CHAPTER 10 — THE CART OF QUANDARIES

The first thing Flint saw was the erratic flickering of red in his lower visual field. His HP bar blinked rapidly at 5%, neither filling nor emptying.

Huh.

There wasn’t a cold feeling, but a numbness and tingling from head to toe. A heavy, course material pressed against his skin from the neck downward. A scent of old wool prominent against a background of damp.

He opened his eyes the tiniest fraction. Bright light assaulted him like an enemy, forcing them closed again.

Light…

He tried again, this time forcing one to open despite the pain. His vision was a smear. Blotchy outlines sharpening with every painful moment he kept his eyelids from recoiling. What appeared was a bland white room, lined with strange boxes and vials. The light source were three torch lamps shaking violently in their attachments. There was a constant squeaking sound, harsh but regular, like the belt of an escalator feeding a rusted motor. He tried moving his head, the muscles and joints in his neck stiff as a cork in a wine bottle. When it did move, he glimpsed high-set windows at the top of the room, blurs of green moving at nauseating speed outside.

Where am I?

“This one is waking up!” a voice said from behind him.

His heart fluttered. He tried to lean back his head.

“Stop trying to move. You are hurt.”

Flint frowned. The voice carried a hard edge, yet was flowery as a spring blossom. Her t’s were turned to soft v’s and z’s, with this becoming zhis, and why becoming vie.

He ceased his efforts immediately, breath catching in his throat. He tried swallowing, but his throat was dry. He tried speaking, but all that came out were croaked mumbles.

“Where…” he breathed-in, trying with great might to expand his lungs. “Where am I?”

“You are in a wagon,” the voice replied. “Obviously.”

A wagon? He stared at the flickering torchlights on the ceiling. “But how did I—?”

“We found you three nights past,” she said. “Frozen near to death in the woods.”

Like a switch had been flicked, memories of his recent past rushed back. The hilltop campsite… Dexter plunging to his death… the ambush and theft… the naked trek through the forest. The half-mad shivering, body pressed against…

Esmeralda.

“Where…” his voice creaked like old reeds. “Where’s Esmeralda?”

No reply.

He tried sitting up again, but found only his neck worked. All four of his limbs and torso were paralyzed.

“Stop moving, fool. The potion only works if you are completely still.”

A figure appeared in front of him. She was clothed in a dark hood, sleeves running down to the edge of her wrist where leather gloves began. Half of her face was concealed by shadow. Her skin was olive-colored, her eyes wide-set and arched, a golden yellow flecked with lines of black. Everything about her radiated hardness.

“Where is the woman I was with?”

“Your woman is dead,” she said, arms crossed. “We tried to reheat her, but it was too late.”

He blinked. Dead?

The woman stared at him a long moment like you’d stare at a child you expected to throw a tantrum at any moment and would have to subdue.

“Dead…” he repeated.

He pictured her frozen in that log. It made sense. He didn’t think he would survive, and her lips were dark blue. It made sense… Now his two companions were gone.

“My sympathies,” the woman said, her face betraying none at all. She seemed more irritated than anything else.

Much to his surprise, a small well of tears leaked from his eyes. He gave a shuddered breath and closed them. Alone now at last. Wasn’t that what he wanted?

He didn’t know whether the bitter sadness was for himself or his dead friends. Not that you could even call them that.

“She wasn’t my wife,” he said.

The woman was turned away from him, staring off in another direction, arms crossed.

“She was a friend of mine,” he said, giving a weak chuckle. “Not that I treated her like one.”

“Huh,” she grunted, still not looking at him.

The cart bounced along a rough patch, pitching him off the mat for a microsecond. Had he really slept three days with this turbulence? And where in the hell were they taking him?

“Who are you?”

“I am Mederess Dah’me, of the Arcane Surgery of Auxvasse,” she said. “But I prefer to be addressed by my first name. Kali.”

His HUD came to life suddenly and auto-scanned her:

Kali Dah’me

Level 56 Specialist Magus/Mendress

“A Mendress?”

“Resident Mendress,” she said.

“Resident?”

“What of it?” she snapped.

His brows shot up. “What? Uh… nothing…” He checked the new Clavis entry:

Mender Caste

Maguses who specialize in the healing arts of Mending. They are adept in both magic and the use of medical alchemy. Menders trained in Kvar graduate from advanced Arcane Universities and hold the honorary titles of Mender or Mendress.

The cart shuddered violently again, this time for several seconds. Kali grabbed hold of the railing.

He lay there silent for several moments. Then opened his HID. His Level-Up notifier was blinking.

WARNING — You have unspent Skill Points to spend.

WARNING — You have unspent Talent Points to spend.

He watched in surprise before switching over to his Trees, and caught a second surprise. He had gained five levels, and five unspent skill points along with two talent points to allocate.

“How did I get all this XP?” he muttered.

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The only answer was a crisp metallic banging somewhere behind his head. Like loud feet on a staircase.

Kali turned around, scowl alight on her face.

“What are you doing?” she asked the unseen arrival.

“I have come to see the patient!” a cheery voice replied. It was male and older. Not the voice of a young man.

Kali gave an annoyed grunt as the man appeared. He was short and plump, wearing a turquoise hood with neat black lacework. A compact leather-bound book jingled from a copper ring on his belt loop. On his breast was affixed the seal of some grand design, incomprehensible symbols sewed into the sigil. Below the seal in plain English lettering was wrote the words, STUDENT MENDER.

Flint frowned. The man was easily five decades older than Kali. His high-boned cheeks and soft eyes were lined with wrinkles. A full beard of snow white covered his face, clean and well-trimmed. As the man grinned widely down at him, Flint thought he looked more like Santa Claus than any kind of medical student.

“This is him, eh?” the student said.

Kali grunted again. She seemed to do that a lot.

“Hello, my good man,” he said. He pulled off his glove and foisted his hand out to shake. “My name is Deftly Drummond Busby, Student Mender of the Arcane Surgery of the Auxvasse School of Mending and Medical Alchemy.”

Flint stared at the hand a beat, trying to move his own. His limbs felt like tree roots.

“He’s not supposed to move, fool,” Kali snapped.

“Oh, quite right, quite right,” Busby said. He twisted around frantically then grabbed for something above Flint’s head. A second later, the old man appeared at his right shoulder seated on a stool.

“Now my good man, what name was given you?”

Flint’s scratchy voice came to life. “Walker.”

Busby clapped his hands together. “Very good! Did you hear, that, Mendress Dah’me? This lad’s name is Walker!”

Kali looked at Busby like he was a turd she’d found on her doorstep. “I’m going upstairs. Make sure he doesn’t move.”

She walked off above him, and he heard her footsteps echo away. Made him wonder what kind of wagon had multiple levels.

Busby grinned after her. When she was gone, he leaned in close and whispered. “That is the Resident Mendress Kali Dah’me. She is a most… particular kind of supervisor. Harsh and unyielding in manner.” He leaned back, the grin returning. “Now tell me, Master Walker, what brings you to the Glowing City? Are you here for the Carnival? For the Arcane College? Or perhaps a respite on you way to the wide and fertile South?”

Flint stared. The man was speaking so fast it was hard to keep up. “Well… I… to the what?”

“Auxvasse, Master Walker. We call it the Glowing City, on account of the Illuminautumn trees. You can see their phosphorescent leaves aglow in the canopies over the city. The effect is most notable on the eastern side of town, at the arbologies lining the great walls of the College.” His grin showed a set of perfectly white teeth. “My wife, the beauteous and most talented Professor Myrtle Maribelle Mathers Busby is a specialist of Arcane Botany there. Indeed, there is no more renowned scholar on exotic flowering plants in the whole world.”

“That’s nice,” he said dumbly. Who was this doddering old idiot?

“There are many reasons to journey to Auxvasse, Master Walker. Indeed, there many. What, may I ask, is your reason?”

“I uh… was going down south. To Siolan.”

“Siolan!” he shouted, clapping. “That is a most beautiful and majestic place! The banking capital of the world! I have been there myself. I have seen a great many things, in fact, having dabbled in one profession or another throughout my life.”

Flint just stared. There wasn’t much to say.

“Might I ask what became of your clothes, Master Walker? One shouldn’t discard those in the woods during autumn. No, no, that would not be a wise thing at all. They are of the essential, lest you end up frozen like a popsickle. Like you and your wife did.” He gave a hearty chuckle, like two people freezing to death was as funny as a fart in a quiet classroom. “I am very sorry that she died, though. Very sorry.”

“She wasn’t my wife.”

Busby’s brow shot upward. “Oh, that is not likely, Master Walker. Not likely at all. You were wearing the same Mark. Such a strong, unmistakable signal, one so profound that our lookouts in the Tower of Quandaries dispatched this hospital cart immediately to your aid. Immediately to your aid, they did.”

“What?” Whatever this hyperactive old man was on about, it was making his head hurt. “What Mark?”

“What Mark?” Busby repeated, giggling. “Why, the Mark of the Bonding, my boy. The one placed by maguses with knowledge of Ceremonial Magic. Indeed, the one placed by the official of your most recent coupling.”

“Most recent what?”

Busby kept laughing. “Oh, my. I believe you are suffering amnesia.” He stood-up and walked to somewhere unseen, the sound of glass bottles clinking.

“But I—”

“You needn’t worry, Master Walker, I have the ailment necessary to fix your problem,” Busby said, voice somewhat strained as he sorted through whatever glassware. “Ah! There we are!”

Flint strained to look back, his neck throbbing.

“Mendress Dah’me would have no problem with me administering this,” the old man said. He ambled over, a round glass pot clutched to his chest, an eerily-glowing liquid sloshing inside.

A wave of panic caught him. That did not look like something he wanted to drink. “What the hell is that?”

“Just Ramistigmine Elixir, my boy,” Busby said, like that name explained everything. “A few drops of this and you’ll be good as new!”

“I’m feeling better,” he said, squirming. “Really, I feel almost as good as new.”

“Oh, the body is healed, that is excellent news. Now we must mend your injured mind. Help you regain those memories with which you’ve parted.”

“No, that’s quite alrig— ach!” — his jaw was thrust open as Busby poured the liquid in gagged, the first measure sliding down the wrong pipe, the majority dribbling down the front of his blanket. He hacked and whooped, trying mightily to sit up. The hot liquid burned the back of his throat, made his nostrils burn.

“There, there,” Busby said. “That’s a good lad.”

Flint was force fed half the damn bottle, each drop choking. Busby gave him encouragements, but kept the flask draining. Flint was sure he’d drown by this madman when suddenly the flask was withdrawn. He hacked and blinked away the burning, caught sight of Busby being yanked violently by the hood. The flask tumbled from his hands and clattered to the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Kali screamed, snatching the flask off the ground.

“I was giving him a remedy!” Busby squealed. “A mentation elixir… to aid his broken memory!”

“You gave him this?” she screeched, holding the bottle an inch from the old man’s nose. “Are you a fucking idiot?”

Busby grabbed the book looped to his belt, thumbing through the pages. “But it says right here, for amnesia, you give one-half liter of Ramistigmine!”

“Look at the concentration, fool!” she thrust the bottle in his face again, with the bottom upward. “This dose is for demented giants. Giants! Not fucking humans!”

Busby’s face turned ashen. “But I… but I thought…”

She shoved him roughly aside. He lurched sideways as a bump in the road sent him sideways into the wall.

Flint wheezed violently, his lungs burning. A red warning message appeared over his Status Effect window:

TOXIDROME: Neurotoxic concentration of a —stigmine administered. You will die within the hour unless the effects are reversed.

He coughed so hard, he thought he’d pass out.

She tore his blanket down and pressed her warm hand against his chest. A pulse of heat passed into his chest, spreading through his four limbs and circling back to settle in the low center of his gut. A violent wave of nausea hit him like a sack of bricks. He found a sudden strength and twisted his neck sideways and spewed orange puke down the front of her jacket. She kept her hand in place, not even flinching away from him.

“I was only trying to help!” Busby sniveled.

“Damn your help,” she said.

Busby hoisted himself up, grimacing with effort. He hobbled over to the mat, a look of imminent sadness on his face.

“I am so sorry,” he sniveled, leaning in close. “Please forgive me?”

Flint tried speaking, but his guts found a bolus of bile to empty. Hot puke shot through his gullet like a rocket into Busby’s face.

“Go downstairs and get Vibiana,” Kali said. “Tell her to bring the tube.”

The old man’s eyes were clenched shut as he wiped the puke off with the back of his sleeve. “Right away.”

Flint laid back on the mat, moaning in pain.

“Stupid fucking Mend students,” Kali muttered. She removed her hand from his chest and stood. “Sorry, man. I’m going to have put a rock in your stomach.”

Flint gazed bleary-eyed at her. “A what?”

“An element that absorbs magical toxins.”

He shook his head.

“It’s that or die.”

An old woman with a headband emerged next to her in a black overcoat. She was a giant, broad-shouldered women. Looked like the gender opposite of that Romchil mage he’d run into. She was carrying a clear tube the size of a small garden hose.

Flint tried with every ounce of strength to stand.

Kali placed her fingers over his forehead, her eyes going glassy as she did. She seemed to be focused on something beyond him.

He tried fighting against her, but his limbs were still paralyzed. He could still turn his neck though, which he did. In whatever direction made it hard for Kali to keep her warm fingers on his face.

“Hold him down,” Kali grunted.

Vibiana grabbed either side of his head and wrenched his neck straight with strength. He clenched his jaw with effort, fighting to turn away, but her grip was a vice.

A soothing sensation poured over his mind, clouding his vision.

“Relax now,” Vibiana’s guttural voice urged. “Just relax.”

So he did. And fell into a deep sleep.

##

When Flint came to, he was in a familiar place. And it wasn’t inside the game. He knew that because his HUD was gone, and the setting around him was familiar. He was in the conference room he and Gannon met in a few days earlier.

He glanced at the floor, saw the shimmering pixels of himself cast from a cylindrical projector. The same kind of device that cast his form into the Casket pod during the Culling.

“What the fuck is going on?” he said. The words crossed his mind, passed over his lips. But no sound came out.

“You need to stop dying.”

Flint twisted toward the voice, causing the projector to whir as it spun him 180 degrees.

Admiral Gannon was seated at the opposite end of the room.

“I’m sure you have lots of questions, but we only have a few seconds,” Gannon said, staring through him. “You must stop dying.”

“What are you talking about?” he tried asking. But again, the words didn’t issue. “Am I out of the game? Where is my body? Where the fuck is Zeeke?”

Gannon stared through him, giving no indication he heard a single word.

“You are the Worldbreaker. Only you can save us.”

Before he could ponder that statement, the world went black again.