by Kevin Murphy
Brett now knew it was ridiculous to assume that even his father was the center of everything in his life, but the thought had come tumbling back into his head when—only a few minutes before he went for his walk—he overheard Suresh talking to Savior. He couldn’t make out much, but he could have sworn he heard Suresh say his father’s name: ‘Ezra.’
‘Ezra’ wasn’t a common name by any stretch—and Brett couldn’t even be certain that he’d heard it. Still, the sense of dread borne from the notion that his father might invade his one true escape took hold of him. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to lose the only thing he knew was his own.
Brett kicked a seed cone from one of the coniferous trees which grew fairly thick a little way beyond the outskirts of town, then he stretched both arms over his head and sighed. He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t even know what he wanted to do. All he knew, for sure, was that he was displeased by the state of things.
Arden had still never contacted him. He should’ve been back in the game by now—but with Chronicle, it was hard to know for sure. A little time spent on the other side amounted to a lot of time in game. If his hot-headed friend decided that he wanted an impromptu break, who knew how long it would be until he finally reached out. Rage-quitting for a few days sounded perfectly typical of Arden.
While deep in thought, Brett absentmindedly steered himself closer to one of the main roads out of town. He suspected Suresh would have to lead the group that way sooner or later, but for now they seemed to be avoiding elven lands. Between lazy steps, Brett heard an odd noise. It sounded a bit like the rubbing—or scraping—of wood against stone. It wasn’t the sort of noise he’d expect from an animal—it was the sound of toil. It put him on guard.
Brett moved quietly between the trees. He’d gotten quite good at doing so. He’d even gone so far as to dump some extra stat points into his agility. He figured the edge it provided was bound to help him acquire more kills in the tournament at some point, and he had already racked up quite a substantial number of bonus points to eventually refund himself with—the only problem was that he wasn’t currently leveling up at all in the traditional sense. He’d need to be extra careful until he confirmed the noise was just another one of Suresh’s men.
After following the racket for a few dozen strides, Brett could finally see the source of the constant grinding. Some archer was fashioning arrows alone amongst the trees. To Brett’s surprise, the archer’s forehead was covered by a cloth bandanna in a way that practically screamed ‘tournament participant.’ What’s more, the archer didn’t even have his bow within arm’s reach. It was propped up against another nearby tree. His luck seemed to be turning around.
It was as if the world of Chronicle provided for him. When Brett had sought something freeing to do, he found it sitting there before him. Maybe he had simply been overthinking things before. With just a little more luck, this player would be some big fish caught unprepared. If he could be quick and clean, there was no reason that Suresh would ever have to know.
Chapter 26: Purpose
Dakkon was grateful that he and Cline had managed to come across a stream before heading into the next town—named Roena, judging by a sign they’d passed by. If he were being honest, he hadn’t properly cleaned himself up in the game since he’d first been draped in rags and covered in rat blood—unless he could count the water trial as some sort of bath. He could see that it was approaching time to spend money on upgrades, but that would have to wait until he could collect his portion of earnings for selling the castle.
His boots were in a sorry state, his cloak tattered, and his shirt and pants had somehow been worn thin in mere weeks of use. The only cloth that seemed to be holding up particularly well, aside from his bag, was the red sash he’d received from master Jitan for becoming a fire mage. By contrast, the sash looked so clean it seemed out of place on him. He idly wondered if its size and coloring was flamboyant enough that people might not even suspect he was a tournament participant should he choose to tie it around his head like some sort of misguided fashion statement.
There wasn’t much water to wade in—and it was shockingly cold to the touch. Fortunately, a little temperature adjustment was just the sort of magic Dakkon was capable of. Once he’d heated up the water to his satisfaction by placing two hotspots just upstream, he sat down in the water and leaned against a large, flat rock. The combination of a cold stone on his back and hot, moving water was just the sort of luxury he needed more of in his life. He could already envision himself stopping more regularly for a dip here and there.
It was around when he was debating whether or not his hotspots would remain active while he took a nap that he remembered a particularly strange story from his childhood. For a passing phase, he was almost-obsessively interested in ancient Japanese culture—samurai culture, to be precise. Ultimately, he was just a kid who’d thought they were cool—but during that time, he’d read many old, gory glory stories. It was even encouraged by his parents—as any learning was good, they’d figured—until he’d wanted to buy a katana. Then, his parents sought to dampen his interest in hurting himself or others with a sword by introducing other things to hold his juvenile interest, such as stories of powerful wizards, noble kings, and even a virtual pet.
He never thought about samurai now. It had been so far removed from his thoughts that he’d only briefly entertained the idea of using a sword in Chronicle. His passion for the way of the samurai had died in its infancy. Though, after so many years—now, for some reason, he couldn’t help but think of Musashi—or rather, one of his rumored peculiarities.
Supposedly, Musashi was an undefeated swordsman who never bathed, cut his hair, or wed because those actions would have left him vulnerable. Dakkon had never really felt all that vulnerable while bathing before, but suddenly, here and now—out in the open, with water just barely keeping him covered—he did feel a bit unnerved. He was trying to keep a low profile, after all. Perhaps dozing-off, defenseless in a stream wasn’t the best of ideas.
Dakkon regretted having to redon such filthy clothes, but he certainly wasn’t going to wash them before going into town. Maybe he could give them a rinse before logging out and hang them up somewhere unbeknownst to others. Being logged out for a few days of game time should result in plenty of time to dry them.
Dakkon had more pressing concerns, anyhow. He and Cline needed some sort of plan to make their supply run safely, and a backup plan for if things got muddied up. His pants and boots went on first to provide a little protection from sharp stones and brambles, but before he could pull on his shirt, sash, or cloak, the rhythmic fletching of Cline abruptly ceased, and he heard an alarming sound.
It sounded like a cracking twig and a muffled wince.
Rather than call out to his friend, Dakkon grabbed up his daggers and sprinted toward the disturbance. In what felt like only a few long strides, he returned to the small clearing where his friend had been fashioning arrows.
Before him, some 15 meters away, Dakkon saw a man draped in red hunched over his friend, covering Cline’s mouth as he drove a dagger into his side. Without wasting another second, Dakkon threw his Polypoison Dagger at the assailant.
[You have stabbed Brett for 64 damage.]
[You have poisoned Brett. Brett’s vision will gradually blur.]
[You have poisoned Brett. Brett’s agility will slowly drain.]
[You have poisoned Brett. Brett has been stricken deaf.]
Before the attacker could react, Dakkon followed up his Polypoison Dagger with his precious Drakestone Dagger as well.
[You have stabbed Brett for 212 damage.]
The red-cloaked man spun and began to flee with Dakkon’s daggers still lodged in his side and back. Dakkon was in far too great of a hurry to read exactly what sort of poison cocktail he’d forced upon the stranger, but it was obvious that the man had not expected such swift retaliation.
“Fool!” Dakkon shouted, angrily.
As soon as the robed figure step
ped away from Cline’s body, Dakkon could see the unmoving husk of his blond friend. Dakkon’s face flushed with shock and horror before it settled into rage. In that instant—that insignificant amount of time—someone had robbed him of his companion. Cline had lost his life for some random player’s amusement.
Dakkon howled in anguish, “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” So incensed was he, that he’d allowed Cline’s attacker a chance to escape—but he wouldn’t let that stand. If there was any justice in this world, he would find it presently.
Dakkon sprinted after the robed man. He was quick—faster than Dakkon. The attacker seemed to be heading in the direction of town. Dakkon couldn’t be certain he wasn’t being led into an ambush, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He sprinted forward through the trees, battered by leaves and branches, pursuing with everything he had. He was gaining some distance. The attacker’s pace was slowing.
The cloaked attacker turned around only long enough to goad, “There are dozens of us! Back off, or you’ll be next!” But, his words fell on deaf ears.
Dakkon needed to close the gap. Even if the man was lying, he’d be hard to attack if he made it to a more crowded area. He was running out of time.
Dakkon invoked his whip of flame by thinking its name. A coil of braided fire appeared in his right hand.
[You have burned yourself for 40 damage. Remaining HP 1,030/1,070]
After two more strides, Dakkon cast his whip forward—molding its flames as it flew to ensnare the fleeing man’s legs. The man fell forward in his sprint as his legs were pulled from beneath him—his face managing to find a large, knob-like root.
[You have lashed Brett for 75 damage.]
“Ahh!” The attacker cried, clutching at his face while Dakkon’s flame whip continued to wreath around him like a serpent and bind him.
Dakkon moved to the downed man and scrabbled for his daggers.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” Dakkon wailed as he lost himself to his fury.
[You have burned yourself for 40 damage. Remaining HP 990/1,070]
[You have burned Brett for 40 damage.]
“Wait! Savior! Someone!” the man desperately cried.
Dakkon drove his daggers back into the man’s defenseless, bound form.
[You have stabbed Brett for 198 damage.]
[You have stabbed Brett for 56 damage.]
[You have stabbed Brett for 221 damage.]
[You have stabbed Brett for 61 damage.]
[You have burned yourself for 40 damage. Remaining HP 950/1,070]
[You have burned Brett for 40 damage.]
[You have stabbed Brett for 230 damage.]
[You have stabbed Brett for 49 damage.]
[You have stabbed Brett for 227 damage. You have slain a player: Brett]
[Killing players does not reward experience points.]
[You have removed Brett from the tournament. For doing so, you have gained 44 tournament points. Current tournament points: 45]
Over and over Dakkon plunged his daggers downward, even after his damage messages had stopped coming.
[You have burned yourself for 40 damage.]
[You have burned yourself for 40 damage.]
[You have burned yourself for 40 damage. Remaining HP 830/1,070]
The pain Dakkon suffered from his own whips helped to ground him. He rolled the body over and was surprised to find he recognized the man. Dead before him was the very person who’d led him to die in the forest as a beginner—a man whose name he’d sworn to remember. Dakkon couldn’t feel any sense of vengeance in the moment. The attacker’s identity couldn’t illicit any additional anger—he was already overflowing with it.
[You have burned yourself for 40 damage.]
“Damn it!” Dakkon thought. He couldn’t stay where he was. There would be others coming soon. Dakkon knew that this particular prick had friends.
Dakkon stopped feeding mana to his flame whip and the burning sensation on his arm ceased. With shaking hands, he fumbled while removing his daggers from Brett’s back then hastily wiped them against the fallen man’s dark brown cloak. Dakkon turned around and ran back to where Cline lay.
Once back at the clearing, Dakkon summoned Nightshade from a shower of light. He threw the corpse of his close friend over the horse’s rump, then climbed up into the saddle. The awkward load of Cline’s dead weight threatened to fall off almost immediately. Dakkon was forced to pull his friend’s body into his arms and cradle it for stability. They took to the road, heading back toward the west.
“Vance,” Dakkon thought as he pictured the large Paladin he’d only just met. He needed to establish a link. He wasn’t certain his message would go through, as he couldn’t keep his thoughts from racing. “We need to talk.”
Soon, the sensation of an immaterial band tugged at him. Dakkon knew what he had to do. If the man who could resurrect NPCs had gone to the elves, then so would he.
“What’s the matter, Dakkon?” Vance asked. “You sound shaken up.”
“I have a great favor to ask of you—name your price.”
Thank you for reading Chronicle: Trial and Flame.
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