His first several shots missed completely, the arrows flying high and wide. Unlike Max, Lagrass had never had any archery experience on Earth. But after an hour, and several trips to locate and retrieve his arrows, he began to hit the target. When he hit it three times in a row, they called it a day, and the hunters left him to walk back to the village while they went to work.
The following day, another lesson had him striking the now tattered bunny five times out of six, and his skill had actually leveled up to three. He thanked the hunters as they moved off into the forest, then returned to the inn, where he continued to observe the villagers as a plan formed in his head. He identified two of the town drunks and bought them several rounds at his table, pumping them for information on the local residents. They gossiped happily as he refilled their mugs time and again. Flirting with the waitress garnered him some interesting tidbits as well, including that the Mayor was canoodling with the baker’s wife while the baker was tending to his early morning baking.
In many of the games that Lagrass had played, your character started in a village much like this one. If you played your cards right, befriended the locals, completed enough quests, you could actually take over the town. He could learn some crafting skills here, maybe do some chore quests to earn a few coins and experience in the process. The gold he’d looted would last him for months if he was careful with his spending.
His fifth night in the village, his plans very nearly went wrong. He’d snuck out of the inn and behind the stable late that night, and was using Lizzy to try and teach himself the sword skill. He slashed and hacked at imaginary enemies, hoping he was getting the forms right, adjusting his feet for better balance, leaning forward or backward as he stabbed and swung.
“Hey, ain’t that Lizzy? Old Maldin’s blade?” A voice from behind him almost made him drop the sword in surprise. He turned to find one of the two drunks he’d befriended, one hand holding himself unsteadily up against the barn as he pissed on the wall while looking over his shoulder at Lagrass. “I’d recognize that beauty anywhere. How’d you get her? Don’t tell me that old hermit sold ya his beloved blade!”
Thinking quickly, Lagrass turned and smiled sadly at the drunk, walking slowly toward him. “Maldin? Was that his name? I found him dead in front of his cabin on my way here. I’d gotten lost in the woods, and the sound of squawking drew me to his clearing, where I found several birds picking at his corpse. I chased them away and buried him, then I’m afraid I helped myself to his sword. I didn’t think he’d care, being deceased.” He stopped a couple steps from the drunk, shaking his head as he repeated the sad smile. “I didn’t realize he was known to the folks here, or I would have mentioned it. Did he have family here in the village?”
“What? No, no. No family anywhere. His wife n children were all killed during the last border war. That’s why he moved way out here.” The drunk gazed at the sword, clearly jealous that Lagrass had gotten it instead of him. “You… mind if I hold it for a moment?”
“Certainly!” Lagrass smiled at the drunk, placing one hand on his shoulder. With his other hand, he ran the man through, the sword slicing easily through his body, the point sticking into the wall behind him.
“No!” the man tried to yell, but it came out more as a cough. Lagrass withdrew the blade, stepping back to avoid most of the splatter as he did so. A second stab penetrated the man’s heart, and he went limp, falling silently into the grass. He looted the corpse, getting a single copper coin and a storage belt that had twenty slots, then quickly wiped the blade on the man’s sleeve before returning it to his inventory. He tried to lift the corpse, but didn’t have the strength, so he dragged the dead man by his feet over to the creek, and dumped him in. He washed his hands and did a quick inspection of his clothes as the body slowly drifted downstream.
When he was reasonably sure the body would keep going far enough not to be found, he returned to the inn, walking casually in through the front door and taking a seat at the bar. His heart pounding, sure that every time someone looked his way they would point and shout, “Murderer!” he ordered a couple drinks from the bartender and did his best to calm down. After finishing his second drink and buying a few for the two old men at the bar, he made a show of stretching and yawning, then retiring to his room for the night.
Before going to sleep, he checked the dead drunk’s storage. The only item inside was a half-empty bottle of spirits that smelled like licorice and burned its way down his gullet when he took a swig. The shot actually calmed him, and he was eventually able to drift off to sleep.
Much to his good fortune, there were three strangers in the common room at breakfast. Unsavory looking travelers bristling with weapons, they barely spoke other than to order food or drink. Mumbled speculation among the locals ranged from them being highwaymen who robbed poor travelers, to agents of the king on a secret mission. That latter option had Lagrass avoiding them as much as possible without being obvious.
That afternoon, one of the stable boys came bursting into the common room, shouting about blood. He’d been doing his chores and spotted a blood trail in the grass, leading to the creek. Half of the village congregated behind the stables, inspecting the grass and following the trail to the creek one or two at a time, as if its course might change. Lagrass joined them, making a point of acting as amazed and afraid as the others, cursing himself for not thinking about the blood that leaked from the wounds.
When the gawking was over, and a couple of men were sent downstream, he went back to the common room with the others. Most of the village had gathered there now, and it didn’t take long for them to notice the absence of his victim, who never ventured far from the tavern.
Lagrass felt a brief period of hope as one of the villagers suggested maybe the drunk had simply fallen and cracked his head, then stumbled into the creek. That there was no foul play at all. His hopes were dashed, however, when one of the hunters pointed out the blood wasn’t in droplets, as it would have been if he were walking, and that there were clear drag marks.
Things got rowdier when the men returned with the body, which had gotten stuck on a branch hanging low to the water about a mile downstream. The clear stab marks left no doubt that the man was murdered. As the crowd began to get louder, fear and suspicion mixing with alcohol, Lagrass made his move. Standing just behind one of the quieter citizens, he whispered, “It had to be those three bandits.” Even as the man began to turn around, Lagrass ducked down and moved to the side, disappearing into the crowd. He did this half a dozen more times, speaking just loudly enough for one or two villagers to hear him before moving on as quickly as possible.
Taking a spot at the end of the bar nearest the kitchen door, he waited and listened. He detected the words highwaymen and bandits here and there, then heard someone shout it outright. “It was the three strangers! Had to be!”
The three strangers in question, who were sitting and drinking at a table near the center of the room, got to their feet. “We had nothing to do with this.” The largest of them, clearly their leader, spoke loudly but calmly.
His goal accomplished, Lagrass left the bar and was headed toward the kitchen to ask for a snack when he heard something that made him pause. “We are Rangers, the king’s scouts, on a mission for his Majesty. Several of you saw us arrive this morning, and this man has been dead since long before that!”
Lagrass cringed as the angry muttering died down, and several in the crowd began to nod in agreement. Instead of heading to the kitchen, he climbed the stairs and took refuge in his room. Sitting on the bed, he began to panic. Not only was he likely to become a suspect, as the only other stranger in town, but the scout had said they were there on the king’s business. Was that business hunting the fugitive murderer from the city? If so, how good was their description of him? As far as he knew, the only one who had seen him clearly was the innkeeper, and she was dead.
He slept fitfully that night, only after emptying the bottle of spirits he’d liberated from the
drunk. The next morning he went downstairs to breakfast, only to find the village preparing for a memorial service. The three rangers were sitting at their same table, and the leader glanced at Lagrass briefly, then nodded his head and looked away. Feeling slightly more secure, he took a seat and ordered breakfast. On a whim, he stopped at the bar on his way out to speak to the bartender.
“The other day, when I was drinking with the deceased,” He began.
“Bart. His name was Bart.” The bartender, a burly man with a scar on his forehead growled at him.
“Yes, thank you. Where I’m from we don’t speak the name of the deceased until after they have been interred. It’s an old tradition, as silly as it may seem.” Lagrass cleared his throat. “In any case, he shared with me a taste of a spirit I’ve not had before. It was quite good, and he said it was a favorite of his, so I thought I might purchase a bottle to place at his grave?”
Softening up some, the bartender nodded and reached under the bar. “Horrible stuff, but Bart did seem to like it. Mostly because it was all he could ever afford.” He handed the bottle to Lagrass. “Five coppers.”
He passed a silver across the bar and thanked the man, turning to leave. As he was stepping through the door, the bartender mumbled to himself. “Odd custom…” then a bit louder, he called out, “Where is it that you’re from?”
Lagrass continued out the door without pausing, pretending not to hear, and hoping the rangers hadn’t heard either. Concerned about answering that question if asked again, he stopped in at the general store. When the shopkeeper greeted him, he said, “As promised, I’m stopping in before I leave. I plan to head out in the morning, first thing. Don’t like the idea of a murderer creeping around at night.”
“I don’t blame you.” The shopkeeper nodded. “We haven’t had a killing here since the Deghan brothers had it out in the middle of the road and stabbed each other to death.”
“Goodness.” Lagrass feigned a low level fear response. “This place is more dangerous that it looks. I think the sooner I leave, the better. I was thinking of heading west, but I don’t know what lies in that direction?”
The shopkeeper obliged, scratching his head. “Several small villages, for the next hundred miles or so, then the river city of Portis. Beyond that is the orc lands, and the sea. And, of course, beyond the sea is the elven lands. Don’t want to go that far, humans aren’t treated all that well there.”
“Thank you, that’s a big help. I’d like a few things to take with me on my journey. Do you have a proper tent?” He went on to give the shopkeeper a list of basic survival items. When the man began to look at him oddly, he explained. “I was set upon by thieves about a day’s walk from here. They took nearly everything I had, and… oh!” He put a hand over his mouth. “Do you suppose they are the same brutes that committed the murder here? There were three of them…”
He did his best to reinforce that idea in the shopkeeper’s head as they continued to discuss the items he needed. When he was all done, he asked, “What about storage items? I have this bag, but I could use a little extra space.” He didn’t mention the belt he’d looted from Bart.
“I have a ring here that’ll hold twenty items. But it costs five gold.”
“Ah, too rich for my blood.” Lagrass decided the extra storage wasn’t worth such a large chunk of his remaining funds. “If you’ll round up the other items, I’ll stop by to collect them in the morning on my way out.” He handed the shopkeeper two gold, and got a few silvers in return.
“I’ll load it all into this pack.” The shopkeeper held up an oiled leather backpack. “Free of charge. Comes in handy if you run out of storage in your bag.”
“Thank you, sir! Most kind of you!” he flashed his brightest smile at the man. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you.”
Stopping at the alchemist’s shop for the first time, he chatted amicably with her as she presented him with a selection of potions. An elderly woman, she moved slowly and carefully as she produced her wares and set them on the counter. The most expensive were health potions that restored a thousand points each. He passed on those, as his total health at the moment was only just over three hundred. She produced some lesser potions that would restore two hundred points, and that only cost three silver each. He took all six that she had in stock. He also bought a couple poison cures, two mana potions in case he ever found himself casting spells, and a vial of acid that she said came in handy for removing leeches. “Just a tiny drop on their back, and they’ll drop right off before the acid gets to your own skin.” She assured him.
He handed over the coin, making the vials disappear into his storage. As he was heading out, she called him back. “I’m always in need of ingredients for my potions. If you find yourself in the forest and spot useful plants, I’ll pay you for them. Either in coin or in trade. I’m getting a little old to be traipsing through the forest.”
He sighed. This was exactly what he’d been hoping for. The kind of quest one gets in starter villages that lets you earn coin, learn a trade, and increase your reputation. Though he now planned to flee the village before either the rangers nabbed him, or he was accused of murdering Bart, he saw an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.
“I’d be happy to help, but I’m afraid I don’t know anything about plants or ingredients. Can you tell me what you’re looking for, and how to identify it?”
“Such a kind young man. Of course I can. Come, lean over the counter where I can reach you…”
He left the shop five minutes later with a veritable encyclopedia of knowledge of plants and other alchemical ingredients, where to look for them, and the proper way to harvest them. As well as a quest to bring ten each of three herbs back to the old alchemist. He had no intention of returning and completing the quest, but it would have looked suspicious had he not accepted it.
He attended the funeral service, standing quietly near the back and mostly staring at his feet. When it was over, there was a pot luck meal served in the main area around the well, and he mingled enough to be seen, nodding in sympathy as people spoke about his victim, mostly telling stories of his drunken shenanigans. As soon as others began to drift away, he returned to the inn. Stopping to see the bartender, who was already getting a crowd streaming in, he asked for another bottle of the licorice spirits for himself. He’d made a display of leaving the first one upon the grave, taking a moment to publicly grieve for the man.
With his new full bottle, he retired to his room and drank quietly, waiting for the sounds of the wake downstairs to fade away.
A few hours after midnight, he grabbed the matches and candle in his room, and crept downstairs. The kitchen was empty, the staff having just cleaned up and gone to bed. He opened the back door as quietly as he could, then closed it behind him. Walking as stealthily as he could over to the stables, he stepped inside and looked around. He expected to find the stable boy who had raised the alarm sleeping in one of the stalls, or a tack room. After a quick check revealed no kid, he lit a match and tossed it onto a bale of hay. Leaving out the back of the barn, he moved through the darkness as quickly as he could. When he got to his destination, he crouched down against the wall and waited.
In just a minute or so, the first call went out. “Fire! The stable is on fire!”
Shouts echoed through the village, and people burst from their homes and shops, many only half dressed as they ran toward the well with buckets in hand. Lagrass watched as they formed a line and began to pass full buckets from the well to the fire.
Taking advantage of the distraction, he slipped in the open door of the general store. He’d seen the shopkeeper in the bucket line, so he was reasonably sure he was safe. The man hadn’t mentioned any family during their earlier chat.
The first thing he saw was his pack sitting on the end of the counter, waiting for him to pick it up in the morning. He grabbed it, and holding his breath, tried to stow it in his inventory. He was now wearing Bart’s belt, and the pack easily slipped in
side, taking only one slot despite being filled with a dozen items.
Next he walked behind the counter and grabbed the cash box, not bothering to open it before shoving it into his storage as well. He’d surveyed the shop during his last visit, and quickly grabbed several items that looked valuable, including the storage ring that sat in a small cloth bag on a shelf behind the counter. Placing the ring on his finger, he was about to grab a few more items when a voice behind him shouted, “Thief!”
Lagrass turned to see a middle-aged woman in a nightgown who had just emerged through a curtain that hung in the doorway of a back room. Without thinking, he unsheathed the knife he’d bought from the blacksmith’s shop and stabbed the woman in the chest. His first strike perforated her gut, causing her to groan in pain. Another quick stab up under the sternum, and she was dead. He quickly looted her, then dragged her back through the curtain and dropped her on the floor of a small living area. Seeing the back door he’d been hoping for, he burst out into the night.
His next stop was the alchemist’s shop, where he hoped to grab a few dozen of the expensive potions. But when he tried the door, it was locked. Worse, someone spotted him trying to get in, and shouted. Since her shop faced the well, everyone in the fire line looked up to see his suspicious activity. As one they began to point and shout.
Out of time, Lagrass took off around the corner of the shop and charged into the forest.
And that was where he found himself now. A small mob of angry villagers chasing him with weapons drawn and torches held high. He used every bit of his training to evade them, changed his direction often, hiding as they passed by and then doubling back for a short while, then hopping into the creek and wading downstream a ways.
Eventually the voices faded along with the torch light. Still, he kept moving through the rest of the night and the following day. He assumed the three rangers would be tracking him now, and needed to put as much distance between them as possible.
Battleborne Book 2: Wrack and Ruin Page 37
