Limitless Lands Book 3: Retribution (A LitRPG Adventure)

by Dean Henegar

  But when the first cat fell, a bizarre thing happened.

  As the first tiger collapsed under the jaws of two badly wounded hounds, it didn’t die . . . instead, it split into six smaller versions of itself. Each of the smaller versions, no larger than a housecat, began to fearlessly continue the fight. Individually, the housecat-sized tigers were not too much of a threat, but as more and more of the big cats died, swarms of the smaller versions began to swamp their foes. The men abandoned their throwing spears and waded into the fight with their short swords as more of their hounds fell to claws and teeth of the various-sized cats.

  Eventually, the last full-sized tiger fell and the Houndmasters team began to get the upper hand on their foes. By the time the last cat was killed, only four of the war dogs were left alive and seven of the men had fallen. All the remaining dogs and men were wounded to some degree. I didn’t see one that was above seventy percent health; the dogs were all nearly dead. The remaining eighteen men and four dogs then turned toward the Sisters. The Houndmasters stood their ground, holding back the dogs and expecting the unarmed Sisters to concede.

  Instead of conceding, the Sisters began to hiss loudly and tore off their veils. While I watched, the Sisters grew dark hair over their bodies and their faces changed, taking on a shape like that of the tigers they commanded. Their fingernails grew into long claws and the Sisters leapt at the men in front of them. The Houndmasters reacted too slowly to the shocking spectacle of the sisters turning into some kind of were-cat. The Sisters attacked with unnatural strength and clove their claws into their victims, each dropping one man on the first strike. The last four hounds charged one of the sisters, tearing her apart in their ferocity. The remaining thirteen killed the hounds and turned on the remaining men. The surviving Houndmasters dropped their swords and knelt in concession.

  The Sisters looked for a moment like they would continue the fight, blinded by animalistic rage. Instead, they slowly shifted their forms back to human and collected their veils, placing them over their faces once more as they walked about the battlefield collecting the collars from their fallen cats. Once a sister found her specific cat’s collar, she began a chant; blue light glowed along the collars as housecat-sized tigers were re-summoned. The Sisters placed the collars on their cats, the collars magical shrinking to fit the small animals. As they were escorted victorious from the arena floor, I could swear the cats were already growing larger.

  The announcer walked back to the middle of the arena as the crowd went wild, cheering the victors and happy to have witnessed such an unusual match.

  “There you have it! The victors of this exciting match will compete tomorrow in the Grand Melee. If you thought today’s fight was exciting, wait until all six unique groups battle to the death for your entertainment. Don’t leave just yet, the pairs finals are about to begin!” the announcer finished and walked off the sand while workers began to clear the debris.

  “That was . . . unusual, I must say, Raytak. Not at all what I expected, though your men will have no problem against the little kitties tomorrow should they be thrown your way. Do you want to stay to watch the pairs? I hear there are some amazing fighters competing today,” Septimus offered. I declined and had Galba take me back to the men. I spent the rest of the day training them hard, concerned over what other craziness I would face in the morning. The men were responding well to the training, executing formation changes quickly and learning to smoothly fill gaps in the line that occurred when we had casualties.

  But all the while, I couldn’t help but wonder: would it be enough?

  Chapter 21

  Dawn broke with clear skies and a cool morning I knew would eventually turn into another sweltering, desert day. I had the men up early and Galba had the guards set out some food for our breakfast. I had requested a light meal as well as something we could take with us today. Due to the number for forces involved, I wanted the troops to have something on them to eat and keep up their energy. The men each had a waterskin issued, but I wondered if it would be enough to get them through a day of battle.

  “Galba, is there any way we can get some extra waterskins for the men? I’m worried the heat will take some out unless we can keep them hydrated.”

  “We don’t have any time to get more. It’s something you should have thought of yesterday,” Galba said in an accusatory manner.

  “You’re right, I overlooked that yesterday. Any other options you can think of?” I asked. It was my fault and a stupid oversight I shouldn’t have missed. Galba looked about the camp for a bit, trying to think of a solution.

  “I will make sure we bring some water in the wagons loaded with the gear this morning, that way you can have the men drink up and refill the skins right before battle. I’ll also loan you whatever extra skins we have here in camp, which should give you a dozen or so extra ones to bring,” Galba offered.

  “Thanks, Galba. It was my mistake, but your solution just might keep a few more of us alive today.”

  The men finished up their meals and began to form up for the march to the arena. Galba and the guards passed out the weapons and gear to the men, using the same old, poor-quality items that they had been practicing with yesterday. There were still spies from the other participant teams lurking about our camp and I wanted to project weakness until the last possible minute. The only new gear we were showing was a fresh set of Imperium red tunics . . . unfortunately marked with the insulting “Ignominia” written across them. The system was reminding us that though we looked and fought like soldiers, the Imperium still considered us dishonored and expendable trash.

  “Ah, look at the brave companions, ready to battle for their honor. The sight would make any man emotional,” Septimus said while wiping a pretend tear away from his cheek. The man was slime, and his patronizing comments were becoming old. We couldn’t be out from under his power soon enough as far as I was concerned.

  “Now, it’s time for you to toddle off and fight. Galba and the guards will escort you and your wagon to the arena now. Fight well and win me lots of coin . . . oh, and you’ll also take another step toward your freedom,” Septimus said with a wave. I ignored the comment, focused on the task at hand while our lanista walked toward the arena, accompanied by a few of his guards as well as a prisoner holding up an umbrella to shade him from the hot sun.

  “Time to go, Raytak,” Galba said bluntly. I was beginning to think he was not so enamored with Septimus either.

  “Fall in! Column of fours, forward . . . march,” I ordered, and the men stepped off toward the arena, Galba and a dozen guards forming a cordon around the now armed (albeit with poor-quality gear) prisoners. It was interesting to think that we outnumbered the guards by such a margin now. We could overpower them and effect an escape at any time, but I would stay true to my word and regain my name the correct way. Although, it was fun to consider what the AI would do if I slew the guards and escaped; I suppose I would be looking forward to a life as a bandit lord or some such . . . not my thing.

  We arrived at the arena and were directed toward a wide side entrance which brought us down a sloping passage into a large staging area. The room was like the one I had walked through the last time I’d been here. There was limited space, but we were able to fit everyone and the wagon inside. The entrance gates were closed once we all were inside and I could make out the second set of double-doors that led to the arena itself. Some clerk opened a small side door and motioned for Galba and I to come over.

  “Some administrative items to review. The fight will begin shortly, and you have selected the advantage of waiting for one minute prior to being required to enter the arena. The doors to the arena will open once the bout starts, but you will hold here until the timer counts down. Your starting area will be clearly marked, and no other teams can enter until your timer expires. This is to prevent them from waiting just outside the door and swarming you as you come in. The match is an elimination bout with the last team standing taking victory. All participants
have the option to yield and only the leader of the team can issue a concession. Fill out this form to let us know your chain of command so that if someone offers to yield, we can tell if they have the authority.

  “Should a participant try to yield individually, their request will not be honored. Mages and healers are interspersed just outside the fighting pit. They will mitigate the risk to the crowd of any stray weapons or spells, but you are also required to not excessively threaten or danger the spectators. The casters will also enforce the peace when a team decides to yield. You will know when someone has officially yielded as they will be encased in a blue bubble of light. Should you attack a team that has conceded, you will be automatically eliminated . . . permanently. The match will begin in five minutes.” The nameless clerk concluded his advice in a bored manner; he must have given this speech five other times already.

  I took the scroll from the clerk and marked our chain of command, placing myself at the top, then Wrend. Should both of us be eliminated, I designated Galba to have the authority to concede . . . deliberately leaving Septimus out of the official chain of command. I didn’t know if that would work, but it was worth a try. I was concerned the slimy lanista would try to sell us out in the future. Galba looked at the document and raised an eyebrow at my choices but went ahead and approved it; as the lanista’s designated representative responsible for the prisoners, he had that authority. Once signed, the clerk took the document and left us to our devices. My quest prompt updated, and a countdown timer began to tick down from five minutes to the start of the match.

  Quest updated: Retribution. Defeat your opponents in the Grand Melee at Shraza to secure your place in the Grand Melee at the capitol. Reward: 2500 experience and the potential to upgrade your gear for the final tournament. 10 bonus experience will be awarded to you for each soldier that survives the match.

  “Men, Sergeant Wrend and I have a present for you all. Sergeant, break out the gear!” I happily ordered as I swiped the notice from my view. The men chattered excitedly as they donned their new, upgraded gear. The old junk items were stored in the wagon to return to Ermey as promised. I also found a box of bandages inside the wagon with a note from Ermey, wishing us luck. There were enough bandages for each man, and I had them issued out quickly, choosing one of the soldiers at random to be our standard bearer.

  Simple Combat Dressing: These bandages will heal 5 damage on application and another 1 damage per second for the next 10 seconds. The bandage will also heal one bleed type effect. The soldier must spend at least 5 uninterrupted seconds to apply the bandage. There is a 5-minute cooldown before a second bandage can be used. Each subsequent bandage used within a 1 hour period reduces the heal over time effect by 2 seconds.

  “I hope you are all feeling a bit more confident now,” I said, watching the men smile as they admired the new gear. We had one squad armed with spears and shields while the other four wielded the gladius as their primary weapon. The advanced troops were geared in their more specialized items . . . except for Buford, who looked to have somehow acquired two strange knives I definitely didn’t recall purchasing.

  “Buford, what are those and where did you find them?” I asked. The infiltrator sheepishly drew his knives and I tried to hold in a laugh as I saw them. In his hands were two plain-looking butter knives.

  “Sir . . . well . . . you see . . . I asked Galba if I could have them and he said okay,” Buford advised. The men around him started to laugh at the soldier.

  “Fine, but why are you using butter knives instead of real weapons?” I inquired.

  “Sir, there’s a long story there I don’t want to go into. Don’t worry though, I fight better with these than with just about anything else,” Buford said confidently. The countdown timer paused as Buford’s story populated in my UI. Since there was time, I went ahead and read the . . . rather strange tale.

  Lemule Buford grew up as one of many sons born to a poor farmer. Buford left his family at an early age to pursue the life of an adventurer. His less-than-savory skill-set developed over this time and the man became an apprentice rogue in the adventurer’s guild. Once, during a job to liberate stolen goods for a temple, Buford and his party decided to keep some of the liberated goods for themselves in addition to the reward that was offered by the temple. The items the party kept were a set of valuable, solid-gold dining utensils.

  The temple eventually learned of the theft and petitioned the adventurers guild for restitution. By the time the theft was discovered, Buford and his party were long gone and had left the adventurer’s guild to strike out on their own. The adventurer’s guild paid restitution to the temple and promptly issued bounties on all the party members that were involved.

  The priests were happy with the resolution, but unfortunately for Buford and his party . . . the god the priests served was not. The minor deity the priests served was a god of justice, with an emphasis on punishing the guilty. Buford was cursed, finding that he now took a large penalty to attack when he used any weapon other than a butter knife.

  The less-than-brilliant Buford was horrified; he loved the life of an adventuring rogue and didn’t want to give it up. Pleading with the priests, Buford was given the chance to work off his debt to their god by serving in the temple to atone for his crimes. After many months of hard work (growing up a farmer had taught Buford to work hard and not complain), Buford was given absolution for his crimes and the curse was lifted.

  Strangely enough, Buford had become attached to dual wielding butter knives as his favored weapons. The god found humor in this and granted the hapless rogue a boon. When using only butter knives as his melee weapons, the butter knives he wielded would have an item-level of seven times his character level. This made any butter knife Buford used as good as an uncommon enchanted weapon appropriate to his character level. Buford was pleased with the outcome and was rumored to have said, “I ain’t never had something this exciting happen to me since the hog ate my brother” (which is a tale for a different time). The rogue henceforth became known by friends and foe alike as Butterknife Buford.

  Unfortunately for Buford, the adventurer’s guild was not as pleased with his actions and kept the bounty in place, eventually leading to his arrest and imprisonment. Out of all his original party, only Buford was found.

  “Carry on, Private Buford,” I said, shaking my head at the crazy story. The resumption of the countdown snapped me back to reality.

  “When we head into battle, file out quickly and into the initial formation we’ve practiced. Once we get a feel for how the battle is going, we’ll decide our next moves. Each soldier will have two javelins assigned to them. We have some extra reloads that the infiltrators will place behind each squad and then they will check our immediate area for traps in case another team has decided to use a disadvantage on us,” I was pleased that Ermey had given us a full 200 javelins as I thought this might turn into a fight of endurance.

  As the countdown neared zero, the arena attendants opened the doors to the arena. Hot air blasted us, the roar of the crowd filled our ears, and the announcer proclaimed the match was about to begin. I was grateful the doors were opened and light streamed in. The ready-room we were housed in was dimly lit and I was getting concerned the brightness of the day would blind us as we entered the battle. As part of our “advantage,” we were held back a bit from the door, restricting my view of the entire battlefield; I could see the other side of the arena, but not who was to our immediate left or right.

  Directly across from us stood Makog’s Mob. There were scores of goblins packed into their starting area. The shaman that was leading the group was not visible and there were two blocks of 100 goblins facing us across the large arena. To either flank, the goblins had more groups of 100 each facing the foes there. The goblins were poorly equipped, most just sporting rusted daggers or clubs with nails driven into them. Even so, the diminutive mob had worked themselves up into a mouth-frothing frenzy, ready to attack.

  To the right of the
goblins were the Final Act necromancers. Five robed figures stood behind their reanimated minions. Each necromancer had a group of fifteen zombies in front of them. The zombies were disgusting but didn’t appear all that powerful since they didn’t wield any weapons or wear any armor. I remembered from their description that the necromancers would need to be watched as they could reanimate the fallen participants to fight at their command.

  Looking to the left of the goblin mob I made out the Steel Point Centaurs. There were twenty-five of them and they looked to be formidable. Each wore a bronze chain shirt over their humanlike upper body with studded leather armor strapped around their horse-like torso. The centaurs all held either a long spear and round shield or a two-handed curved sword that looked like a giant scimitar. They stomped in place, eager for the fight to start.

  That left the Sisters of Caracal and the Mindblank groups to either side of us. I knew the Sisters’ fighting style, having seen it in action yesterday, but Mindblank was an unknown. The combination of illusionists and rogues could be a deadly one . . . or a glass cannon that lost out quickly in the fight. I didn’t have time for further thought as the gong sounded and the battle began—for everyone but us. A timer counting down from sixty appeared in my interface, letting me know how much time I had left.

  At first, not much happened in my field of view. The goblins seemed content to keep their spot and the centaurs were turning their heads back and forth deciding on who to charge first. The necromancers wasted no time and two of them along with their undead walked slowly toward the goblins. The rest of the necromancers and their undead moved toward whoever the foe on our right was. The question of the identity of the foe on our right was answered when three rogues appeared next to each of the necromancers advancing toward my right.

  The undead responded too slowly, turning and pawing at the rogues as they quickly killed of the two of their three targets. The third necromancer was better prepared, instantly casting a green cloud around him that poisoned and slowed the rogues he was facing. His undead managed to bring down one of the rogues before the others used an ability, turning invisible.