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

by TJ Reynolds

  A black memory of huddled bodies rolled into a shallow pit tugged at her attention, but instead of flinch away, she considered the image for a moment. Then she sighed, knowing in her heart that she was, if anything, working to stop such an atrocity from happening again. Still, she noted, I think I’m due for a good cry just as soon as I have a moment to myself.

  Her companion seemed to notice her lapse, so Rhona tossed him a wink and continued. “Worst case, they put up a bit of a fight, as no doubt they shall, and the Three Kingdoms will bleed again.” Her face twisted into a sneer. “And what for? A few inches on a map?” When she’d finished, she leaned out away from the table and spat.

  Winford stared at her, disbelief written large across his features. “I’m sorry to doubt you, but I suppose I’m confused. How is it that a single woman, brave as she is, could make any difference? And won’t the Hintari most likely know of the coming war already?”

  “I don’t think so. Even my father, a man who has his filthy hands plunged as deep as they’ll go into the squishy innards of Brintoshi politics, has only heard rumors. And that Kaltan plans to join as well, that will be news. Information is valuable, Winford,” Rhona explained. “And I’ll bring as much to Hintar as I can. And even if they know, and should they already be preparing for war, I’ll at least be where I’m supposed to be when the fighting starts.”

  “You’re prepared to fight your own, then?”

  Rhona shrugged, knowing the weight of her words were lighter than they normally would have been given the magic of the seeds and ale. “Perhaps. Maybe not directly, but there are many ways to fight. And besides, I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t try.”

  Winford regarded her long and hard, his gaze shifting between doubt and pity. Then, as if deciding something momentous, he held out his hand again. “It is well and good I’ve met you then, Champion of Anvar. If you succeed, we’ll all be in your debt.” Rhona shook his hand and held it there.

  “Thank you, Winford.” She nodded. “I’m lucky to have met a Champion of Andag. You will have a thousand wives in the Land of Summer’s Shade.”

  He laughed, and again, more heads swung their way, as he answered, “Nay. I ask to have but one wife, the one I already have. And I hope the afterlife doesn’t steal an ounce of her mettle. There are few things in this world better than a steadfast partner. No man should have to go without.”

  His voice trailed off after he’d finished, and for a moment, his eyes stared into the wooden planks of the table as if beholding something sad and distant. Rhona’s tongue asked before she willed it. “What is it? What just passed in your mind?”

  Winford looked up and she saw a well of tears unshed in his eyes. “A young man,” he answered. “Just a stupid boy really. Had foolish ambitions of becoming a hero. Would have made a fine baker and a suitable husband for my daughter. He came here not too long ago but in a short time I came to think of him as a son.”

  “Where did he go?” she queried.

  The man shook his head, the tears spilling down his cheeks at last. “Ate up by a dungeon, they say. I don’t know for certain, but a lad like that just doesn’t go and disappear without good reason.”

  It was hard for Rhona to feel sadness in her current state, though her heart easily leapt out and embraced the man. “Death comes to us all, Winford. I’m sorry if it came to your friend so young.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, again. “If you cared for him so, he must have had a good heart.”

  Feeling abashed, Winford nodded vigorously and wiped his face, then tossed back the rest of his ale. He raised his hand for another and sighed, finding his composure once more.

  Rhona was debating whether to order something stronger than ale or another meat pie when her thoughts were disturbed at the haughty approach of a man far too smug and a touch too homely for her liking. He approached until his thighs touched the edge of their table and loomed above them, perhaps hoping his size would impress her.

  It was obvious he wasn’t there for Winford.

  The boy’s eyes remained fixed on her, waiting for a reaction.

  She ignored him and cracked a smile at Winford.

  Finally, when it seemed his nerves were threatening to fail him, he announced, “Name’s Roarke. It’s a pleasure to meet a flower as fair as you. And by the three gods, please, tell me your name, lovely?”

  Rhona couldn’t help herself. She snorted, then tried her best to press her lips together. But her wit had a mind of its own. “Why, it’s Lovely of course, and also Flower. You’ve guessed both of my names. Can you guess which my father gave me?”

  The young man was trying to decide if she was pulling his leg, which let her know exactly how dense he was. A man without a mind was like a suit of armor without a knight to slip inside. She thought of telling him as much, but instead, she waited to see what he would say next.

  “Y… Your father’s last name was Flower? Mayhap he was a knight, then?”

  “Aye, and my mother was his trusty steed.” Before the confusion on Roarke’s face could completely undo her, she decided that a thread of kindness was due. “Sorry, I’m not feeling exactly myself at the moment, good Roarke. Please, would you mind giving my friend and I a bit of privacy?”

  As is too often the case, her kindness was mistaken. “I could give you a lot more than privacy if you wanted it, Miss Lovely Flower.” A slight blurring of his words told Rhona he’d had more than his share of ale already. “And by that, I mean I’d be plenty happy to rent a bed upstairs so we might get further acquainted.”

  Winford bristled, and Rhona knew he was about to knock the man down a few rungs on the ladder. Instead, she decided she’d handle it herself. “As tempting as your offer is, Mr. Roarke, would you mind doing a lady a favor? I wouldn’t ask, but I find I’m never quite strong enough to help myself.”

  The young man’s face took on a triumphant smile. He even spared a second to look back to the group of men who were shamelessly watching. “Anything, Miss Lovely Flower. I’m stronger than any man in this town. What favor do you ask?”

  “I was curious to see how quickly a man of your strength and stature could go shiv off. I don’t want to see, mind you, but had what you might call an academic curiosity.”

  Rhona held a straight face during her delivery, but Winford was trying not to laugh. A few of the townsfolk nearby had no such compunctions though and guffawed at the young man’s failure to woo Rhona.

  “That’s not funny! Shut up!” Roarke bellowed at those nearest, and they complied, though a few errant sniggers continued to escape. Turning back to Rhona, his once-kind face glazed over into a mask of anger. “That’s not funny,” he hissed. “You know what you are? A shivving tease is what. You’re lucky you’re not a man or I’d beat the living cren out of ya.”

  While everyone else around them tried to stifle their laughter, Rhona finally lost her composure. She cracked up, slapping the table with one hand. “You’re lucky I have tits,” she managed between giggles, “or I’d challenge you to a game of Pheasants and Hounds. Though, I doubt you’d even know how.”

  Roarke’s face was beet red and he clenched his large fists. “I’m an excellent hand at Pheasants and Hounds. And if you were a man, I’d beat you thrice in a row and send you off in tears.”

  For a moment, Rhona sobered. She saw the desperation in the young man to prove himself worthy. Maybe there’s a better way to end this? she pondered, and threw out one final offering of peace. “Look, Roarke, I’m sorry if my joke offended you. I tend not to like to be called names, and even less, treated like a wee, wan lady. But that didn’t give me permission to mock you. Why don’t I buy you a drink and we’ll go our separate ways?”

  The young man’s brow twitched a few times. He turned back to his mates. “I don’t think the tease wants to play Pheasants with a hound like me. Too bad. I was looking forward to plucking a few feathers.”

  Having preserved his own sense of dignity, and not noticing the several glares his
uncouth remark brought about, Roarke gave her an acidic smile and tromped off.

  Surprising everyone, Rhona stood abruptly. She bounced on her toes a few times, spun like a man who spoke with spirits. Winford held up a placating hand, but she’d heard enough and the drug that swam in her veins demanded a bit of fun. “Is that your way of challenging me then? To Pheasants and Hounds that is? Or have you decided you’d rather tug on your mates’ feathers.”

  Spinning around, red-faced and furious, Roarke answered her bluntly. “I’ll beat you at any game. So, yeah, I challenge you.”

  Rhona grinned wickedly. “Though I do feel you will soon regret this, I am pleased you’ve agreed to a friendly match. I go first, since you’ve more or less issued the challenge.” She held her hands out, palms up, and waited. A lock of fiery hair escaped her braid and hung over one eye.

  “I… I’m not sure…” Roarke muttered.

  “Of course, since you’re such a good ‘hand’ at this game, you know what to do. Must’ve had a stint in the King’s army no doubt. It’s a favorite pastime of the infantry and the Honor Guard, as you surely know. Just place both hands above mine, Roarke, and when I try to slap the back of yours, simply move that hand away.”

  Roarke’s face screwed up and he nodded, “Yes, well that’s how I learned it too. Okay, I’m ready when you are.”

  Rhona felt the man’s hands hover over hers for an instant before she rotated her right wrist and popped the back of his hand. He flinched after, his eyes going wide. “One point for Lovely Flower!” Rhona shouted, then took a drink of her ale. She gestured for Roarke to do the same, and reluctantly, he fetched his mug from his table and returned, taking a pull and setting it down.

  “Okay, well you’d better be faster, little Roarke. I’m awfully fast. The best Hound in the 13th squadron up until the day I left. Ready for another go?”

  Roarke stood and stared at her. He seemed reluctant, but Rhona was just starting to have some fun, so she urged him on in the only way she knew he couldn’t resist. “A man of your prowess will no doubt defeat me. But I’ll try my best. Do we play to 11 or 21? Oh, and what’s our wager? Ten gold, twenty?”

  In a seething tone, Roarke replied, “To 11. And not gold. If I win, you give me a kiss, Miss Lovely.”

  “Ha! Ballsy. Sure, I’ll take that wager, and if I win, you walk out of this place without your trousers.”

  Winford stood up, holding a hand out to Rhona. She glanced over and saw the worry on his face. “Oh, come now.” She frowned. “Let a girl have some fun. What’s a kiss anyhow?” He bit his lip and sat back down.

  Then Rhona turned to Roarke again, her hands held palm up. He hesitated, so she amended her approach, and flipped her hands over. “You go this time. Call it hometown advantage.”

  The man’s hands slid under her own.

  Rhona felt so alive, her skin tingling and just a touch of fever making her feel as if she might burst into flame at any moment. Part of her hoped he would prove himself, at least a little, and strike out fast enough to bat her hand.

  She was vastly disappointed.

  Roarke’s face scrunched, a tell she could spot from a hundred yards off. For a moment, she thought he’d just had an itch in his arse, but sure enough, the heat of his hand above hers abated, and she withdrew in plenty of time for him to miss.

  “Damn, clean miss. That’s another point to me. 2 to 0 for Lovely Flower!” she practically screamed in a fair imitation of the announcer who called the boxing matches held in the capital.

  Roarke shook his head, and at least being clever enough to proceed without embarrassing himself further, held his hands out, palms down. He seemed ready for anything this time, his body tense, a trickle of sweat playing down the side of his face.

  Rhona used the first trick any fool learned in this game and gave her hands the slightest twitch. Roarke predictably pulled his hands back, then pointed a finger at her chest. “Yes! One for me!”

  She shook her head and gestured at her hands. “I didn’t strike. That’s a flinch. You lose another point.”

  “That’s not shivving fair!” Roarke growled.

  “I’m sorry, you know the rules, don’t you? If you admit you’ve never played, then I could go over the basics with you or even let you give in and leave with your dignity. Wouldn’t want to take advantage of someone so… inexperienced.” Rhona hung on her final word and watched as Roarke committed himself to whatever nonsense she threw at him next. I’ll bet I could get him to play blindfolded with an egg up his arse if I wanted to, she mused. But as she always did, Rhona played the game as it was meant to be played.

  Again, their hands met, and this time, no trickery was needed. Rhona deftly spun her left hand around and smacked the back of Roarke’s, then her right shot up, cracking his stubbled cheek.

  He stumbled back and held his face. A look of pure hatred filled his eyes, and she knew in that instant, he was not the kind of man who’d take this in stride. He wasn’t hers to deal with, though, so she called the score, “One point for a Pheasant taken in the field, two for one in the sky. That’s a total of 6 points, Roarke.”

  Lowering her voice so only he could hear, she added, “Do you want to walk away now or continue? Choice is yours.”

  She could see he wanted to leave, to go home and drink himself to sleep. Who knows, he might even have a good cry about it. Nothing was softer than a big man’s ego, if all he could count on was his size.

  Of course, he stayed.

  Roarke held out his hands once more. Both were turning pink as was one side of his face. Rhona was not one for torture. Why delay the inevitable? As soon as he released his first breath, she spun both of her hands on his; the brutal crack of her palms against his hands echoed in the air, and even as his eyebrows rose in surprise.

  Her arms blurred again, two slaps landing on either cheek.

  This time, he didn’t move to ease the stinging on his face, he just glowered at her.

  Knowing the man was defeated in more than one way, Rhona spoke once more in a private tone. “That’s 10. Now, a bet is a bet. The best way you could save face now would be to drop your trousers and make a good show of it. Hell, if you do, I’ll buy you and all your friends a round.”

  Instead, the boy turned and stomped out of the inn, slamming the door behind him. Everyone held their breath until he was good and gone, then they erupted in laughter. Winford wiped his tears from his eyes and laughed with the rest. When he’d finally collected himself, he asked Rhona, “Are ya always this sharp? Or did that oaf just inspire you?”

  Shaking her head, she admitted, “When a man acts like a Miremog, I’m tempted to act like one myself. But that’s more due to the service. We all have more tongue and swagger than we should.”

  “True enough,” Winford replied. “I had a few friends who entered the king’s army and had mouths so foul they could clear a room faster than a fire.”

  The common room slowly returned to normal, and Rhona breathed easy, no longer the center of attention to a group of strangers. The two comrades sat and drank several more ales and Rhona decided another meat pie was in order. They told stories, boasted, and became the best of friends.

  When only a single, drunk patron wavered on his barstool, Rhona hugged Winford like one of her fellow soldiers and watched him stagger through the street on his way home.

  Rhona headed upstairs and opened her little room. Inside, she lit a lamp and stared at the little bed. It was so fluffy, clean, and dry. She saw her gear was accounted for and unmolested. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. It had been quite a long day and an even longer night. But something didn’t feel right about lying down in such sterile comfort. And besides, the room felt unacceptably lonely.

  Knowing her idea was foolish didn’t make it seem less appealing. Since taking the seeds, she’d felt the hidden mechanisms within her mind shift about. Companionship, trust, and forgiveness were three coins she’d drawn away from the purse of this strange night. It was time she lea
rned to cherish such gifts.

  She locked up the room and headed back downstairs. Thankfully, none saw her slink out of the inn and into the starlit night. Rhona looked up and smiled, the bounty and unbridled beauty of creation singing out to her soul. The woman wept then, silent and without any wracking sobs. It just poured out from her, a long and uninterrupted stream of release.

  A minute or an hour later, she was finished. Not bothering to wipe her eyes, Rhona walked round the side of the inn. And to the great discomfort of the poor stable boy, who was still up cleaning a stall, Rhona found her best friend Honor, lying on his side and breathing deep and rhythmically. She threw out a blanket, and fell down in a heap on the straw, back pressed against her best friend’s belly.

  She was asleep and snoring in no time.

  27

  And the Ugly

  Kai

  Miremogs existed only in hero’s stories, at least that was what Kai had been told, had always believed. It wasn’t that he didn’t think they could exist; rather, it was more that such a beast wasn’t something one could readily imagine until it was seen.

  When the monster had burst from the tepid pool deep in the Mirin Swamps, however, Kai knew at once that it had earned every bit of its mythical reputation.

  The stench of decay filled Kai’s nose as the beast screamed at him, its four huge legs, much like a crab’s in shape and composition, lifting its bloated torso up onto the land and spreading over a dozen feet apart.

  “Ban! Briga herself! It’s a—" Kai tried to give a warning but was cut off as a tentacle whipped out at him. It gripped the end of his glaive, as if to snatch the weapon away, but caught the blade. The Miremog screeched in pain and withdrew its appendage, spraying blood as it went.

  “Kai,” Ban called, “get some distance and start using your Flame Dart! Wake up and fight!” The gargat spat a gob of his acid spit into the creature’s face.