from his face. “What?”
As if in answer, a door creaked open in the corridor. Flint turned around and spotted Esmeralda in the doorway. She was scratching her eye and yawning. When she looked up and spotted him, she smiled. “Hey.”
She wore the same clothes as the night prior, though her long black hair was disheveled. He could hear the sound of another person moving in the room behind her.
He stared at her perfect form, the jealousy close to overwhelming him. The two stood gaze-locked for several awkward seconds.
“Hello?” Esmeralda said, waving at him. “Anyone home?”
Flint worked his jaw, trying to restrain the words he knew were coming. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She glanced left and right as though it wasn’t clear who he was addressing. “Excuse me?”
“You… how could you…” A sharp twinge of embarrassment made him hesitate. Who was he to scold her? He wasn’t her damn father.
She crossed her arms and narrowed her gaze. Damn but she was drop-dead gorgeous. The more he looked at her, the more he felt like he’d been gut-punched.
Vardock came out in the hall with his bushy eyebrows lifted.
“How could I what?” she challenged.
Flint’s eyes fell to the ground, and he tried to regain his composure. He already felt like an idiot for getting angry. Now there was only the incredible hurt and shame left to deal with. Unless there was a way to salvage this.
“How could I what?” she repeated. “You have a problem, Austin?”
“Yeah, I have a problem,” he said, glancing between them. “Why the fuck didn’t you two wake me up?”
Vardock and Esmeralda exchange glances.
“Cause we wanted you to sleep?” she said.
Flint gave an angry grunt. “Yeah, well, I wanted to hit the shops early. Before the other idiots bought-up all the gear.”
“That’s what I fucking suh— said,” Vardock said. “I wanted to douse you with a bucket of water, but she wouldn’t let me.”
“Seriously?” she said. “That’s what you’re mad about?”
Flint hoped his cheeks didn’t show the burning he felt. But he wasn’t given the chance to answer. Esmeralda turned in the doorway, said something to the person behind her, then stepped aside. A second later, the seven-foot warrior called Retarded Fetus ducked out of the doorway. He was shirtless, showing off a broad, muscular chest with runic tattoos above the nipple. His beard was trimmed and straightened, his skin shone bronze in the sunlight cast from the nearby window. He looked like a cover piece from an old teenage girl’s magazine.
He flashed Flint and Vardock a white grin. “What’s good, boys?”
“Sup,” Vardock said.
“You guys headed to the caravan quest?”
“After we pick up supplies,” Vardock said, nudging Flint. “Sleeping buh— buh— beauty here made us miss the morning rush.”
Retarded Fetus hefted his inventory sack. “I did my shopping yesterday. Before wasting all my gold on booze.”
“Good idea.”
An awkward silence passed.
“Well, good luck,” Retarded Fetus said. He leaned into Esmeralda and kissed her on the mouth. “Have fun with your friends.”
Flint almost puked right there.
The warrior walked down the stairs and out the door.
“Why don’t you go with him?” Flint asked.
Esmeralda melted into the door, blushing. “Um… I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“We’re Partied with her,” Vardock said.
Before Flint could reply, a notification popped into his HUD. Two round frames with red meters appeared on the top right of his vision. Inside the top frame was the smiling face of Dexter Vardock, while the second one was occupied by Esmeralda. It took him a second to realize the HUD displayed his current party members and their Health. “When did that happen?”
“This morning,” Vardock said. “She sent me a Party request. And I accepted.”
“You did?” he asked Esmeralda.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face and nodded.
Flint glowered at the big man.
“What?” Vardock said innocently. He jerked his head towards her. “She’s huh— hot as fu— fuck. Think I’m gonna say no to following that ass around?”
“What’s wrong, Austin?” Esmeralda said. “You don’t want to do the quest with me?”
As a matter of fact, he did not. He didn’t want to do anything with either of these two. But like much of the last day, it seemed his desires would take a backseat. “Look, I can’t go on that quest.”
“Why not?” she asked.
Despite the fact he had no desire to speak to her, he explained anyway. About being transported to that player’s casket and watching him die. About McCormick taking control of Chastity and telling him to wage war against the rouge NPC Beovold. About the Vizicarum trying to kill him. Vardock, who’d heard some of it already, didn’t seem to be paying attention. His gaze was fixed on the wall like he was studying his HUD.
She took it all in with a neutral expression. When he finished, she said: “Huh.”
He frowned. “Huh, what?”
“So that’s what you were trying to tell me last night.”
His frown deepened. “It’s a miracle you remember anything given how sloppy you were.”
“I wasn’t that drunk,” she said, pursing her lips. “Anyway. What do we do about it?”
Flint studied her. She was taking the information well. Strange, given she was an emotional wreck at baseline. He at least expected a question or two. Like, ‘Why does this Imperator guy want to kill you?’ Or: ‘Why would the FRB admin think you’re the best person to fix it?’ Sure, he didn’t have answers to those questions. But they were obvious enough to ask. “What do we do about it?”
“Yeah.”
“I have to go to a place called Siolan.”
Vardock frowned. “Why do we need to go there again?”
“That’s where this Sigrid lady is. Apparently she’s forming an army to stop the NPC causing the Caskets to kill players.”
“I don’t know,” Vardock said. “I kinda wanna do this High Marsh thing. I heard if you don’t do it, you can’t join those war battles.”
Flint stared at him. “You mean the massive PvP fights that’ll be easy to die in?”
“Yep.”
Esmeralda looked between them. “Well, I didn’t like that PvP thing yesterday. It was way too realistic for me.”
“I loved it,” Vardock said.
“Why?”
“I like shuh— shitting on baddies. It’s a hobby of mine.”
“Well, sorry to keep you from your hobby, but the Admin said we have to go to Siolan,” Flint said. “And also, if I don’t do what they say, they aren’t going to give Zeeke anymore cancer meds.”
“What does Zeeke have to do with this?” Esmeralda asked.
“One of my quests says that if I don’t abandon the Reach Army, they aren’t going to give Zeeke the cancer meds.”
She blinked. “Oh. Well, we better do it, then.”
Flint stared at her. She really was taking everything in stride. And it was starting to bother him.
The big man’s eyes were unfocused, and Flint assumed he was checking his HUD. “That Siolan place is far,” he finally said.
“Very far,” Esmeralda agreed. “How do we get there?”
“Through the forest to the east.”
“The forest?” Vardock said. “What, like hiking?”
“Yes.”
Vardock seemed to consider it. Finally, he shook his head. “That sounds boring as fuh— fuck. I’m going on the quest.”
Flint blinked. “What?”
“I’m doing the quest.”
Vardock turned and started his trek down the stairs, forcing Flint after him.
“Did you hear anything I said?” Flint said. “About my brother not getting his cancer treatment?”
“You’re making that shit up.”
“No, I’m not.”
“There’s no way an actual Admin told you to fix the fucking game,” Vardock said with an annoying degree of assurance.
“Yeah, he fucking did. And told me you were going to help. That’s why we were put in the same Culling group and partied together asshole.”
The big man snorted. “Yeah? And let me guess, the second I follow you into that forest, there’ll be a dozen of your demented fans waiting to gang up and kill me.”
“If you make me leave town with that caravan, then a level 200 Vizicar and his gang will attack us the second we leave the Safe Zone.”
“Yeah. So what?”
“So what?” Flint repeated.
Vardock turned on the bottom step. “Yeah, so what? We’ll kill them if they try.”
“They’re level 200, moron. They’ll crush us like bugs.”
“Sucks for you, then, doesn’t it?” He placed a steadying hand atop the sword on his belt and turned, his giant boots echoing off the hardwood. “Come on. I wanna hit the stuh— stuh— stores.”
Flint gritted his teeth and followed his fellow Charger. “You’re really gonna force me to go on the quest, despite the fact I’ll be killed?”
“You think you’ll be killed. Let’s see how it plays out.”
Flint grabbed him by the shoulder. The big man turned with a scowl.
“If the Vizicar kills me, I’m dead. Like, for real dead. And so is my brother.”
“It’s not my fault I’m the party leader,” Vardock said. “Up to me, I’d ditch you in a huh— huh— heartbeat.”
“Why don’t you kill yourself, then? I’m sure that’ll fix it.”
Vardock smirked, and Flint came close to punching him in the face. “Why should I end the game for myself? You’re the one who doesn’t wanna play.”
“I don’t want my Casket to murder me.”
The big man held both arms out in the universal ‘what the fuck?’ gesture. “What are you so worried about? It’s a video game for fuh— fucks suh— sake. You do this for a living.”
Esmeralda tried to get between them. “Boys, boys,” she said. “Just calm down. I’m sure we can figure—”
Flint shoved her out of the way. A lot harder than he intended, maybe. But he was pissed about that Retarded Fetus thing, and there was no rule about hitting girls in a video game. She stumbled two paces into the side of the bar. A sleepy Hokum Joe frowned up from a steaming bowl.
“What the hell, Austin?” she said.
Flint rounded on Vardock. “So that’s it, then? You’re just gonna be a fucking troll?”
Vardock’s face darkened. “Easy, cripple. You know I don’t like that word.”
“Fuck you.”
Vardock’s face reddened. He was clearly pissed. Not that Flint cared. “At least I didn’t lose to Clownie Moroccos in the Finals.”
Flint’s neck veins stretched. His body was taut with rage. “I lost on-purpose, you fat idiot.”
Vardock sputtered with forced laughter. “On-purpose? Yeah, right.”
“’Scuse me, gentleman,” Hokum Joe said from behind the bar. “You need to take yer quarrel outside.”
Flint could’ve told him about Zeeke’s cancer meds and the deal with McCormick. But what was the use? This self-centered slob didn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone but himself. “You know what, Dexter? You’re a fucking troll.”
The big man’s hand went to the pommel of his sword. The muscles in his massive forearms bulged. “Call me it again. Just one more time. I fucking duh— dare you.”
Flint was more than ready to meet that challenge. It was a small miracle steam wasn’t spewing from his ears. “You’re a selfish fucking piece of shit troll.”
Vardock’s sword came free the same time that Flint pulled his hammer. A warning flashed across his HUD. Something about initiating violence in a Safe Zone. He ignored it.
“Austin!” Esmeralda shrieked, grabbing for his arm. He jerked away, focusing on Vardock, now highlighted red by his targeter.
“Merwa!” Hokum Joe yelled. “Get the Street Watch!”
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“Fucking fat troll,” Flint spat.
“Want me to kick your ass in this game, too?” Vardock yelled.
“Put that sword away or I’ll gut you with it, fat boy.”
“Try it ya crippled feh— feh— faggot.”
So he did. He swung at Vardock’s head like it was a gold-filled pinata. Vardock ducked and swung his own blade, slicing Flint across the chest.
Panicked rage coursed through Flint’s body. He’d heard the strike. Felt it swipe the front of his armor. But there was no hurt, and his Health Meter was still full.
Vardock was crouched and ready to strike again. “Done yet?”
Flint heaved the hammer like his life depended on it. Vardock tried to knock it out of the way, missed, and caught the business end on his forehead. The big man crashed into the wall, sword clattering to the floor.
Flint thought he might’ve killed the prick. Hoped he did, even. But then Vardock gave a malicious growl, the muscles in his beefy face tensing. Strangely there wasn’t any blood or bruising.
“You’re fucking dead!” Vardock shrieked.
Flint realized he had no weapon. So he reached for a nearby barstool to defend himself.
That was when the guards came. The lead one, a helmeted man with a lace, slammed through the door like a battering ram.
Flint held the barstool, hesitating, as five more heavily-armed figures clad in silver steel burst through the entrance. Vardock didn’t hesitate though. He was in a fighter’s stance and ready to swing at the first challenger.
Fucking idiot till the end, Flint thought.
He studied the Street Watch officers, checking the strange sigil on their armor and shields. It looked like a horse leaping over a bottle of ink and quill. Far different from the phoenix symbol that adorned the banners throughout Reach City. They spread throughout the room like an army of police officers as the leader confronted Vardock.
“Oye!” he said. “You Vardock?”
The big man blinked. But said nothing. Neither did Flint.
“That’s him,” Esmeralda said quietly. Then to Vardock, she said: “Lower your sword. They aren’t the Street Watch.”
Flint’s eyes widened as the leader turned and went back outside. A second later, he reentered with another figure. A woman in a long-sleeved blue uniform with weather-worn chubby cheeks. She was standing there, a roll of parchment in her hand. The stitching on the breast of her shirt had the same logo as her guards.
“Master Vardock,” she said, eying him warily. “That’s you?”
“Um… yes,” Vardock said.
“My name is Turi Can-Gault and I am a Senior Courier sent by the Guild of Message Carriers.” She produced a roll of parchment affixed with a golden seal. “This correspondence is for you.”
He took the parchment and turned it around in his hand, frowning. “What’s this?”
“A letter. Obviously.”
Vardock broke the seal and unfurled it, yellow paper crackling. As his eyes scanned the parchment, Flint glanced between Can-Gault and her six guards. “You need an army to deliver a letter?”
“Of course.”
“What the hell…” Vardock muttered to himself, still reading.
“This delivery is now complete,” Can-Gault said. “We shall now recite the Guild promotion.”
Flint frowned as two guards lowered their weapons and stepped forward with raised face plates. They reached into inventory sacks on their belts, producing oddly-shaped flutes. Raising the instruments to their mouths, they filled the air with music.
“Have you ever sent a letter to a soldier on the front lines?” Can-Gault asked in an enthusiastic tone. “Or to a relative in a distant land?”
Flint exchanged a puzzled glance with Esmeralda.
“Have you ever needed a contract sent to an overseas business partner?” Can-Gault continued. “Or an invoice sent to a remote purchaser or financial institution?”
Flint opened his mouth to answer, but Can-Gault plowed forward.
“Message delivery is a dangerous business. That’s why you need professionals.” She raised an open palm to the small army behind her. “Since 1397, the Guild of Message Carriers has been the leader in the delivery of correspondence. Whether it be letters, pages, business manifests, contracts, or court documents, the Guild prides itself on fast, secure, and confidential delivery anywhere in the world.”
“Okay…” Flint said, frowning.
“Our fees are reasonable and delivery is fast. We promise no greater than twenty-two days transit time to anywhere in the world. And we do mean anywhere. Safe and secure delivery is guaranteed or your gold back.”
In Flint’s HUD, the leather book icon flashed that new Clavis entries were available. He mentally opened it, and saw the new Codex entry: The Guild of Message Carriers. When he started reading the entry, though, he realized it was an audio version of Can-Gault’s speech.
“The Guild has one hundred and eleven locations in Kvar, and is expanding yearly,” she said. “Visit your local guild house to procure our services.” The men with the flutes reached a crescendo. “The Guild of Message Carriers. We deliver messages. Fast. Secure. Confidential. Since 1397.”
The music stopped. But the promotion wasn’t finished. Can-Gault continued speaking, though her cadence became rapid and difficult to follow:
“Services not available in all areas. Terms and conditions vary by location. Accidental death or maiming of recipient not cause for refund. Even if caused by us. Delivery insurance sold separately. Visit your local guild house for details.”
As if on cue, the Guild members retreated from the tavern as quickly as they entered. In the resulting silence, Hokum Joe cleared his throat.
“I’ve sent my girl to fetch the Street Watch,” he said. “You lot best get out ‘fore they arrive.”
The sound of paper crumpling drew Flint’s attention to Vardock. The big man looked puzzled as he jammed the ball of parchment into his inventory sack.
“We’re leaving,” Vardock said. He proceeded toward the exit and pushed the door open, pausing to look over his shoulder at them. “You coming or what?”
Flint raised a brow. “And where are we going?”
Vardock frowned and scratched his jaw. “Apparently I need to go wherever you want.”
The vagueness of that statement hung in the air as he turned and disappeared through the entrance. And they followed.
##
In the street, there was a buzz of people walking up and down. Several were players still in arena armor. Flint looked down at his own body, he still had the rough spun under armor he’d been wearing since the match.
“What did that letter say?” Flint said.
“Can’t say,” Vardock grumbled.
“What do you mean you can’t say?”
“It’s confidential.”
“Who sent it?”
Vardock abruptly turned with a scowl. He stepped in close to Flint, violating his personal space. “I can’t tell you shu— shit about it. Just be happy I’m going with you and duh— don’t ask again.”
Flint frowned. That wasn’t the answer he wanted, but he decided not to push it.
“Stores are this way,” Esmeralda said in a flat voice.
They walked down the main street, seeing the vendors and their shops. Players marked out by their recognizable Culling armor, intermixed with NPCs. One player had discarded his clothes entirely and was doing some kind of pole dance on one of the flag poles atop the roof of a large building. People mostly ignored him.
They followed Esmeralda down the winding road, past carts and street merchants. Flint was staring at the signs on the doors looking for an weapon and armor shop. Most were taverns or brothels.
“All they got here are whore houses and bars,” Flint said.
“What else you nuh— need?” Vardock grunted.
Esmeralda stopped next to a wooden shack with a badly painted placard looked like it was supposed to read “Nelson’s Armory.” The middle part of the second word was crossed-out, however, and vandal added some select letters below. The final product read: “Asshattery.”
Flint stopped in front of it. The windows were murky black, no way to tell if it was even open. “Is it even open?”
“It was earlier,” Esmeralda said.
He walked up the steps and pushed open the door. Inside, there were racks of weapons on iron shelves. There was a glass countertop below which were several daggers. There was a seedy smell about the place.
“Where is the owner?” Esmeralda asked.
“Sqauwk. Where’s the owner?”
Flint nearly jumped into the ceiling. “The fuck was that?”
“Awesome!” Vardock shouted, moving to the countertop. Behind the shelf, a large bird cage was situated, a blue parrot held to a twig inside. “A puh— puh— parrot.”
Flint relaxed a bit.
“Hello, hello!” A voice yelled from a backroom. A great fat woman in roughspun waddled out, her giant frame barely fitting between the edges of the countertop.
“Uh hi,” Flint said.
“My name is Nelson.” The woman put her hands on her hips, her bangles jangling on her arms. She looked him up and down with her tongue between the gap in her teeth. “Rough looking feller ya’re. You looking for gear before heading north?”
He shifted in his stance. “Something like that.”
“Well you’ve come to the right place!”
“Squawk. You’re not welcome here, douchebag.”
Flint scowled at the parrot. “Where did it learn that kind of language?”
Nelson glared at the bird. “Shut it, feathers.”
“Squawk. Fuck yourself fatty.”
Vardock sputtered with laughter. He keeled over at the belly and laughed so hard he snorted.
“I thought they only repeat phrases,” Esmeralda said.
“It’s an Insult Parrot,” Nelson said. “An ill-mannered sack of feathers I won at a card game.”
Flint stepped into an aisle of weapon racks, checking out the axes and swords there. He picked up a greatsword with a jewel-shaped pommel. The blade itself was rather dulled with time. The dialog box popped up and he examined the stats. It was barely better than his current warhammer, and way overpriced. He put it back in the block, then scanned the other items. What he really wanted was another hammer. He passed across the other items—bows, daggers, axes, swords. He came to the hammers row, and went through each of them. One piece caught his eye. An all-white zeroed in on one that was in all-white warhammer with good damage stats and reasonably priced.
He pulled it from the rack and moved on to the clothing isle. He picked up a pair of slacks and pants, as well as a good overcoat.
He brought them up to the counter and paid for them. Then he got an idea.
“Can I sell stuff to you?”
“Weapons and armor,” Nelson replied.
Flint undid the straps of his breastplate and set it on the counter. He stood there in his undershirt and breeches. Then he dropped the warhammer there as well.
“I’ll give you fifty Robban,” she said.
He snorted. “Try again.”
“Squawk. Try again, fatty,” the parrot chimed.
Vardock, who had been browsing the sword rack again laughed. “I want that bird.”
“This rubbish ain’t even worth twenty-five,” Nelson said.
“Two-hundred,” Flint countered.
She chuckled. “I’ll give you sixty-five, and that’s being generous.”
“This warhammer killed seven people in the Culling,” he said, tapping it with a finger. The black iron still carried dried blood. “It’s a souvenir.”
Nelson worked her jaw. “Eighty.”
“One-hundred,” Flint said. “And these clothes and boots free.”
Nelson grimaced. “Fine.”
Without another word or gesture, a gold icon in his HUD showed the added amount in his inventory, taking him from 440 to 540. To his surprise, another flash of white letter across his HUD showed-up.
You have gained +1 to Charisma.
A tool-tip pop-up followed:
From now on, buying good and services costs you two-percent less.
“Neat,” he said.
“What?” Esmeralda asked.
“Nothing.”
When he touched the clothing, it automatically appeared on his body.
“Pleasure doing business,” Nelson grumbled.
Flint smiled for the first time that day. “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to know the quickest way to Siolan, would you?”
Nelson raised an eyebrow. “Only way I know is up the Main Road.”
“Is there a road through the forest?”
Nelson brow raised even higher. “If there is, it ain’t one I would travel, that’s for damn sure.”
Esmeralda stepped forward. “So there isn’t a way there?”
“I don’t know,” Nelson said. “There are forest folk that come into town from time-to-time. But I don’t know how they come to and fro. All I know is the forest is fulla bad stuff I don’t never wanna come across.”
Flint sighed. “Thanks for your help.”
“Might ask my sister next door,” Nelson said.
“Your sister?”
“Duga.”
“You guys own both these stores?”
“Well she technically owns the whole building, and I pay her rent,” Nelson said. She didn’t seem too happy about it though.
Flint couldn’t care less about that. He glanced at the two others. “I’m going next door.”
They nodded at him.
He left the store and walked into the next one. He paused on the threshold, waiting to see if he got the HUD warning to not abandon Vardock. But it seemed both stores were part of the same Instance.
Duga’s Adventure Shoppe was filled with tents and robes. There was a line of windowed shelves that looked oddly like refrigerators on the other end covered with fat glass jars, the writing on the glass said Ailments. There was a thin man nearby with a bow on his back looking around the stock who eyed him suspiciously as he walked in. The man had a giant emerald ring on his hand.
Flint stepped into the room, causing the bell to jingle on the door.
This time he was greeted by another impossibly obese woman in roughspun, this one smelling of heavy perfume, but not the expensive kind. More the cheap, toilet-water stuff that reminded him of the old woman on the Lower Deck.
She gave him a scowl as he entered. “What do you want?”
Flint scowled back. “I’m not accustomed to being addressed as such by a merchant.”
“I ain’t no merchant. I’m Duga.”
“Your name’s on the door. Isn't this your shop?’
“So it is. What do you want?”
“Need supplies.”
Duga reached under the counter and pulled out something. It looked suspiciously like a small black tarp. “You’ll be wanting this.”
Flint stared at it. “A tarp?”
The look she gave him was like someone who’d just witnessed the puppy take a dump on the new carpet. “It’s a tent.”
She tapped the top of it and the black tarp ballooned upward into a three dimensional triangle. There was a flap at the front, which she drew back to reveal the pair of sleeping bags and lantern.
“Oh,” Flint said. “How much?”
“One-hundred fifty gold for this,” she said. “But we have bigger ones that fit more.”
She raised a hand up to the ceiling. Several of the same colored tents were unfurled on a display on the high ceiling. One of them was bigger than his room at the inn, and had red carpeting in it and everything. It looked not unlike the tent he spawned in outside the arena. The beauty of magic, he thought. Or programming.
“How much does that one cost?” he asked.
“Two-hundred thousand,” she said.
The door banged open and Esmeralda entered. She gave him a half-smile, then looked around the store. The refrigerators caught her eye and she made for them.
“We’ll need some of these,” Esmeralda said.
Flint glanced over the top of the shelf. She was peeking into glass refrigerators, staring at the potions.
He scowled. In games like this, the biggest rip-off was always to buy potions from a merchant. “I’m sure I can make my own much cheaper.”
Esmeralda frowned at him. “Do you know how?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
She collected six red-colored bottles in her arms and carried them to the counter. Duga also sold her a tent of her own.
Flint was scouring the other shelves for gear, but it seemed mostly useless stuff. He grabbed a cookpot which advertised the ability to instacook small-game loot. Then he grabbed a water canteen which advertised purification for one-hundred refills. He also grabbed an extra pair of socks and undergarments.
The door opened and Vardock walked through. To Flint’s surprise, the blue-colored bird was on his shoulder. Vardock was also missing his breastplate, wearing only a rough-spun leather tunic.
“What is that thing doing here?” Duga shrieked.
Vardock’s grin was ear-to-ear. “His name is Stanley, actually.”
“Get it out of my store.”
Flint scowled at Vardock. “I thought you didn’t have gold to buy anything.”
Vardock glanced down at his tunic. “Sold my armor for him.”
Stanley flapped his wings in a tizzie. “Squawk. Sold the armor to fatso. Squawk.”
“How you gonna survive without armor, moron?” Flint said.
Vardock shrugged. “I’ll wait outside.”
Flint carried his odds and ends up to the counter.
“What’s the fastest route to Siolan?”
Duga eyes him suspiciously. “There isn’t no fastest route, there is only one route. You follow the Main Road around the mountain and get there in one month.”
“Is there a path through the forest?”
Again the look of half-contempt, as though he’d asked the most ludicrous question in the world. Even the skinny stranger peaked over the shelf with a raised brow.
“The forest?” she repeated.
“Yeah, the forest.”
His tone only made her incredulity increase. “If you want to get killed by bandits, eaten by Hornslogs, or starve cause ya don’t know where the heck you’s goin’, then sure, it’s a great way to get there.”
Flint glared and placed the items in his sack, each shrinking to tiny objects when inserted. All but seven gold auto-transferred from his inventory. When he was finished, he walked out with Esmeralda behind him.
Vardock was feeding the parrot bread crumbs on a bench across the street.
“Are we sure we want to do this?” Esmeralda asked.
Flint’s irritation surged. Why was it that these two assumed he wanted them coming along?
“The forest doesn’t seem a safe way to travel,” she continued.
“There’s a river that starts thirty miles from here and cuts through it all the way there. It’s as simple as following it.”
“You going into the Bellwoods?” a voice behind them asked.
They turned in unison. The skinny man from Duga’s store. He was looking between Esmeralda and him with a pleasant smile. As he came closer, the wind caught him, and Flint wrinkled his nose. The guy smelled like old, sour sweat.
“Who’s asking?” Flint asked even as his targeter ran over him:
Quirin of Dugath
Level 17 Marksman
A tool-tip flashed above his skill bar as the man approached:
Quirin of Dugath is a Tutor. Tutors are Non-Player Characters (NPCs) that have the ability (but are not obligated to) to teach players about certain game mechanics.
The man came to a stop, still smiling. “Name’s Quirin. I live in Dugath, some eighty miles up the river.”
“You live in the forest?” Esmeralda said, her voice still close to a shriek.
“My whole life.”
“I’m going to Siolan,” Flint said.
“Dugath is right along the way, friend.”
Flint called up his HUD and the world map. It took him half a minute, but he spotted the landmark for Dugath in the Bellwoods. Quirin had just said it was eighty miles away, but from the marker on the map, it seemed a lot closer. That was until Flint used the distance markers on the edge of the map. He had greatly underestimated the size of the forest itself. Eighty miles wasn’t even a third of the total distance between Reach City on the easternmost end of the map and Siolan to the southwest, around the middle of Kvar.
“You know the way?” Vardock asked.
Quirin nodded. “Been walking between Reach City and Dugath my entire life. I know the route well.”
Flint pursed his lips. He preferred traveling alone. And the prospect of taking on this unknown NPC seemed risky. Tutor NPCs may have useful knowledge, but that didn’t mean they were beneficent entities. What if he turned out to be a bandit? Flint eyed him up and down. He didn’t look too scary. Seemed something of a frail, half-starving man, truth be told. But long, hard experiences taught him not to rely on how things looked.
“Why do you need travel companions?” Flint asked. “You got here alone just fine.”
Quirin gave him a sad smile. “I came here with my two brothers. It’s not safe to travel alone in the Bellwoods. The segment between here and Dugath has some bears and other stuff. Can’t sleep if you travel alone. No one to be on the lookout, see.”
“Where are your brothers?”
“They left yesterday. Joined the Big Time.”
“The Big Time?”
“The Big Time Circus Company,” Quirin said. “The greatest show on the continent. They even got this human cannonball, if you can believe it.”
“Your brothers are clowns?”
“Jugglers. Just looking to earn some gold for their families back in Dugath. There’s no work back home, sadly.”
Flint didn’t care to hear a sob story. He just wanted to hear why he should travel with this guy.
Quirin must’ve sensed the hesitation. “Look friend, you’re thinking you can just follow the river south and that’ll get you to Siolan. But it won’t.”
Flint frowned. He didn’t like people guessing what he was thinking. Especially when they guessed correctly. “Why not?”
Quirin counted off the reasons on his fingers. “One, it’s impossible to follow. There’s a species of scrub that grows out of the riverbank and stretches for miles on each side. Thornbrush, it’s called.”
“Thornbrush doesn’t sound like something I wanna walk through,” Esmeralda said.
“It’s not,” Quirin said. “But that isn’t the only problem. It’s Hornslog mating season.”
Flint paused. That Duga woman had mentioned Hornslogs as a possible hazard. Whatever those were.
The leather book icon of his Clavis flashed above his Skill Bar. This was accompanied by a tool-tip:
Entry added: Hornslog.
With a thought, the Clavis entry opened.
The picture accompanying the creature was something halfway between a crocodile and a rhinoceros. A tremendous, ugly-looking thing with teeth the size of his arm and a sharp horn. Not something he wanted to run into.
“The Hornslogs live in the Thornbrush, see,” Quirin said. “Another reason you don’t wanna follow the river.”
“Maybe I’ll get a boat, then,” Flint said hopefully.
Quirin smiled. “Not unless you wanna be fish food. There’s gutterfish in the water. No one, and I mean no one, ever brings anything smaller than a pontoon skiff with a metal hull out there. And even then, it’s something of a risk.”
Another Clavis entry popped-up for gutterfish and Flint opened it with reluctance. The image that stared back at him was something like a pufferfish with fangs.
“Gutterfish feed on wood,” Quirin said.
“Wood?” Esmeralda asked, evidently examining her own codex. “Like termites?”
Quirin raised an eyebrow. “What are termites?”
Flint glared between the three of them. If only he could’ve spawned in a different Instance. Without these idiots. “Fine, you can come,” he finally said with a sigh. “But if you try to rob us, you’re dead.”
Quirin held up his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
As four, they turned up the street to walk.
“Squawk. Skinny boy’s a chicken shit.”
Flint glared at the parrot twittering on Vardock’s giant shoulder. That thing was going to be a supreme annoyance. Not unlike its owner.
“Forest is this way,” Quirin said, leading them into the heart of Reach City.
The cobblestone streets of Reach City ran in neat, grid-like arterials. Well-maintained wattle-and-daub homes with thatched roofs lined the outer sectors of the grid. The residents of these neighborhoods were hearty-looking, well-dressed people who smiled and exchanged pleasantries easily. The neighborhoods gave way to a marketplace at the center of the city. Taverns, bakehouses, and stores of all kinds dominated this area. Crowded stalls laden with every kind of good advertised on blackboards with chalked-in prices or vocally by aggressive salesmen. Food vendors and breweries selling victuals of all kinds. Blacksmiths roasting iron in steaming forges. Gem-dealers and cloth salesman bartering over their fineries. One dealer was advertising various kinds of smoke sticks that smelled a lot like the carjaweed Flint sampled the night before. He held his breath as he walked by the stand, not even wanting to catch the second-hand smoke.
Beyond the market, they ascended a wide staircase that led onto an arched bridge. At the end of the bridge was the main gate of the Reach King’s castle, whose crenelated battlements and cylindrical towers cast long shadows over the heart of the city. From the top of the bridge, the whole of the eastern rim of the city was visible, including the Culling arena at the bottom of the hill. As he looked out that direction, Flint caught sight of so many players he had to issue a thought-command to stop his targeter from flooding his HUD with player IDs. There were literally thousands of them. All standing around a massive caravan of horse-drawn carts. The carts were lined-up end-to-end, running from the city gates along the winding road to a point unseen on the other side of the hill.
“There’s the other players,” Esmeralda said. “Where we’re supposed to be.”
Flint scowled at her back, nearly opening his mouth to tell her she was welcome to join them. He held back though. It would only make her think he was still pissed at her for sleeping with that Fetus guy. Which he was.
Quirin led them to the other side of the bridge, down a staircase leading to the western edge of town. A few minutes of walking through the communal pasture, they came to the forest’s edge. Crowded packs of withered trees rose from the earth, covering everywhere in front of them as far as the eye could see. A ratty old fence demarcated the end of the farm. A rotted sign inked in red was hammered into one of the posts.
“What does it say?” Esmeralda said.
Flint leaned over and read it:
“CAUTION: Avoid the forest at all costs. Monsters, Bandits, DEATH.” The last word was written in capital red letters.
“Oh,” Esmeralda said. “Why did I even ask?”
“We’ll be fine,” Quirin assured them. “Just stick with me.”
Flint lifted his foot over the fence and was instantly assaulted by a red dialog box.
“What the heck?” Vardock said, obviously seeing the same thing.
WARNING — If you continue your current trajectory, you will automatically abandon the quest: MARCH TO HIGH MARSH. Doing so will mark you as a deserter from the army, making you a fugitive of the Kingdom of Reach.
“What’s the hold-up?” Quirin asked, eying the three of them who had come to a complete stop on the forest’s edge.
“Nothing,” Flint said. He closed the dialog box and stepped forward. The second he did, a new dialog appeared:
QUEST COMPLETE: KEEPING ZEEKE ALIVE, PART I
NEW QUEST: KEEPING ZEEKE ALIVE, PART II
You will journey to Siolan and meet up with the criminal witch known as Sigrid. She will help form the guild that will become your army to challenge the Imperator. You will find her within fifteen days’ time, or Zeeke will not receive another Decel infusion.