Dagger Lord: A LitRPG Series

by Elliot Burns

  “Happy?” asked Mav.

  “I wouldn’t say that…”

  “Even if you’re not a believer,” said Mav, “you need to understand about religion here. There are loads of different ones. Some people worship the energy that flows from vine to vine. They cut vines open and drink the green crap, despite it being poisonous. They water it down and then suffer the burn because they think it brings them closer to nature. Course, you can forget about the hundreds of smaller religions. They're of no consequence. Most of them have faded away. The only ones you need to understand – and you know how much I hate book learning, but maybe you should get a book on this – is the arcus.”

  Jack remembered his uncle telling him about the arcus. It was the most predominant religion in Royaume. It was based on the principle of the twelve colors, with each color representing a different subject. Red was thought of as the symbol of passion, yellow of happiness. Those who bowed to the arcus were designated a color when they were young. They spent the rest of their lives doing whatever worship was deemed best.

  Like with any religion, not every worshipper got along. There were two ways fights broke out. One was because people interpreted the colors differently. Red meant passion to some, while others chose to interpret it as fury and blood. When people argued about how they saw their own color, things got heated.

  Another was the way in which they worshipped. Green was thought of as the color of nature. In fact, this was one of the only arcus colors where the meaning was almost universally accepted. The mode of green worship, however, had seen much blood spilled. Some believed that you worshipped nature by taking care of it; planting trees, nurturing plants. Others swore that nature was best deified by using it. They saw chopping trees to build homes as an act of devotion.

  “What about you?” asked Jack. “You don’t worship anything, do you?”

  “Nope, but my mother was a purple. Can you guess what they worship?”

  “Eggplant?”

  “Cheeky git. Purple stands for power, nobility and wealth. In other words, privileged pansies, pampered ninnies, and inbred flek-guzzlers. Worshipping was a bit of a problem for old ma, since the only connection we had to nobility was that we could see Lord Trebeck’s castle through our pantry window.

  "She used to drag me to all the parades and public events where the lord would be appearing. She scrubbed me to within an inch of my life. I swear, I shed more skin than a snake growing up in her house. She had a dress that she’d bought from an East Isles merchant. We'd join the crowd, and she’d stand there like we were in the presence of a god. You know what else worshipping purple means?”

  “What?”

  “That our bloody house was full of damned lavender. Every single wall, surface, you name it was packed with the stuff. I smell lavender in my nightmares sometimes. I swear, if you passed me a pinch of it now, I’d vomit.”

  “I take it you didn’t carry on the religion?”

  “Worshipping a color is the stupidest thing to do. Mother never got anything from her worship. Lord Trebeck wouldn’t have had a damn clue she existed. I was the first Coyne to get the honor of seeing Lord Trebeck’s castle, actually.”

  “Did you work for him?”

  “No, I spent two months in his dungeons.”

  “For some reason, I’m not surprised. What happened?”

  “Oh, not much. I was caught looting in a relic on his lands, and I didn’t have a dungeoneering permit. Those things are a flekking scam. Anyway, that’s old business.”

  “So your mum worshipped purple,” said Jack. “What about your dad?”

  “Never knew him, never met him,” said Mav. He spat on the floor as if talking about his father left a bitter taste on his tongue. “He never gave a damn about me, and I don’t give a toss about him.”

  Hearing that stirred something in Jack. It conjured memories of school parents’ evenings where the chair next to his mother was always empty, except when uncle Alfie could make it. Father’s days when all his friends spent times with their dads, while he looked after his mum. He used to buy Alfie a Father’s Day card, just to show him how much he meant to him.

  “Sorry I asked,” he said.

  “Enough about that,” said Mav. “I’m not Elena. I’m not here to fill your head with words. You’re going to learn an altogether deadlier language today. Let’s get started.”

  The earlier promise of a hot day was broken by billowing clouds that covered the sky as the suns took their leave. A gust of wind howled from outside their enclosed glen, but the vines and trees around them didn’t move. The temperate nature of Holuum’s weather was something Jack appreciated since he wasn’t a fan of extremes. He fastened his pockets so that his flek coins were secure, then took off his coat and put it on the ground.

  “So, what can you teach me?” asked Jack.

  “A barrel load of stuff, but not everyone has the aptitude for it. We all have something innate inside us that makes us better at some things than others. Now, it’s time we see what you’re capable of. If you can at least learn one of my skills, maybe there’s a lord in you yet.”

  He knew that he wasn’t being mean about it but all the same, Mav’s jibes strengthened Jack’s resolve to prove himself. Whatever Mav wanted to show him today, he would surprise him by being proficient at it.

  “First up,” said Mav “Let me show you a real weapon, and how real men fight.”

  He opened his coat to display his plethora of sewn pockets. Interesting shapes bulged in some of them, and in a couple Jack saw the stems of roots. Without needing to look, Mav reached into one pocket and drew out his beautiful dagger.

  “Now, I watched you fight the atronarchs and the wraiths. I’ll admit you’ve got something about you, so don’t think I’m just being a git when I say this. You lack grace, Jack.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Your fighting style…well…it doesn’t have a name. That’s how basic it is. You just hack and slash any old fucking way. You have the poise of an opiate addict walking a tightrope. Have you ever heard of steel baroque?”

  “Are they a rock band?”

  “It’s a fighting style older than your castle. When you hear the words steel baroque, you should think elegance and harmony. Some call it the true art.”

  “What’s so special about it?” asked Jack.

  Mav put his Mughal on the ground. He kept his hand on the grip as if he expected a raider to spring from nowhere and steal it from him.

  “In the army, they teach you to build your muscles and pump your lungs. They want you to have stamina. Sure, they might instruct you how to swing a sword. But here’s the thing; if everyone gets taught to fight the same way, then nobody has an advantage. Having your own fighting style is what sets you apart.”

  “And you can teach me?”

  “It’s not easy. Steel baroque favors agility over power. Quick, precise movements. Awareness of your opponent.”

  “When did you learn it?” asked Jack.

  “Back when my beard first started to sprout. There was a retired warrior in my town. He used to take on one pupil every five years. No exceptions, no matter how much flek people threw his way. He was so mysterious that everyone wanted to study under him, but he didn’t choose the richest or strongest lads. Instead, to win his mentorship you had to beat him at chess.”

  “What does chess have to do with it?”

  Mav shrugged. “He was a lunatic. Who knows how his mind worked?”

  “Who was he?”

  “I’d rather not talk that,” he said.

  Jack sensed there was more to the story of Mav’s mentor, but the look on the thief’s face told him not to push the subject. Instead, he stared at the Mughal dagger. There was something fascinating about the blade. Mysterious and exotic. The more Jack stared, the harder it was to take his eyes from it. He wanted to touch it.

  “If you go anywhere near my blade, you’ll be learning how to pull up your drawers one-handed,” said Mav.


  Jack held his palms up. “Staying away from it,” he said.

  “After I learned steel baroque,” said Mav, “I joined Lord Oswald’s army. It wasn’t long before I was in a unit called the Greys, known for ambush tactics and secret shit. I found my sorry self in a full-on war. That was where my world started to crumble. All the training I’d done, everything I had learned, it had become a part of me. I prided myself on it. I thought it made me better than everyone else, but I was wrong.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, in a real war, Steel Baroque counted for nothing. When hundreds of men swing their blades at each other for dear life, elegant swordplay goes out of the window. It's stab, hack, move. Wipe the blood off your face and turn to meet the next terrified son-of-a-whore running at you.”

  “What are you saying then? That I should learn steel baroque, or I shouldn’t?

  Mav stood up. “I’m telling you that you’re a lucky little sod, because you’re going to learn from the mistakes that almost got me killed. Now, do you want to learn it, or not?”

  Steel baroque sounded like just the kind of fighting style that he’d been preparing himself for, with his speed boosts. Given that it was geared toward dagger fighting, and given how much he was starting to love his dagger, there was no question.

  “I want to learn it,” he said. “Baroque me up.”

  For the next hour, Mav showed Jack the basic stances and moves of a steel baroque fighter. He constantly drilled Jack in how to stand, how to parry, how to slash. As the daylight faded around them, Jack started to get tired, but he didn’t quit. Finally, he was rewarded with smoke-text.

  Skill Gained: Steel Baroque – Level 0

  [You have learned that intelligence and agility can be used to best your foe in combat. You are on the road to learning the steel baroque discipline of fighting.]

  “Now,” said Mav, drawing his dagger. “Let’s stop talking and start fighting.”

  From an inside pocket, he took a vial the size of his thumb, and a white cloth stained with splotches of brown. In the vial was a liquid the color of honey but with the consistency of water. Mav uncorked it, pressed the cloth against the lid, and tipped the glass. From yet another pocket he produced another dagger. This was much less sophisticated. He started to run the cloth over the blade.

  “You don’t need to polish it on my account.”

  “It’s alchemical lotion,” said Mav. “It makes an inch-wide field around the blade, so that you can still train with real weapons, but you can’t hurt each other. Take a stroll through most lords’ yards and you’ll see men using wooden swords like children pretending to be their daddies. Pah. You can’t learn to fight if you don’t get used to the heft of a real blade.”

  “Can we test this before we start?” Jack asked.

  “Only a fool wouldn’t.”

  Mav lifted the sleeve of his left arm to reveal his wrist. He brought his blade down in a stabbing motion. Jack felt a momentary flinch of fear. He knew it was unfounded when the blade stopped above Mav’s skin as if it had struck a shield.

  “That was a dangerous way to test it,” said Jack. “It seemed kinda unnecessary, to be honest.

  “I’m a show-off. I thought you’d learned that about me by now? Your turn.”

  Jack wiped the lotion across his dagger. It smelled like industrial-strength alcohol. When he was done he tested his blade on his little finger. He didn’t try it in as foolhardy a way as Mav, but instead tried to prick his skin. The blade wouldn’t move within an inch of him.

  Mav wrapped his hands around the handle of his dagger and pointed the blade away from him. He held it at chest height away from his body, and he bent his arm slightly. There was a looseness to his posture, as though he could strike in any direction without effort.

  “This is the hammer grip,” he said. “It’s basic, and it will give you some finesse. Hold the dagger too far away from you and someone will just hack your wrist off like a sausage. You’ll feel very silly after that.”

  “Got it,” said Jack, mirroring Mav.

  “Now we spar. Five flek to whoever scores the first hit.”

  “But we can’t hit each other.”

  “We can’t touch each other, but you’ll feel it when you score a hit because your dagger will jolt a little in your hand. Let’s go.”

  They warily closed the distance with each other, daggers out. Mav moved with the purpose of a man who knew what he was doing. Jack, less so, but he decided that if he was ever going to learn to fight, he’d go all out.

  “I’ll take my flek now,” he said.

  Mav laughed. “You better earn it, then.”

  Jack feigned a step to the left, and then twisted right and parried forward with his dagger. Mav was already well out of the way. It seemed like his plan had been telegraphed to the thief weeks in advance. Mav turned 180 degrees until he was behind Jack, and then Jack felt a light pressure on his back.

  “One hit to me,” said Mav. “My dagger would be sticking out of the back of your neck.”

  Steel Baroque increased by 50%!

  [50% until level two]

  Thankfully, it seemed that as long as he at least tried to apply the techniques Mav had told him, then the game would reward him with experience. So, even though he hadn’t come close to hitting the thief yet, he was still making progress.

  Jack moved his head side to side, stretching his neck, and wondered how best to attack next. His next tactic was to back away and let Mav make his moves and hopefully strike him on the counter. As the lesson wore on he felt more comfortable with his blade, but the thief was like an eel, constantly slipping out of reach. He seemed to know every move Jack would make before he’d even thought of it himself.

  “If I’m as fast as you at your age, I’ll be happy,” said Jack.

  “Don’t bring age into this, lad. A blade’s a blade no matter how old the hand is that holds it.”

  Mav cheered with every point he scored. Jack heard his victory yells so many times that he began to grate his teeth at the sound. Sweat didn’t just pool on his forehead; it ran down it like a waterfall, and he felt the sting of salt in his eyes. The two suns had come out from behind the cloud now as if to mock him with their burning rays.

  He knew he wasn’t going to win, but he needed to score at least a point. Just one, that was all. Matching Mav like-for-like would get him nothing. The thief evaporated like air as soon as Jack struck at him. Not metaphorically, either. Whenever Jack even got close to scoring a hit, Mav’s entire body seemed to turn to smoke.

  Jack backed away and bought a few seconds to look around. This wasn’t working.

  “Had enough?” said Mav. His forehead was free from sweat. He’d kept his giant coat on during the fight, which to Jack was the ultimate insult. It meant he didn’t need much dexterity to beat him.

  “I could go on all day, you old coot.”

  Mav parried forward, darting a foot within Jack’s reach and stabbing. Jack jumped back at each one. With this particular attack, Mav always turned his left foot an inch before he struck. Jack used this as a warning system. He edged toward the side of the glen, getting closer to the vines and bushes that enclosed them. Mav was relentless in his pursuit, never tiring, eyes locked on Jack.

  It became a dance. Mav moved his left leg, so Jack strafed out of reach of the upcoming blow.

  Then, as Mav whirled around for a second strike, Jack slashed his dagger at one of the vines next to him. He cut through the stalk. Its green juicy insides gushed out and splashed Mav’s cheek and lips. The thief spluttered. He recovered himself enough to sidestep, but Jack was quicker.

  Feeling the point loom close, he slashed at the thief. As his blade came within an inch of meeting skin, his hand jolted as if he’d struck a cymbal.

  He bent down and caught his breath. “One point to me,” he said, straightening up.

  Then, smoke-text filled his vision.

  Steel baroque increased by 50%

  Steel
baroque levelled up to level 1!

  Power Gained: Smoke Twist

  [When your foe tries to strike you, his blade will meet nothing but smoke, and he will turn to see that you have already moved away from him. Consumes mana.]

  He couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across his face. “Woo hoo!” he said. “I just learned smoke twist.”

  Mav wiped some of the gunk from his face. “Big deal. That makes it 50-1 by my reckoning,” he said. He held out his hand and beckoned Jack over as if he needed support.

  “You okay?” asked Jack.

  Nothing about Mav’s body language warned Jack about the punch the thief then delivered to his gut. Jack doubled over, his lungs suddenly airless, and wheezed like an empty balloon.