by Eric Nylund
It reared up, hood flared—and lunged.
CHAPTER 2
The snake struck—
the dead man at my feet.
Only after it recoiled did I register how fast it was. Who would be quicker if we faced off? The serpent or me? Too close to call.
The bitten dead man writhed and cried out.
He’d been faking?
Convulsing, a small vial rolled from his grasp.
Inside swirled boiling purple vapor.
The man shuddered and ceased moving.
Dead for real this time?
I didn’t dare check. The snake’s unblinking gaze had now locked on me and Elmac.
We kept very still.
The snake tasted the air, then folded its hood; heart-shaped scales smoothed to a black bodysuit; fangs morphed into needle-pointed daggers held by hands and arms that split from the serpentine body. An emotionless reptilian face curled into a smile and the familiar features of…
“Morgana?” I asked.
You’d have thought I’d seen her shift shape enough to have been used to it, but it threw me every time. The metamorphosis caused distressing muscle tears, internal gurglings, and the snapping of bones.
Never seemed to bother her though.
She shook out a mane of luxuriant black hair that bounced into ringlets. Her flesh glistened like oiled bronze. Her eyes and ears tilted with a touch of something still wild.
“Don’t be thick, mate,” she said. “Who else?”
“Yeah, well… hi,” I replied, swallowing my nausea.
Elmac gave her a courtly bow.
She returned a curtsey to the dwarf. “Good to see you blokes.”
The two of them looked ridiculous exchanging social niceties among the corpses.
I moved from body to body, checking pulses, ready to lock wrist or shoulder joints to restrain any other fakers. None of them, however, would be answering our questions. All dead for real this time, three by suicide capsule.
“Cobra, eh?” Elmac said. “Good choice.”
Morgana brightened. “Oi, a heartbeat cobra. Not just named for their scales, you know. You get bit, and you have one heartbeat before respiratory—”
I held up a hand. “Hang on. Are there more of these” —I waved at the permanently resting scattered about us— “out there?”
“Bunches,” Morgana said, sobering. “Slinking all over the bloody place. I gave them the slip but then saw this lot moving your way. Thought I better lend a hand, or as the case may be, a fang.”
“You couldn’t have turned off your privacy and messaged us a warning?”
She pursed her lips. “Sorry about that. Got a game alert saying I’d detected an attempted magical scry to find my position. And then I swore I felt something looking over my shoulder, trying to read my interface. Crazy, yeah? I thought it best to run silent and dark.”
Not so crazy. And definitely bad news.
Magical scrying usually meant a powerful spellcaster behind it. Even more troubling was Morgana’s intuition of someone trying to read her interface—which should have been impossible. Others couldn’t see your interface; the only exception I knew of was if you shared a quest with another player. I doubted Morgana had done such a thing…
Elmac gave one of the dead a kick. “And after that you ran into these gentlemen?”
“Spotted them around midnight,” she said. “We played cat and mouse, shadows and daggers, for a bit, then I realized there were more than I had thought. Crawling all over Low District in packs, searching, or hunting, but I’m not sure for whom or what.”
“Were they after you?” Elmac asked.
Morgana donned a “why, little old me?” expression. “I’m completely innocent.” She tried a chuckle but it died in her throat.
Masking fear with bravado, Morgana? I thought that was my trick.
“We best check bodies for some clue to this mess,” Elmac suggested.
I tried not to blush at my gaffe. Players, unless their lives were in immediate and dire peril (and sometimes even then), always searched their vanquished foes for treasure. I’d somehow let this basic game principle slip my mind.
I think I knew why.
It was a lot different simply playing a game than being in one. I wouldn’t be re-spawning if I died. I got one life in Thera and that little fact had stuck in the back of my mind like a sliver of glass—distracting as hell.
“Of course search the bodies,” I said as if I’d thought of this three minutes ago.
Morgana and Elmac set about riffling corpses.
I double-checked the one who’d faked his demise… and subsequently died what had looked like a swift but agonizing death from Morgana’s bite.
I removed his ninja hood. The cloth was rough hemp and cheap black dye rubbed off.
He was human. Middle-aged. Smallpox scars. Ugly. A swollen blue tongue protruded between drawn lips. Eyes red with burst blood vessels stared back at me.
Note to self: Stay on Morgana’s good side.
As I concentrated, his inventory window appeared, titled:
Assassin Squad Leader, LEVEL 2
Assassin? That tracked.
But then who was paying them? And why had they attacked us?
Well, this guy wouldn’t be talking anytime soon.
He had three daggers and a folded square of parchment, which I transferred to my inventory.
I also grabbed the vial on the floor containing that weird purple gas. I made sure its cork stopper was snug and placed it with all the other stuff in my inventory.
A quick check of two others revealed them to be: “Assassin Initiate, LEVEL 1.”
“Few daggers here,” Elmac grumbled. “Be careful. They be covered in that poison.”
“Same,” Morgana said. Her eyes sparkled as she withdrew two throwing stars. “Oooh, I can use these.” They vanished into her inventory.
I stood and did my best to brush off the filth and blood. “I think we’ve overstayed our welcome on Gut Slit Lane. Let’s get to a safe place and talk. The Bloody Rooster?”
“Best idea tonight,” Elmac said and smacked his lips. “We be needing a few proper drinks to grease the old mental wheels, eh? And I know a shortcut back.”
“Put me down as a ‘maybe’ on the drinks,” Morgana told him. “But yeah, let’s get out of here.”
“Let me check if the coast is clear,” I said, grabbed one of the ninja hoods, and slipped it on.
I held my breath and looked outside.
No assassins.
For now.
That I could see.
I ducked back, gave my friends a “thumbs up,” and removed the hood.
The hood might come in handy again, so I dropped it too into my inventory.
Elmac pushed past me and led us to an alley.
I had spotted it before. It was clogged with trash and buried by a collapsed wall. Impassable.
Or almost impassable… because I wasn’t thinking like a dwarf.
Without missing a step, Elmac ducked, and then belly crawled under creaking timbers.
Morgana went next, easily wriggling into the unstable mess.
I took a deep breath and followed.
It was tight. Debris shifted as I squirmed and pushed through. Rats lingered just out of reach and red beady eyes locked onto me like I was dinner being delivered.
We went on like that—then out into fresh air—but quickly back through three more alleys, thankfully with less obstacles and fewer vermin.
We then emerged onto a much wider street.
I jumped at a dark figure next to me—and relaxed. Hello, my shadow.
A warm and welcoming illumination flickered from gas street lamps. Amber light reflected off the smooth cobbles that paved this avenue.
Halfway down the street, I spied the hanging sign for “Hiltmyer & Co., Trading Post Extraordinaire.” It was a general store jam-packed full of gear for adventurers (I suspected they also fenced stolen goods). The place was run
by a gnome conglomerate. I’d shopped there a few days ago and had liked the miniature merchant, Lordren Hiltmyer.
If Hiltmyer’s was here, then this was Silver Avenue, and just around the corner had to be the Bloody Rooster.
Whew. It felt like sliding into home base. Safe. Almost.
We tried to act nonchalant but nonetheless broke into a jog the last half block. We slowed, caught our breath, then Elmac pushed aside the swinging door to his bar.
Like I said, the Bloody Rooster was a dive.
Inside was a long oak bar, two dozen tables, and a pair of granite hearths with crackling fires. The real attraction of this place, however, was the wall of liquor on the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the bar—hundreds of bottles in every color, shape, and size—a patchwork of dark greens and ambers and garnet reds, dusty champagne magnums, two entire rows of assorted whiskies, and well, I could have stared at the stuff all night—not to mention the dozens of keg taps with gleaming silver dragon heads, castles, and maidens ready to be pulled and spill forth their frothy delights.
The Bloody Rooster was packed tonight with as odd an assortment of customers as there were varieties of drinks: elves in hooded cloaks, ruddy-faced dwarfs (of course), and also a small group of cat people (drinking White Russians), and one guy who I swore had vampire fangs (sipping what I hoped was red wine)… all who paused in their laughter, conversation, and guzzles, to turn and see who had come in at such a late hour.
Elmac gave his customers nods and waves as he strode to the bar.
His patrons relaxed, but still watched Morgana and me, wary, and hands rested on weapon hilts.
Marty “the Slasher,” the half-orc, half-troll bartender was on duty. He had a heavy pouring arm and told outrageously lewd jokes that made everyone blush. Tattooed, pierced, covered with warts, he wore a grin that looked like he might burst into laughter or take a bite out of you. I liked him and always made sure to leave him a good tip.
Marty flashed me and Morgana a pointed-tooth smile, then listened as Elmac leaned in and whispered to him.
As they spoke I noted another “Red Knight WANTED” poster tacked to the wall. Duke Opinicus and Colonel Delacroix must really want that guy. Odd that I hadn’t seen any of these posters last night… but then again, I’d been slightly under the influence.
Elmac surreptitiously passed an assassin’s dagger to Marty.
Without looking, Marty made the weapon vanish under the bar while he wiped the counter with his free hand.
And as Elmac continued to whisper, Marty’s grin faded.
Marty glanced at the entrance then ducked under the bar. He stood and passed a paper bag to Elmac.
Elmac grunted a response to Marty and left. He waved for Morgana and me to follow as he marched back to the storeroom.
I felt every eye in the place bore into the back of my skull.
As soon as we entered the storeroom, the talk and raucous laughter began once more in the bar.
Elmac opened a trapdoor and we descended into the tavern’s cold storage. There, concealed behind an aging side of smoldering salamander beef, was a hidden passage and a staircase that led to a vault door.
This was Elmac’s secure room.
He rented it to those who needed a place free of conventional or magical eavesdroppers—or like us, a secure place to talk without worrying about catching a poisoned dagger in the kidney.
Elmac spun combination dials and pushed open the foot-thick steel vault door.
Inside was a room seven paces across. The ceiling, floor, and walls were clad in sheets of hammered lead. There was a conference table covered with dirty dishes and mugs from the previous renter. To add a touch of class there was an X-rated painting of a dwarven bacchanalia, and overhead hung a chandelier that those of non-dwarven heights crashed into every time they stood.
Elmac closed the door, threw the wheel, and scrambled the locks.
Only then did I exhale and relax a notch.
I took one of the generously padded chairs that faced the door.
From the paper sack Marty had given him, Elmac withdrew a bottle.
Elmac thumbed the bottle’s label, smoothing away grime, and read aloud, “Elegy for a Fallen Star. Not generally a fan ’o elven concoctions, but this brandy ’tis heavenly. Was saving it for a special occasion, which might as well be tonight.” He took a swig. His weathered face purpled. He sloshed the bottle at Morgana and me.
“Pass,” I said (as much as I might have needed a good belt right now). Even sober, unraveling tonight’s mysteries might not be so easy.
Morgana declined Elmac’s drink as well. “Would you have a spot of tea?” she asked. “Even coffee’ll do.”
Elmac scoffed at us lightweights, but nodded at a silver thermos and stack of paper cups.
Morgana poured two cups and slid one to me.
The three of us took a moment to drink in silence.
You could have used Elmac’s coffee as a decent paint stripper. It did, however, focus my scattered thoughts.
I’d start with the easy stuff.
“What were you were doing out tonight?” I asked Morgana.
“Bit of Thieves Guild business,” she said. “Had a quest to steal a few personal letters and a necklace that’d embarrass a gentleman’s lover, or lovers, I wasn’t quite sure on that point. Then dozens of those slinkers popped out of nowhere. The ones on Gut Slit were one of three crews I spotted.”
Elmac drummed his metal fingers on the table. “If they were Silent Syndicate there’d need to be a legal reason to sanction a hit—not to mention a good bit ’o motivation to pay for so many operatives.”
“Silent Syndicate?” I asked.
“Assassins Guild,” Morgana explained.
“Really? I can’t believe Duke Opinicus and Colonel Delacroix would let assassins operate in the High Hill.”
I always thought an organization of murderers was a ridiculous fantasy game trope. One good divination spell would ferret them out.
“Let them operate?” Elmac said and frowned at me. “The Duke helped set it up. How else can a society remove sociopaths and nepotism-lovers and other such disreputables from power?”
I was going to suggest a few rational examples, say like laws or voting—but come to think of it, laws hadn’t worked out so well on Earth. I’d been framed for mass murder and almost executed before I escaped into the Game. And voting? Did anyone on my world believe that was a real thing anymore?
“Save the political chit-chat, gents,” Morgana said, “and let’s figure out why they’re after me?”
Elmac flicked his fingers through his gray and silver beard and made it bristle (like I’d imagined a pissed-off badger would, fluffing his fur to look threatening). He then sighed and his gaze fell to his hands. “I think they be using you, Morgana… to get to me. I know some folk who’d like to see me very dead.” He took another swig of elven brandy. “Not all my ‘great deeds’ as a former general… were, uh… so great.”
I said nothing.
Not because this was the proper moment to quietly empathize with my friend.
No, I kept my trap shut because I knew very well these assassins could be after me.
CHAPTER 3
I gave it 50-50 odds that I was their target.
In my first few days in Thera I’d amassed a short and terrifying list of enemies.
There was my brother, the high-level anti-paladin (aka William the Bloody), but he was locked in the Duke’s dungeons, so I doubted he could have arranged a hit. I’d received a few in-game messages from him—inquiries as to where I was and what I was doing. Obviously attempts to manipulate me.
When hell freezes over, Bill.
Then, there were the other player clans. If they knew there was a new clan in the Game, it’d be a smart move for them to pick off the competition while I was still low level.
Last, and the worst of the lot, the Lords of the Abyss. According to the Game’s rules, these demonic princes couldn’t target players�
�� but being evil and agents of chaos, they had to be looking for a loophole around that rule.
I suddenly wasn’t feeling so secure, even here.
“Are you sure this safe we’re locked in is, uh, safe, Elmac?”
Morgana must have been thinking along the same lines because she added, “We’re a tad backed into a corner.”
“Reeelax,” Elmac told us. “This room be lead-lined, airtight with an independent oxygen supply, and warded against magic, mental powers, dimensional ruptures… plus a few security features no one need know about.”
“Don’t suppose one of those features would be a loo?” Morgana asked with a smile (albeit a tad strained).
“Chamber pot’s under there.” Elmac indicated a crate in the corner. Nailed to it was a tree-shaped pine-scented freshener.
Morgana curled a lock of her dark hair about one finger. “Oh, that’s okay then. I can wait.” She pushed her coffee away.
I steered the conversation back to more life-or-death issues. “Let’s take a look at the stuff off those assassins. Maybe we can figure out why this is happening.”
I opened my inventory, tapped the icons of the parchment and vial of gas, dragged them over the table, and then released them.
The items appeared.
Elmac’s eyes widened, but he’d seen such player inter-dimensional sleight of hand before, so he didn’t freak out.
Morgana, however, gaped at Elmac.
She then looked to me with an expression that said, Why isn’t Elmac asking questions?
“He knows about the Game,” I told her. “I already signed him up to join my clan, which he’s accepted… when that is, I hit fifth level.”
Her mouth shut. Opened. Moved as if to speak, but there was no sound.
“He knows…?” She slowly nodded. “Yeah. A local with oodles of know-how about Thera? It’s actually brilliant.” She turned to the dwarf. “Have you picked a class? You know there’s a Free Trial to get through. Completely insane, it is.”
“We’ve covered the basics,” I said. “Let’s stay focused on the squad of killers that might be trying to kill one or all of us, yes?”
“Suppose ’twould be best.” Elmac gave Morgana a quick wink. “Later though, I’d be delighted to hear any advice you be having.”
