Clan Dominance:
The Sleepless Ones
by Dem Mikhailov
Book #2
Published by Magic Dome Books
in collaboration with
1C-Publishing
Clan Dominance: The Sleepless Ones
Book #2
Copyright © Dem Mikhailov 2020
Cover Art © Ivan Khivrenko 2020
Cover Designer: Vladimir Manyukhin 2020
English translation copyright © Mikhail Yagupov 2020
Editor: Neil P. Woodhead
Published by Magic Dome Books in collaboration with 1C-Publishing, 2020
All Rights Reserved
ISBN: 978-80-7619-147-1
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the shop and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.
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Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
About The Author
Chapter One
The Red Demons. Dark Tidings on a Sunny Day. The Trembling Earth. Angels in a Nosedive.
I’D ALMOST reached Mossy Hills when I saw the battlefield covered in “bodies” straight ahead of me and pulled hard on the reins to stop Sist.
I turned my steed aside, and, having moved some 60 feet away, exhaled with relief. That was a close shave. I stayed in the saddle, examining what had recently been a battlefield, calling myself every name under the sun as I did so.
Noob! Moron! Wide-eyed idiot! How could I possibly have forgotten to take something absolutely essential for a traveler along?
A spyglass!
My kingdom for a spyglass! In Waldyra it was imperative to have one handy.
Alternatively, you could buy the Eagle’s Eye — a relatively inexpensive spell that served the same purpose, but sapped away at your mana. Additionally, observing the terrain through a spyglass (or with the aid of a spell) gave one a specific achievement — you became an Observer. I never cared much about these achievements before. However, now that I had a diamond account, they gave me pretty decent bonuses. There were also many skills that could enhance one’s observational ability tremendously. A player with a well-selected and leveled-up set of skills could see a lot — not quite X-ray eyes, perhaps, but the next best thing, for sure.
Still, that was neither here nor there. If there was anything like a spyglass in the Mossy Hills, no matter how poorly-made, I’d definitely buy one. In the meantime, I only had my naked eye to rely on.
The road was dusty and narrow, and the village stood about a third of a mile away. There were at least three dozen wagons by the roadside and on the road itself; some smashed to pieces, others still burning. The ones that hadn’t burned all the way through had some mark drawn upon them — something resembling a capital T or a hammer standing vertically. The wagons looked like they’d belonged to a small trader train. No beasts of burden could be seen anywhere — the attackers must have taken them along or killed them. There were players as well as locals guarding the train, since I could see about two dozen silvery blobs of mist suspended above the ground. Come to think of it, the guards may have been players exclusively — that would all depend on who’d been the owner of the luckless train. It was no longer possible to surmise the classes or the races of the “deceased” players, but it must have been a mixed team specializing in defense. Still, they’d failed in their task, and been wiped out completely.
The identity of the attackers wasn’t much of a secret — there were red birds circling the pillars of smoke, their many voices cawing hoarsely as they hovered above the bodies of the slain. The utterly incongruent color of their plumage did not deny the fact that they belonged to the Corvus corax species. Ravens. Blood ravens were a trademark of the Red Demon PK clan.
The ravens’ purpose was mockery and intimidation, of course, but they were also a trap. Anyone who’d dare to come closer and cross the invisible border would instantly be attacked by the whole conspiracy — the ravens would come after you just like so many Stukas. A beefed-up high-level player could probably fight them off, but it wouldn’t be easy — especially considering that their claws and beaks were doused in an unidentifiable and very strong poison, another trademark of the Demons. No looter would be able to take anything from the “corpses” of slain players, including their owners — the same Hitchcockian scenario awaited everyone.
Newbie players would often fall for such traps before they developed a proper appreciation of the grim realities of Waldyra. They would see something that interested them and rush right toward it, hoping to grab some money or a valuable item for free, and ending up biting off a lot more than they can chew ultimately, coming to their senses at the respawn location, completely naked and with lots of unpleasant memories involving dozens of beaks and sharp claws rending their flesh...
A conspicuous enough sign with a perfectly clear message has been left behind for absolute idiots unaware of the killer clan’s trademarks and incapable of appreciating the scale and the magnificence of their deeds — you’d have to be blind to miss it. There was an enormous stake of red copper driven into the center of the battlefield, sporting a black banner with edges of crimson red. It was too far away for me to make out the details, but I’d known what I’d see there, anyway. Right in the middle there would be a black raven with its wings spread wide perching on a bloodied human skull, with the legend Red Demons in black lettering over the crimson top side. The lettering on the bottom side was a laconic mockery: “Look at our works, ye mighty, and despair.”
Information of less important nature would be specified on the very same flag, but in much smaller lettering — the “feather” that carried out the attack and the “wing” it had belonged to. Anyone willing to exact their revenge would have to waste no time on finding out the names of the assailants — they’d already been announced. One could go right after them — having what it took to do so, of course...
I’d ended my observations right there and urged the horse onward with my knees. That was enough sightseeing for today, and what had happened here was no great mystery.
The Demons had sure had their fun.
I’d been certain it was the very squad I’d missed just a while ago so fortuitously. A quick assault making short work of the train guards, pillaging, and just as fast a retreat. Everything must have been over in a few minutes, and the job was done with great professionalism. It took me a while before I started wondering what the hell a PK gang would be doing here in the first place. This was a backwater, after all, and they must have had more important things to do than pillage a few wagonloads of barley, corn, or some other grain... Anyway, none of that was my business.
I had no idea whose wagon train they’d pillaged, but there was zero motivation for me to find out. There’d been too much on my plate alrea
dy. Apart from that, the irate owners of the “bodies” might have turned up any moment and dispatch me on sight, mistaking yours truly for an enemy spy. I could definitely do without any of that.
* * *
The place wasn’t very popular, by any account. I’d only seen three players in passing on my way to the center of Mossy Hills.
The owner of a small village store greeted me exuberantly. His shop probably didn’t get many patrons, and any buyer coming in must have been quite an event. Few players ever visited such remote locations, and fewer still parted with any of their money here.
“Come on in, good sir!” He hurried toward me.
“Good afternoon,” I bowed politely as I entered the cool and shady store. “I see your establishment is open and thriving.”
“Not much thriving going on here, I’m afraid,” the owner made a dismissive gesture. “Travelers and passersby are my only hope, but people only visit about once in a blue moon. Would you like to inspect the wares?”
“I would indeed,” I said with gravitas. “But I’d prefer to sell something first. Here, take a look at this.”
I spread all my loot in front of the trader with a flourish — namely, a luxurious deer pelt and three wolf pelts accompanied by a pair of magnificent antlers that resembled a crown. A clothes hanger for my private room would have to wait until later.
“Uh... Seventeen silver pieces for the lot would be just about enough,” the merchant named his price before I could take a breath.
“One gold,” I said firmly. “That’s my minimum. And I wouldn’t want to argue with you, kind sir. This lovely village certainly has a courier who’ll be delighted to get his hands on pelts of such quality.”
“All right,” the trader waved his hand with a sigh. “Nineteen silver pieces.”
“One gold piece,” I wouldn’t budge, and the man gave up.
“As you say, good sir. If such is your pleasure.”
The trophies disappeared from the counter to be replaced by a round glinting piece of metal that I instantly pocketed. Now I had some money, at least.
“Is there anything else?”
“Actually, there is. Would you happen to have any decent red wine?”
“Certainly! The finest stuff you can get in these parts! Just a silver piece a bottle!”
“I’ll take two... No, better three bottles, I think,” I sighed, giving back the gold piece I’d just received and taking a handful of silver coins as change.
The bottles were dusty, made of dark glass and with nothing like a label to be found anywhere. The dust could be interpreted in either way — as a sign of a well-aged vintage, or as testimony to the wine being so hideous no one would ever buy it, the bottles just sitting there gathering dust.
“What’s the wine like?” I inquired suspiciously. “I’ve a suspicion it might be on the sour side.”
“Perish the thought! As sweet as a young maiden’s kiss! Would you mind me asking whether you’re over for a visit? Could it be the widow Larkryssa, eh?” The trader gave me the complete nudge and wink treatment. “She sure is a looker still! Whew!”
“Uh... Actually, no, kind sir,” I grunted. “I’d been meaning to pay my old friend a visit for quite a while now. Name of Jogley. Ever heard of him?”
“Oh, of course!” The trader waved his arms. “The poor man had been a good neighbor for so many years! So that’s it... Now I see why you’d want a few bottles of red. He must have been a close friend of yours since you’ve taken the trouble to travel this far and splurge on the wine. Just the sort for the occasion.”
“Hold on a moment... ‘Poor man?’ And what occasion exactly?”
“Why, his wake, of course!” The shop owner looked at me with unfeigned surprise. “We buried old Jogley just this morning. The wake is in the evening — we’ll gather together and raise a toast in his memory. He was a great old sort! Right, sir?”
“Uh... Sure...” I barely managed to bleat those two words as I pulled out the cork with my hand and took a good swig right from the bottle. Fortunately, no corkscrew was required.
I downed the bottle in no time at all as the trader watched me in astonishment. Once I reached for the next one, I asked, just to make sure,
“When did you say you buried him? This morning, was it?”
“Indeed. At the very hour such things are done — the crack of dawn. But do not take it so hard. He’d lived a long and happy life. Now is not the time to grieve. Or did you want to make it in time for the funeral? Oh, I see... You must be really saddened now.”
“I am, and very much so,” I admitted glumly, taking a few more swigs from the bottle.
The shop owner had been telling the truth. The wine was indeed excellent. Having uncorked the third bottle, I handed it over to the harbinger of dire news, and told him in a hoarse voice,
“Down the hatch. In memory of the deceased.”
“Uh... It would be a sin to decline!” The shopkeeper waved his hand as he accepted the wine. “May his soul rest in peace!”
“Right,” I quacked into the bottle.
“There were rumors, of course,” my interlocutor leaned closer as he switched to a conspiratorial whisper. “But there always are, with the king of old gossips that live around here. Always yammering away, nineteen to the dozen.”
“What kind of rumors?” I asked, without much actual interest. My mind was in a state of utter chaos and confusion, so the chatty trader was just the person to converse with. Listening to someone who liked to talk was one of the best ways to keep dark thoughts at bay.
That damned fortune teller! I hoped her tent got swept away by a hurricane, wishing the same for her and her nosy nephew with his unsolicited advice.
“Well, you know how these chatterboxes are,” the shop owner kept on whispering, leaning toward me over the counter. “They’ve been saying the old man didn’t die a natural death! Someone’s supposed to have helped him along, no less!”
“I’ll be stuffed sideways!” I said, having adopted a less formal tone of voice somewhere along the way. “Is that what they’re saying? So, he didn’t die of natural causes, then?”
“That’s just the thing — a day before his death a healer mage gave him a full checkup, the very same one who’d cured my neighbor from hernia with just a single spell!” The shop owner’s voice sounded triumphant. “You could instantly recognize him as the real thing! A true master of the art! And an honest one, too!”
“I don't quite get it...” I had to admit.
“What isn’t there to get, my good man?!” The trader must have thought my inability to grasp his words irritating. “The old man’s son was very fond of his father, always worrying about Jogley’s health, so he didn’t hesitate to pay the healer whatever it had cost to examine him. So old Jogley got a full checkup — the mage said a few spells to see whether his ticker functioned properly, and what was going on inside him in general, and then said, not to worry, the patient was in great health for his years, and had many more ahead of him. Then the healer left, and the very next morning the old man was found dead in his bed! Imagine that!”
“Ri-i-i-i-i-i-ight,” I said in a long drawl, suddenly keenly interested in everything I’d just heard, trying to recollect whether locals involved in quests ever died, and coming to the sad conclusion that they unfortunately did.
In particular, this could happen if a local was afflicted by some strange disease or poisoned by the venom of some unidentified monster. Such characters could ask any player they’d meet to find a cure or an antidote in the nick of time, and would expire if it took said player too long. Other scenarios were also possible, but there was no actual quest involved here — just a very nebulous recommendation received from a suspicious fortune teller.
“That’s just what I’m telling you!” The shopkeeper whispered conspiratorially, then rummaged behind the counter, producing two more bottles of wine. “Let’s have a few more! On the house, as it were!”
“Let’s!” I agreed,
reaching for a dusty bottle with a less then steady hand. The wine packed some punch, and I was beginning to lose my coordination. “So if those venerable old ladies suspect something, the general feeling of doubt is legitimate, right?”
“His daughter-in-law is the only reason anyone would suspect anything, really! Speak of bad luck! The son’s a great lad — takes care of his old man in his late years like few others do. But that wife of his is a piece of work for sure. The whole village laughs about her. Can’t cook, can’t clean — feeding the old man’s chickens is too much of a challenge to her already. And think you can make her smile at you? Pah! If she decides to throw a glance in your direction, you start hiccupping instantly! The late old man really hated her. They kept fighting — there’d be shouting and clouds of dust flying nearly every day.”
“Hold on! So the old hens are saying the daughter-in-law has done him in?” I was surprised. “Meaning that she’d been the one to have... uh... given the old man a ticket to the great beyond...”
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