The Guild Core: The Complete Saga Boxset: A LitRPG Dungeon Adventure

by TJ Reynolds

  Rhona rubbed her on the head and rode away, feeling the afternoon sun fighting to warm the cool breeze spilling inland from the ocean.

  It was a lovely day, the pervasive and unyielding blue of the sky nearly devoid of clouds. The few that remained were so struck through with sunlight, they glowed like balls of cotton held up before the light of a fire.

  She rode Honor harder than she had in the past few days. His ankle had healed nicely, thanks in part to the gentle pace they’d kept as well as his mount class skill. When Honor had reached Golden 1, she’d helped him select a skill that would benefit them both.

  Unlike humans, beasts could select their class upon first ascension. Rhona took ownership of Honor when he was freshly ascended to Crimson 1.

  His class was called Harbinger. When Rhona had selected it for him, her fellow soldiers had mocked her, claiming that the class was useless for a warhorse. She knew better though. Some other steeds could send out blasts of ether from their hooves, terrify the ranks of the enemies with amplified screams, or resist significant physical damage. But a Harbinger had access to skills that were more useful if you wanted your mount to live a long and happy life. The three skills Honor commanded included Fleet Footed, Hale Hooves, and Messenger’s Blessing.

  The first skill, Fleet Footed, was why she’d kept ahead of the bandits for so long. Any other warhorse would’ve been too slow to even attempt the race. The skill increased Honor’s maximum speed by 15% and his endurance by 10%. The numbers seemed insignificant, but when she rode atop his back, Rhona felt the difference.

  The second skill was why Honor had healed so quickly. Hale Hooves had a passive healing effect that reduced any injuries sustained to the legs or hooves of the horse while riding. It also allowed a more rapid recovery period for any minor injuries.

  Rhona was grateful that Honor could travel so well and avoid many of the common ills that befell horses during the dangers encountered on campaign. The skills were just as applicable to adventuring. But it was the third skill, Messenger’s Blessing, that had already proven itself the most valuable on several occasions. When Honor was in battle, all ranged weapons had a reduced chance to hit him by 25% and melee weapons’ hit chances decreased by 15%. Likewise, all attacks that did land, had a 25% chance of becoming a ‘grazing’ hit.

  The overall effect of Messenger’s Blessing had changed the course of battle more than once for Rhona. Cutting a rider’s mount out from beneath them was a common tactic, and Honor had been spared many times. She’d ridden him for over two years now and had grown to love the beast. He was smart, loyal and always alert. She wouldn’t trade him for a pack of war boars or a gilded Kaltanese galley.

  Leaning forward in the saddle, Rhona pushed him once more, the town of Orman’s Port dwindling behind them, and the salt air filling her lungs with life.

  After a handful of minutes, Rhona found the trail that led down to the beach. The merchant had described its location at length, and though obvious to see, now that she knew where to look, the turnoff could easily be missed. A rocky trail cut off from the road that ran down to the port itself, and was used mostly by commoners who walked to the beach to gather crabs or clams for their stew pots.

  As she brought Honor to a slow trot, she turned him down the trail. He chuffed, wanting to buck. A steep cliff fell away from the trail, which made Rhona a bit dizzy. No doubt, Honor felt the same, but soon enough, it seemed he saw the trail better, and he happily clopped down its gentle slope.

  The swish and crash of the waves against the beach assaulted Rhona’s ears like a savage symphony. No instrument of man’s hand could compare. She thanked Briga and Andag both for their blessings and rode south along the shore. Honor splashed in the surf, sending bursts of ocean water scattering around them in a silver cloud. Rhona laughed and spurred him on faster. Their pell-mell progress didn’t last long.

  The yawning mouth of a cave soon caught Rhona’s attention.

  She dismounted and finished their journey on foot. A rocky path led to the cave’s mouth, and she found a nice patch of sand where Honor would, no doubt, be content. A trickle of a stream made it a perfect spot for the horse to water and rest; a few tufts of grass grew nearby.

  She freed the horse of his bridle and baggage both, and stowed her gear, hoping none of the townspeople would stray this far from the trail.

  A sliver of dread wormed in Rhona’s belly. What if he’ll not see me? What if he’s out, or gods forbid, died in his sleep? She knew these doubts were useless, but her desire to learn more of her class was feverish in its intensity.

  The cave captured and magnified the lashing call of the sea. As she entered, the sound was near deafening, but as soon as she wound her way back further into the darkness, it grew muted and tolerable.

  “Hello?” Rhona cried out softly. “Hello? I am seeking the master of The Path of the Bleeding Tiger. Is anyone here?”

  No reply came, and after a time, Rhona continued to walk deeper into the gloom. The cave had been wide at its entrance, but here in its bowels, she needed to duck as the ceiling continued to plummet.

  Then suddenly, as she crawled on hands and knees beneath a particularly low portion of the cave’s ceiling, it opened up again. Rough-hewn stairs led to a dry and quiet chamber.

  Rhona tried once more, her voice now little more than a whisper. “Hello? Is anyone…”

  A rasping voice cut her off. “I am here, child. Be welcome in my home.” The master sounded like a demon with hound fever, their throat filled with sand and seashells.

  Squinting, Rhona could see a tiny form sitting behind a driftwood fire. A fit of coughing overtook the master, then they spoke again, “Sorry. I haven’t spoken in a week, or perhaps it has been a month. I’m not sure. How are you, young disciple? Please, sit.”

  The master’s voice changed to a pleasant and almost melodic tone, except for an awkwardness of tongue. “Thank you,” was all Rhona could think to say, as she sat down to face the master.

  The light was dim in the cave, but Rhona could see that the person she’d sought out was a shrunken old woman, so ancient she resembled the gnarled pieces of driftwood she was burning.

  The master’s lips curled into a smile.

  They stared at each other like that for a long while. Rhona grew self-conscious and was more than a little aware of the master’s scrutiny. The old woman wasn’t looking at her but into her.

  Finally, her awkward host spoke again, “You’ve come to learn, then?”

  The simple question was so straightforward that Rhona had to shake her head to remember her answer. “Of course. I mean, yes, if you’ll have me, master.”

  “Teema. My name is Teema. What is yours, young monk?”

  “I’m Rhona. I used to be a soldier but met a man named Palben who taught me of The Path. I learned my first skill from the master who lives in the temple just outside of the capital city of Brintosh. He told me I would find another teacher to the south.” She giggled nervously, then coughed into a fist. “Here I am.”

  Rhona’s explanation seemed simple, almost foolish when she said it out loud, but Teema only nodded. Then the master asked a question she was not at all prepared for. “You’ve come to take, but what are you prepared to give in return?”

  Her mind spun. What does this woman want? She thought of offering her coin, but that would be insulting. She’d given away the horses already, and Honor was bound to her soul. Rhona stuttered before replying, “I don’t know of any gift fitting enough, Master Teema. I can work for you, bring you food or fresh water. I sense that my coin is more useless than sand, so…”

  Rhona’s words trailed off as a rasping chuckle filled the cave. Teema fell to coughing once more. To Rhona’s shock and dismay, she hocked up a sizable gob of spittle, launching it into a recess of the cave. “Excuse me. Solitude makes us all into animals, I fear. No, you’re correct, coin won’t do. And I’m still more than capable of performing my own menial tasks, but thank you for offering. What I ask of you is
something deeper.”

  Rhona searched Teema’s face, the lines around her eyes teeming with joy as much as despair. The master continued, “What I ask is two things, child. For payment, I demand one song of absolute joy and one song of despair.”

  What in the world is she talking about? Rhona wondered. “I’m sorry, I don’t have the best singing voice. And I don’t know many songs, least of all the ones you ask for, master.”

  “Every man and woman knows these songs. I’ll explain. A song is but a story. Some choose to sing it and others simply to speak it.” The old woman finished and faced Rhona as if her words had been clear as day.

  “Okay,” Rhona began, “you want me to tell you a happy story and a sad story?”

  Teema held up a finger crooked with time and said, “Just so, child. But they must be true, and they must be absolute. Think first of joy, for it is the easier of the two to dwell upon. Rhona, child of The Path, tell me of a moment of absolute joy.”

  The idea of coming up with an experience that was absolutely joyous gave Rhona pause. Teema’s patient gaze assured her, though, that this was a task not easily performed. Rhona sat back on her heels, breathing in slowly.

  Then, closing her eyes, she summoned the image of her core.

  Rhona often found the practice of following the curving paths of the ether coursing through her core to be not only relaxing but a good way to focus her thoughts. When she felt her heart had slowed and her breathing become rhythmic, Rhona sifted through the moments in her life when she’d been happy. Several came to mind quickly, but none possessed the quality of absolute joy that Teema required.

  One memory led to the next, however, and soon, Rhona knew what she would tell the old woman.

  “Ah! There it is, but no. Keep your eyes closed, Rhona. See the moment and tell me everything,” Teema said, her voice resonating in the cave and all about her.

  Taking one last breath to calm her nerves, and still feeling more than a little nervous, Rhona began. “It’s the third night of Harvest, and I’m with Lorren. We’d begun with mead and moved on to wine. His hair is a riot of spun gold. I tell him as much, and he… he says my hair is like a bonfire, my skin white as a dove in flight. I tease him, tell him he’s no poet, but the words sink in to my very soul.

  “He’s asked me to join him on a midnight walk, and I know with my body and soul what we are about.” She couldn’t help but grin as the memory stirred butterflies in her stomach. For a moment, Rhona almost lost her connection with the memory, but she breathed in deeply, focused on that night so long ago.

  “Lorren sprints ahead of me, his hand damp despite the cool breeze, and his cloak flutters behind him like an invitation. We are as young and as fast as wind over ocean waves. He laughs, tripping on a mound of turf and tumbles to the ground.

  “I pounce on him, our glances and gestures having filled me with confidence that he wants this as much as I do. Only knowing the familiarity of sparring, we play fight for a moment, too youthful to admit, quite yet, the true goal of this game. He throws light jabs at me, and I move around him like a shadow, faster than him, as always.

  “I try to grab him by the wrist to lock his arm in place, but he yanks it free. I slip and fall onto his chest and suddenly our faces are an inch apart.

  “His breath tastes like the spiced mead we’ve been drinking, and when I kiss him, his tongue does too. Lorren presses into the kiss and I feel the tremble of a moan that rises from both of our throats and collides in our mouths.

  “We kiss for a year and a day and then our trousers are flung away, and I am glad for his cloak, the wet kiss of the grass cold against my thighs.

  “We tussle like the young lovers that we are, and nothing is perfect but for the beating of our hearts and our shared insistence. Then we’re done, and we’re breathing fast and hard, and I laugh with the young man who I’ll never forget.”

  Rhona’s voice stopped, and she opened her eyes. Teema was beaming, the air between the two women thick with emotion.

  “Well done and thank you,” the master praised. “I accept your gift, Rhona. May I ask, just to pacify an aging woman, where this young man has gone?”

  The wind of fleeting joy stilled in Rhona’s heart as she recalled the less spectacular end to the story. “He was called to the front lines a few days later. And green as he was, he fell to a Kaltanese bowman before I saw him again.”

  Teema’s eyes glinted, her mouth spread in a smile that somehow felt appropriate despite what Rhona had admitted. “And yet, you hold that night as a moment of pure joy? A wise choice.”

  Rhona wasn’t sure what to say in response, but it felt nice to be praised so. She waited with Teema in the coolness of the cave, the shadows around them solemn. When enough time had passed that the emotions stoked by the story had at last begun to fade, Teema nodded. “Now, I ask for a song of despair. Will you grant me this gift?”

  Rhona nodded and closed her eyes once more. The swirl of her core came into focus sharply, and the enveloping arms of her memories gathered around her. Somehow, the song of joy had prepared a pathway within her. Rhona searched for the memory. It was hidden deep in her heart, and even though she could almost see it, lit with purpose, she had to sift long and hard to find it.

  At last, a memory of deepest dark surfaced reluctantly. It bobbed up in her mind like a foul creature surfacing in a swamp, one that lay hidden for years.

  She gasped as she realized what she’d found.

  Teema’s soft hand reached out and pressed against her sternum. “All is well, young one. This thing will not destroy you. Give it to me and its hold over you will dwindle.”

  Rhona trusted the old woman, though they’d only just met. The old master’s words rang true in the cave around her and echoed that truth in the cave of her heart. Haltingly, she told her story.

  “I’m young. Young enough to chase dragonflies and fence with any hedge that dares stand in my way. I’ve been scouring the world for a worthy foe and have found it wanting.

  “A dragon couldn’t stop me as I tromp through our yard and ache to prove exactly how strong I am.

  “The endless fount of my strength wears out as my belly begs me to heed its call. I head inside, hear my mother cutting pasta for the night’s meal. I can’t wait that long though, so I rummage in her kitchen for something, anything, to devour.

  “She calls me a demon and throws me a peach so ripe that when I bite it, I have to catch the spilled juice in my hand. ‘Thank you, Ma. This is the best,’ I tell her, and then ask where my father is.

  “‘Leave him be, ya hear me. He’s in the shed and battling a horde of dragons. Just wait until he comes out, okay?’ And when she tells me this, I see the fear in her eyes, something I’ve only just begun to notice. How a creature as lovely as Ma can be afraid when her husband is the great Drystan Bloodspar, I can’t comprehend.

  “I eat another peach then run out back to wash my face in the rain barrel. When I look up, I see movement through the blurred window of our woodshed.

  “Glancing back into the house, I know my ma won’t see me, so I dash across the yard and knock on the door of the shed. No answer comes at first, but I hear something almost like sobbing. That couldn’t be, though, Da would never cry.”

  Rhona paused her telling as her body filled with the same ice-cold dread she’d tried to bury years ago. Her hands shook, and she felt a tear run hot down her cheek. Biting her lip, the woman pressed on, determined to finish what she’d started.

  “I push the door open, and see the hulking shape of my father, and he’s hunched over, propped against the far wall. I walk in slowly, and the sound of my entering finally reaches his ears.

  “His face shoots up, his eyes wild and terrible. The man who looks at me is both child and monster. He wipes his tears away, and a streak of blood replaces them on his cheek. Then he realizes what he’s done, and I stare down into his palm. It’s cut open, flayed neatly down the middle. In his other hand he holds a dagger.

&
nbsp; “I call to him. ‘Da, you’re bleeding.’ Then he moves in a blur, faster than I’ve seen any man move before, like a black wolf wreathed in shadows. He pushes me back through the door of the shed and I tumble out.

  “Then he’s over me. He slaps me across the face, the blood on his hand wetting the blow, and I cry out in pain. ‘You shivving sow. What would you know? Nothing! Nothing between your legs! Useless!’ he screams at me.

  “The hot flood of my bladder releasing dimly registers in the back of my mind, but all I can do is stare into my father’s raging eyes. I smell old wine on his breath and he’s clutching his fist before my face. Even though he doesn’t say it, I know he’s fighting himself, trying with all of his might not to beat me to death.

  “Blood leaks through his knuckles and a few drops splash down on my face, so hot they burn my skin.

  “Mother spills from the house, and she’s shouting at him to let me go, and before he does so, before he finally lets me loose and goes back into the shed, leaving my mum and I to cower in fear the rest of the night, sharing this terror for the first time--before all that--he pulls me close enough to kiss. Then he whispers, ‘You’ll never be what I wanted, Rhona. So why shivving try?’”

  The story ended like the final clap of thunder on a storm-filled night.

  Rhona panted, her body covered in sweat, her fists clenched with long-suppressed dread.

  Teema’s hand still pressed against her chest, and Rhona let her head roll forward and wept.

  The memory had been so deeply hidden, that Rhona had all but forgotten it. Her father raged often through the memories of her past, but this one moment, and in so many ways the first moment, had eluded her. Now it stung fresh and hot like a newly opened wound.

  The tears stopped and Rhona composed herself again. She discovered, as Teema had told her, that this awful moment in her life was just a little less terrible for its telling.