by Deck Davis
The man caught him looking. “You’ll never see an old rogue with all his digits intact,” he said. “Not like you wizards. We get our hands dirty. No matter how good you are, how experienced, there’s always a trap waiting out there for you. That one trap that’s ready to trick ya, and ready to chew a bloody finger off your hand. Anyway, mage, what can I get you?”
Barnard looked around. He saw shelves filled with pairs of boots. Most of them looked exactly alike, but their prices were different.
After a few seconds he understood why; they each glowed with faint light of different colors. Nearby was a display rack of polished daggers and poison swords. Great – this was the sort of thing he needed.
“You sell artificed rogue stuff, right?”
“Well, this isn’t a back-street cobblers shop. Well, I mean it is, technically, since we’re on a backstreet and I also cobble shoes. Still, you don’t come to Old Nimble-Fingers emporium to buy your wedding shoes. What are you looking for?”
“It’s not me. It’s for a friend. I need something special.”
“How special?”
Barnard took his coin purse from his inventory and put it on the counter. The thumping sound it made wasn’t as impressive as he’d hoped.
“This special,” he said.
Nimble Fingers, who ought to change his name judging by his missing digits, leaned close. “Whisper into my ears, oh wise mage. And we’ll see what we can do for you.”
Etta felt so nervous that she could throw up. Or maybe it was excitement. Or maybe excitement was just another type of nerves. Whatever the heck it was, she just wanted to get this done. Go to the tower, and get inside.
She was so, so glad she’d met Tripp. Then again, it wasn’t as if it was a chance encounter. Not with Lucas telling her…
A figure barged into her. It was a barbarian wearing a leather cuirass with a bear imprinted on it. In a sheath on his waist was a sword that looked like it belonged to a giant.
Before Etta could even rebuke him for being so clumsy, he was gone. She turned her attention to the array of shops, to the signs hanging above the doors showing potion vials.
She peered into the first shop window, seeing her bull reflection staring back.
In the shop window were rows and rows of sparkling china tea sets and cups.
The door opened. An old man with a crooked back and hairy ears waved his finger in the air. “Nope, sorry,” he told her. He nodded at her, and then jerked his thumb toward the china. “Not a chance you’re putting even a hoof across my threshold.”
Etta shrugged and walked on. Luckily, the next few shops she visited weren’t so anti-minotaur. She bought something from each of them, emptying her coin purse.
Items Received
Health potions x16
Potions of manus replenishment x4
She could have bought herself a new sword. Maybe got an armorer to upgrade her leathers. But no, she was pleased with what she’d got because it would help the group’s chances in the tower.
Thinking about herself was the old Etta. The Etta that existed in a pod outside of Soulboxe. The Etta that had gotten herself so badly injured she needed a long-stay pod in the first place.
New Etta was a giver. She looked after others. And she didn’t do stuff to try and impress her dorky older half-brother anymore.
Nope. Now she went into mysterious deathtrap towers to impress a crafting orc, instead. Maybe the new Etta wasn’t so different after all.
CHAPTER 12
Not long after their shopping trips, the orc, minotaur, rogue, and mage were in front of the tower doors.
The tower seemed to be more popular than ever. Enterprising NPCs had taken advantage of the gaggle of players. They erected stalls at a safe distance from the structure, since they obviously feared it, and sold all manner of snake-oil.
Barnard pointed at one now. “It’s the old crone who wouldn’t let me look at her scrolls! Hey? I thought there was a storm coming? I’m one of your most loyal customers, lady! You just lost my business.”
“He’s right, you know,” said Rolley, to Tripp and Etta. “The guy buys a lot of scrolls. His inventory has enough stupid spells to supply your toilet paper needs for a whole year.”
The atmosphere around the tower was different now. It seemed that people stared at it less in awe, and more in anger. Tripp understood. It was frustrating wanting to get in there, but getting stumped by a cryptic riddle.
One player, a half-troll with biceps like a gorilla, was standing at the side of the tower. He raised a warhammer above his head and brought it down upon the tower with an almighty force. The resulting explosion of light and sound blinded and deafened the players around. The force blew the troll way across the plains. He smashed into a meat vendor’s stall, earning creative curses from the NPC merchants.
Tripp eyed the door now, and he felt a tremor of nerves. They were so close. He was so excited to enter the tower that he felt sick.
“We better do this before we get beaten to it,” said Etta.
Few players paid them any attention as they approached the great doors. Some of them had been there all day, and they’d seen many players try and fail to get into the tower. They had discounted the possibility that someone might have solved the riddle.
“Something just occurred to me,” said Rolley. “What if people see what we’re doing, and they catch on?”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Tripp. “By the time they realize, we’ll have already done it. We’ve all got our blades, right? We do it at the same time. Cut ourselves, bleed into your respective basin.”
“We might not have much time, Tripp,” said Etta. She nudged him and pointed at the distance, where a party of four players approached.
Tripp felt worry sit in his gut. He recognized them; it was the gang who’d entered the ruins after him.
“These guys have figured it out.”
“Better hurry then,” said Rolley.
Barnard stared at the approaching group. “Don’t worry guys. I’ve got this. I’ll slow them down a little.”
He spread his hands out palm first and let a purple light glow on his skin. After it grew so bright that it was trembling, he sent the light forth.
It traveled across the bone plains, where it stopped short of the party. It hovered there for a second.
“What’s this?” said Tripp.
“A spell. I’m conjuring a giant stone wall to slow them down…I hope.”
“You hope? What does that mean?”
“Wait and see. You’ll understand,” said Rolley.
Suddenly, the light dispersed.
But it didn’t reveal a stone wall.
Instead, there was a tiny little goblin wearing a butcher’s apron. He had an accordion in his hands, which he spread wide, sending notes of jarring music all across the plains. A few players turned their heads. Some laughed. Tripp had no god damn idea what was going on.
It didn’t matter though, because the spell did its job. As the goblin played his instrument and danced in the way only goblins can, the party stopped and stared. Some laughed, others looked bemused.
“Better hurry,” said Rolley.
Taking advantage of the party’s pause, Tripp and the others advanced to the doors.
And then the doors opened.
There was a hush among the crowd now. The tower might have been steeped in mystery, but they all knew what was coming next.
Sure enough, four monks walked out of the tower. Their faces were solemn and pale, lips blood red, eyes dark and full of untold depth.
With the doors open, a player with a ponytail and a quiver of arrows on his back rushed at them, seeing his chance to get in.
As soon as the tip of his foot crossed the threshold, he started screaming. Purple flames engulfed him, so wild that Tripp felt their heat even from yards away. The archer ran in a circle, shouting for help, before falling face-first to the ground. Then, he was silent.
Nobody tried to rush the doors af
ter that.
The monks carried a corpse above their heads. She was a female cleric, her robes tattered, her skin burned in places, cut in others.
Players fled from their path, having heard how brutal the silent monks could be. When they had gone 22 paces from the tower, the monks threw the body onto the ground. They turned and began their march back to the structure.
That was when eight players blocked their way.
“What are these lunatics doing?” said Rolley.
Tripp stared at them for a second before recognition took hold, and then he couldn’t believe it.
“Gilla?”
Etta looked at him. “You know her?”
“She’s the leader of the Forgestriders guild.”
“I know. I watched the last guild tournament. The won the melee match. She’s pretty amazing.”
“Pretty demented.”
“No kidding,” said Rolley. “They’re taking on the monks.”
“Forgestriders?” said Barnard. “Stupid name for a guild. Sounds cool the first time you hear it, but it gets sillier the more you think about it. Forge? Striders? What do they do, walk around a roaring forge all day? Take hikes around the blacksmith’s shop?”
Now that Barnard mentioned it, there was something funny about the name. There was nothing amusing about the guild members, though.
The Forgestriders, a guild led by a girl named Gilla who was ambitious to the point of mania, were tooled up for war. They wore armor that would have absorbed the damage of a missile. Their weapons glittered with all manner of magic. Some glowed a deep, fiery red, and others showed purple hints of arcane magic.
They looked damned impressive, that was for certain. From the way they were equipped, they seemed to be doing well for themselves. It was a contrast to the last time he’d seen Gilla and her guild. Back then, they were still trying to make their way up the tournament ladder.
If anyone could match the monks, it’d be Gilla and her guild. This was going to be interesting.
The monks didn’t seem to mind that eight players were blocking their path. They advanced on relentlessly, staring straight forward, utterly silent, their faces bone white.
Gilla nodded at the mage standing next to her. Tripp recognized him too; it was Lamp, Gilla’s best friend and oldest guild member.
“Okay,” said Lamp. “We each know our roles. Do as Gilla said and this should be eas-”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence.
The monks leaped forward, all four of them, and a great plume of smoke rose from the ground, hiding the guild from view.
They heard screams, shouts, orders, cries.
And then the smoke dispersed, leaving eight dead players on the ground. The monks walked on them, stepping over the tower threshold where the doors shut behind them.
Nobody knew what to say. The plains were eerily silent for a second until Barnard broke it.
“Are we sure we want to do this?” he said.
Rolley put his arm around him. “Come on, buddy. You’ve got me! When have I ever led us into danger?”
“Every dungeon we’ve ever been in. Every quest we’ve ever taken. Every…”
“Yeah, yeah. We’re doing it. Come on, orc, minotaur. Get to it.”
As they approached the oval doors, Tripp turned to Barnard. “What was that back there?”
“Huh?”
“With the spell. You said you were casting a stone wall. I mean, I’m no genius, but that didn’t look like a wall. It looked rather like a dancing butcher goblin playing an accordion.”
Barnard ran his hand through his messy mop of hair. “Yeah, well, you see…”
“Like I told you,” said Rolley. Tripp noticed that Rolley had a habit of talking for his friend. “Barny is a dice mage. Whenever he casts a spell, it’s completely random which one actually comes out. He has no control over it.”
“No control at all?”
“Sometimes,” said Barnard. “If I concentrate hard enough, I’ll get a close approximation of the spell I chose. But no, most of the time I could cast absolutely anything.”
“Then why the hell would you become a dice mage?”
“Well…”
“Because it has its perks,” said Rolley.
“Goblin-shaped perks?”
“Most mages learn a spell and then have to practice it to level it up. Like you with your crafting, I’m guessing. They might have to cast it for hours and hours before they improve it. It can take weeks of playing to get even one spell to mastery.”
“Okay…”
“Whereas a dice mage can learn any spell, and he has a chance of casting it at a mastery level the first time he uses it. It lets you use spells way, way beyond your level. Except you can’t control which spell comes out.”
“It’s something of a trade-off,” said Barnard. “It has its advantages, but it can be something of a hindrance.”
Rolley nodded. “Barny might try to heal you, but instead spawn a blood-thirsty troll that attacks everything in sight. Including himself.”
Tripp couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So why play as a dice mage? It’s way too unpredictable. I wish you’d warned me about this.”
“I have a theory,” said Barnard. “Part of Soulboxe’s appeal is that you can do anything, no? No limits. No boundaries.”
“Sure.”
“Then it stands to reason that it is possible a dice mage can learn to control his spells. If he can do that…”
“Then you could cast master-level magic without having to work to level it.”
Barnard ginned. “Exactly! Another perk of the dice mage is that there is no limit to the number of spells he can learn, unlike most mages.”
“And how many do you know?”
Rolley laughed. “There’s the magic question.”
Barnard thought for a second. “Two hundred and four.”
Etta gasped. “Holy hells.”
“One thing you can say about Barny here,” said Rolley. “He sure ain’t boring.”
As impressive as it was, Tripp was worried. He needed a mage to get into the tower, but not a mage he couldn’t trust. The second Barnard tried to cast a spell, he was a danger to them all.
Then again, if there was one thing Tripp respected, it was ambition. It was part of why he loved crafting in Soulboxe; it meant that you didn’t think in terms of what was possible. You set a goal to make something, and then you went for it.
Barnard was trying to work around the system, and there was something to admire about that. Besides, he could hardly go find another mage now, could he? With the other party nearby, it was too late to go back. He was so, so close to getting into the tower.
If Barnard was trying to game the system, maybe Tripp could help.
“Just a thought,” he said. “But what if I could mess around with your staff a little?”
“Mess around how?”
“I’m thinking a little artificery could help you concentrate better. I could make it a staff of focus, or something.”
“How would you do that?”
“I’m not sure yet, but it’s something to think about.”
“Well if you could help me, I’d be grateful.”
With that settled, he led them all to the doors.
“Ready?” he said.
Etta nodded. Rolley gave him a thumbs up. Barnard scratched his head, cleared his throat, and grunted in assent.
Players were watching now. They sensed something was going to happen. And the party of would-be tower divers were advancing.
Tripp gripped his flail and drove it into his palm strongly enough to cut his skin.
“Let’s do this.”
CHAPTER 13
George: Hi, my name is George, and I’m an addict.
Room: Hi, George.
George: [Long pause] Guess I’m supposed to say more than that, huh?
Room: [Scattered laughter]
George: [Holds up ring finger showing pale skin.] That says it al
l, doesn’t it? I still see the kids every weekend. It’s not so bad now I’m used to it. They stay over Saturday nights sometimes. I got ‘em bunkbeds. Course, they keep asking if they can bring their games console and I always have to say no. Need to cut off completely, right? But it’s hard. They don’t understand why. If you’d asked me years ago, I wouldn’t, either. Getting so wrapped up in a…in a…a damn game? I’m not telling my kids that.
- Excerpt from ‘Moving on from Soulboxe.’ Printed with permission from people in the meeting, names change to protect privacy.
After they dripped their blood into the basins, the doors opened. They were too excited to listen to the players around. They left them behind, stepping over the threshold and into the grand tower. The doors shut, locking them inside the mystical structure.
“Hmm,” said Barnard. His voice was calm, not betraying much excitement. Tripp liked the calmness that he gave off. “It reminds me of a cathedral. Something gothic.”
“A cathedral?” said Etta. “I’m not sure about that.”
Rolley stood with his arms crossed, gazing all around the room. “It looks like a…a giant church or something.”
Etta nodded. “Yes, exactly! You’re so perceptive, Rolley. I guess that comes with being a rogue.”
Tripp didn’t know what it reminded him of. A cathedral? Sure, maybe. All he knew was that it made him uneasy, and this was only the atrium.
They were standing in the widest and tallest part, where the domed ceiling was high above them. There were passageways either side. These seemed to run on endlessly like a trick corridor in a house of mirrors.
Ahead of them was a staircase that seemed to have miles and miles of twists and turns. Looking up, Tripp couldn’t see where they ended.
“Which way?” said Rolley.
Barnard squinted as he looked around. Although he wouldn’t have to wear them in Soulboxe, Tripp suspected he needed glasses in real life. His squinting was a habit.
“It seems to me that now we’re here, we don’t know our goal. It brings us to the grand question; what is the purpose of the tower?”
