by J. A. Hunter
“Come on,” I said, waving the rest of the crew onward.
Everyone circled around me as we left the town square behind, heading along a narrow side street flanked by more of the Viking-esque buildings that seemed so popular here. Private residences from the look of them. The street, cast in early afternoon shadow, was empty, and the homes to either side had the wooden shutters closed tight against the cold of the day. Most of the places had stone chimneys jutting from their slate-tiled roofs, spewing fragrant gray smoke into the overcast sky.
“What are the chances that those things are connected to Peng?” Abby asked once we were firmly out of earshot of the guards. “Normal incursions I get, but that back there?” She hooked a thumb toward the square. “That wasn’t normal. Not even close. I’ve only seen knights come out on a handful of occasions, and those Frost Hounds? They almost never leave their dungeons.”
“Might be a bit of sleight of hand,” Cutter offered. “A distraction if you will. Me? Well, I know a thing or two about getting past city gate guards. And truth be told, it’s trickier than it bloody looks. Gate guards have an unnatural affinity to detect Stealth—especially if they’re on high alert. And I’ve never yet met a Dwarven guard that wasn’t on high alert. Right dour bunch of bastards. Maybe Peng and his crew are all masters of Stealth, but I bloody well doubt it. Which means the best way in is a fat bribe and a honeyed word. But, problem is, not even the seediest guard is gonna take a bribe from a someone like Peng. No one likes Darklings.”
“So,” Amara said, picking up his line of thought. “Peng brings up a raiding force. They attack, distracting the guards long enough for Peng and his men to slip through.”
“That’s what I’d do,” Cutter said, rubbing at his chin. “Sometimes the easiest way is the best, and it doesn’t get much easier than the ol’ bait and switch.”
“Sounds to me like we’d better hurry our diddy-boppin’ asses along then,” Forge grunted, picking up his pace. “If those yahoos are from Peng, then he’s already here, which means he knows about Carl and has a head start on us.”
We fell silent as we hurried along, following our updated maps.
A light dusting of snow covered the shadier lanes and alleys, but most of the broader streets were clear. And not just of snow, but of dirt, trash, and all the other things that seemed to pile up in any urban sprawl. Not here, though. This was without a doubt the cleanest city I’d ever been to. The buildings, while rather plain, were also extremely well maintained. Everything was freshly painted, every roof shingle was where it belonged, and the wooden doors and edging were all new.
Though Cliffburgh certainly wasn’t near the size of Rowanheath, or even Yunnam for that matter, it was no flyspeck town. This was a trading hub, and it showed everywhere we looked. Though there were plenty of residential homes, most of the buildings were dedicated to craft and trade. There were inns—clearly meant to house the traveling merchants—tailors and seamstresses, alchemists and apothecaries, and a small legion of blacksmiths, which wasn’t surprising, considering the Dwarves were known as the best smiths in Eldgard.
There were no outdoor markets, a staple in the Southern cities, no doubt due to the frigid temperatures.
Interestingly, I noted that all of the shops had a ranking of some sort, prominently displayed either on the door or the window.
Signs like 1st Ranked Manticore-Class Blacksmith, 7th Ranked Centaur-Class Fletcher, and 13th Ranked Warg-Class Baker. It seemed that commerce was the heart of this city, and everyone wanted potential clients to know exactly where they stood in the hierarchy of other merchants and tradesmen. I’d only spent a handful of days up this way, and my dealings with the Dwarves were minimal at best, so I didn’t properly understand the hierarchy, but clearly they put a lot of stock in it.
Eventually, we left behind the quaint residential sections and the thriving businesses—which were slammed with vendors, travelers, and merchants from just about everywhere—and entered a section of the city that more or less made up for the beauty everywhere else. We exited through a small, guarded side gate, which let out into the Low Quarter, which was outside the protection of the city walls entirely. An overflow where the dregs of the Cliffburgh had washed up. It seemed that all of the garbage from the rest of the city had been taken here and unceremoniously dumped. The buildings were equal parts wood and stone, and they looked like they’d been built by someone who’d heard of houses but had never actually seen one.
The whole place was one giant fire hazard, or at least it would’ve been if not for the snow and muck positively everywhere. Snowdrifts sat in corners, dark brown from dirt and mud. Chimneys dotted the skyline, these spewing rancid black clouds straight up. If I were a gambling man, I’d have bet that everyone in the Low Quarter was burning old tires. I mean, I knew that wasn’t true because tires didn’t exist here, but based on smell alone, I couldn’t imagine what else it would be. The streets weren’t paved, just giant sucking mud pits broken by deep wheel ruts and ankle-deep footprints.
Sophia always sent us to the classiest places. I’d have to thank her profusely when I saw her next.
We wound our way through the trench-like warren of alleys, streets, and cut-throughs, following our map unwaveringly until we finally found our destination. The Smoked Pig. The name was stenciled on a sign in blocky letters, and beneath that was a line which gave me pause. Smoke House and Tavern.
The trek had taken us nearly an hour, and the sun was already starting to make a run at the western horizon. Orange, golds, and faint pinks filled the sky. I folded my arms across my chest as I studied the building in the fading light of the day.
A two-story place of chipped wood and rusting metal with a long wooden patio wrapping around the front. Honestly, seeing it was... confusing. The rest of Cliffburgh—even the dirty, ragtag sections of town—looked like they’d been transported out of a Scandinavian historical tour. This place, though? Well, it could’ve passed on the set of Tombstone. Even had batwing doors, which were wildly impractical, given both the temperature and the climate. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was looking at an Old West saloon.
This was also the first inn or shop that failed to have a rating displayed. Not a good sign.
“Who in the nine bloody hells would build a place like that, eh?” Cutter asked, disgust coating the words. “I mean I’m all for dirty, disgusting inns—practically in my blood—but even I have standards.”
Forge, on the other hand, had a huge grin stretching from ear to ear. “Well, all right!” he boomed, clapping his hands together, practically bouncing on his toes. “Now this here’s a place I can get on board with. I mean, sure, looks more crooked than a barrel of fishhooks, but those are the best places to have a good time.” He paused, cocking his head to the side. “I’ll bet you a gold mark a Traveler built this place. Probably a Texan, too. Someone from south of the Mason-Dixon line for sure. Only a good ol’ Southern boy—who’s also dumber than a box of rocks—would put batwing doors on a tavern in the ass-end of the arctic.”
“I’ll take that action,” Cutter said, flashing a gold piece before disappearing it back into his sleeve with a practiced flourish.
“Well,” I said, shouldering my way past both of them. “We won’t know standing around out here. Let’s go see if we can find our failed Dwarf acolyte.”
We tromped through the mud and slush and up onto the wraparound deck out front, scraping our boots on the wobbly planks.
I paused, glancing left and right. All clear. “Ari,” I hissed.
There was a flash of movement—just a subtle distortion in the air, nearly invisible before she appeared, fluttering just a few feet away from Forge. “Here, Grim Jack.”
“Good. Look, I need you to find someplace to hide. You see trouble coming, I want to know about it before it smacks us in the face. Out of sight, though, yeah?”
She took a deep breath, her color flashing a pale blue. “You know it. No one will see me. Not a soul.” She lifte
d a tiny hand, fingers twirling. A shimmer of rainbow light drifted from her fingertips, swirling around her in a cloud as she vanished once more. “I’m like a ghost.”
Forge—being both our tank and a proper Texan—led the way, pushing through the batwing doors with supreme confidence. I followed hard on his heels. Noise washed over me like a wave. The twang of a slide guitar, the warble of a woman singing a down-and-out country tune, the clink of glasses, the harsh barking laughter of drunks. The scent of grilled meat and tangy-sweet sauce. Barbeque.
The inside was exactly what I’d expected from the outside.
Dark brown hay, heavily stained with copious amounts of dried mud, covered the floor. Weathered boards peeked through here and there. On one side of the room were circular tables perfect for cards and gambling mixed with rectangular rough-hewn tables edged by benches full of drunk patrons busy chowing down. The other side of the room was clear of furniture, the straw pushed back, forming a crude dance floor. More drunk patrons, men and women both, square-danced across the open space as they hooted and hollered in time with the thump of music.
The entertainment occupied a raised platform on the left side of the room, bordering the dance floor. A short-haired Wode man sat on a three-legged stool, working furiously on a handmade slide guitar while a golden-skinned Dawn Elf woman crooned beside him. Her clothes were custom. Clearly. She wore incredibly short shorts, the fabric dyed to have a bluish tint so it looked almost like denim. Her shirt was a plaid button-up, tied in a knot in the middle, showcasing a healthy amount of stomach and more than a little cleavage. Her hair fell in a cascade of golden curls and bounced as she swayed with the music.
It was only a matter of time until the real world started to creep in around the edges. I reminded myself that most of the people who’d made the jump to V.G.O. weren’t fantasy nerds or gamers—they were regular folks, just hoping to survive and avoid a mass grave. They’d be looking to make this new life as normal as they could. As familiar as they could. Which included line dancing, denim, and barbeque.
Despite the bad neighborhood and the dodgy exterior, the place actually seemed pretty nice. Fun. The atmosphere was warm, happy, welcoming. People played cards with their friends—coins clicking as they were shuffled back and forth across tabletops—others drank and joked and danced. The epitome of never judge a book by its cover. I found myself smiling, foot tapping, thinking about inviting Abby out onto the dance floor for a twirl. The smile slipped as I thought of the people all across Eldgard dying—actually dying—in a seemingly unwinnable war against the Vogthar.
There would be a time for dancing and celebrating one day, but today wasn’t it. Especially not with the Death-Head quest looming over me like a headsman’s axe waiting to drop.
The Drunken Acolyte
I SCANNED THE ROOM, searching for Sophia’s lead: Carl, the Dwarf and failed acolyte.
It was surprisingly easy to find him. He was literally the only Dwarf in the entire place. Everyone here was a foreigner of one type or another—mostly Travelers, based on the accents filling the air. A bunch of winged Accipiters and golden Dawn Elves, quite a few Wodes, a handful of Imperials, and a spattering of green-skinned Risi. No Murk Elves, which highlighted both Amara and myself, and only the lone Dwarf. Apparently, the Smoked Pig wasn’t the kind of place any self-respecting Dwarf willingly came.
Our guy, Carl, didn’t seem like the self-respecting type.
In a society where rank and standing seemed especially important—integral even—a washed-out Cleric had to be at just about the bottom of the barrel.
He was propped up on a barstool near the back of the room, leaning against the polished hardwood bar.
“Jack,” Cutter said, drawing in close to me. “Gotta slip away for a moment.” He jabbed a finger toward a cowl-wearing Wode nursing a drink in the corner. “Thieves business. Should’ve bloody well expected to find a Union rep in a place like this,” he muttered. “But I’ll be around if you need me.” He clapped me on the shoulder and slipped off through the crowd. The Thief in the corner watched Cutter with hungry, predatory eyes. Weighing, measuring, calculating.
That could be trouble. I shook my head and pursed my lips. Or maybe I was just being paranoid. Not everyone was out to get us.
Just almost everyone.
Still, Amara shot me a glance and a quick nod, then followed after him like a shadow. I wasn’t the only one plagued by worry.
The rest of us weaved past the dancers and the tables, dodging the occasional server ferrying platters of ale and succulent meat—ribs, brisket, even pulled pork piled high on small rolls—as we made for the bar. Forge marched right up, plopping down on a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the Dwarf, then flagged down the bartender. The bartender in question was a brown-haired Wode sporting a close approximation of a ten-gallon cowboy hat and a passable flannel shirt. If that was the owner of the Smoked Pig, then Cutter was about to lose a bet, because that was easily the most Texas Texan I’d ever seen.
Hell, on the wall behind the bar was a Texas flag, its lone star proud and bold on a field of blue.
Abby took a seat to the left of the Dwarf, while I took a stool to his right.
Carl was stocky and broad-shouldered like most of the Dwarves we’d seen so far and wore faded priest robes, light brown, edged in gold, and tremendously dirty. He had an empty mug in front of him and was staring morosely into the bottom of his cup as though it might hold all of life’s answers. The guy was bleary-eyed, absolutely reeked of stale alcohol and old BO—that Unwashed debuff at work—and was quite clearly drunk. He ignored Abby and me completely, as though he were alone in the world and aimed to keep it that way.
“Hey there,” I said, offering the man a friendly smile. “You Carl?”
He blinked sporadically a couple of times, swaying slightly as he faced me.
“What’s that now,” he slurred. “You say you’re lookin’ for...” He faltered. Belched, long and loud. “Carl?” he finished belatedly.
“Yep. Carl, former Acolyte of the Shield and Hammer.”
“The one and only,” he said, dropping his head in an off-kilter bow. His voice was warm, friendly, a hint of a Philadelphia accent coating his words. He straightened and took another forlorn glance at his empty mug. “Can’t imagine what you want with me, though.” Not a question, but a statement of fact. He smacked his lips and slumped forward, resting his forearms against the wooden bar.
“Well, to start, we were hoping to ask you a few questions. Wanted to find out a bit more about your order.”
With a sniff he lifted his head and regarded me, eyes squinted, forehead wrinkled. “That so, huh? Well.” He scratched at his heavily bearded chin, the cogs in his head turning. “Not really supposed to talk about that but...” He shrugged. “But hey, what the hell. They already booted me out. What more can they do to me, you know?” He looked from me to his mug, me to his mug. “Look, bro, you keep my glass full and you can ask as many questions as you want before I pass out on the floor. How’s that sound?”
I caught Abby’s eye. She nodded emphatically.
“Okay. Fair enough,” I replied, sticking a hand into the air, flagging down a Dawn Elf server who was assisting the Wode in the makeshift cowboy hat. She was busy mixing drinks, but nodded in acknowledgement. She finished her current drink order, deposited several mugs on the counter—all quickly whisked away by a floor server—then moseyed over to us. She offered me a warm smile and a wink.
“Welcome, folks.” She glanced between me and Abby. “Together?”
“Yep,” Abby said.
“Well it’s damn good to have y’all. I’m Tammy. Haven’t seen you two in here before. What brings you to the Smoked Pig?” Her eyes lingered on the rune-encrusted sickle-sword at my belt. “We don’t usually get a lot of adventuring types in here. Mostly just merchants and drunks, like our Carl here.”
The Dwarf half-heartedly flipped her the bird.
Tammy rolled her eyes. “You know
we love you, Carl.”
“We’re merchants,” Abby replied smoothly. “Well, I am. The rest of the party are hired hands. Guards and mercenaries. But we’re in town and heard this was the only place in Eldgard with real barbeque.” She paused, eyes closed, and lifted her nose, taking a long deep whiff. “Looks like they weren’t lying. Which means it’s time to celebrate. I’ve been jonesing for a platter of ribs and an honest drink since before...” She trailed off. “Well, you know.”
The woman’s easy smile slipped. The unsaid words hung in the air between us. Since before the world died.
“Sorry,” Abby said, with a shake of her head. “Didn’t mean to be a buzzkill.” She reached into a pouch at her belt and withdrew coins. Gold glinted, and I could see greedy hunger blaze in Tammy’s eyes. “Anyway. Let’s get some ribs and ale for me, him”—she waved at me—“and my big green friend down at the end. And, because I’m in a good mood and feeling generous, let’s add on whatever Carl is drinking.” She plinked the coins down onto the bar top. “Just keep his glass full, if you would.”
The woman scooped up the coins and disappeared them as quick and efficiently as Cutter ever could. Abby had just laid down five gold Imperial marks, the equivalent to five hundred US dollars, which would buy a lot of ribs and a lot of ale. “You want your usual, hon?” she asked the stumpy Dwarf.
“Honeyed Mead,” he slurred, giving her a toothy grin. “As much as you have.”
“And what would you two like to drink? Our Honeyed Mead is the best in town, hands down. We call it Apple Pie, ’cause I’ll be damned if it doesn’t taste just like Grandma’s apple pie in a glass. But we also brew up a mean hard apple cider, and Chuck”—she gestured toward the man in the cowboy hat—“is working on a good draft beer. The flavor on this batch ain’t quite right, but it’s close enough to Bud Light that you won’t really know the difference.” She leaned forward, glancing left and right. “We also have a test batch of IPA. It’s a limited run, but I could get you some for a bit more coin. Though, fair warning, it kicks like a horse, and it’s too sour by half. Still the best IPA in Eldgard.”
