by Edwin McRae
First his eyes were drawn to the north wall, its aged timbers now ablaze. A quick glance at the cooking fire told him that the cook had failed to douse the embers before heading off to bed. Yet another caterer was going to find themselves on the front lines tomorrow.
Serik put that small frustration aside as he searched the walls for the four sentries he had posted there before dinner. He found one nearby, a crumpled heap on the catwalk, an arrow protruding from her ruptured eye socket. He found the next two lying on the stones of the courtyard below, their shadowy outlines expanding with blood. And across the way, the fourth lay draped across a burning beam on the north wall, his corpse wreathed in flame.
His attention was tugged back down to the courtyard by the pounding of hooves and the rumbling of a wagon. The cage was filled with his captives and was being pulled by the captured Garlander horses. The rogue figurist was at the reins. And atop the speeding wagon, balancing like an acrobat, stood the ranger, her bow arched, the string taut, and an arrowhead pointed at his face.
Serik muttered “Hastened Wits” so that, as the ranger released her string, he was able to calculate the trajectory of her arrow. Unable to get fully out of harm’s way, he turned his right shoulder into the approaching missile. The arrow punched through his chainmail and skin, but stopped dead in his shoulder blade. It hurt like buggery, and Serik knew from experience just how painful that could be, but it certainly beat having his brain skewered like a spit-roasted chicken.
"Shit-sucking whoremongers, we need to go after them!" It was the sergeant, right behind him, and her shout gave him a jolt that sent bolts of pain shooting down his back. Serik bit back his retort and slowly turned to face her.
“They’ve just claimed back the mounts we took from them,” he answered. “We don't have the horses to put together a big enough hunting party.”
The sergeant blinked at him, wide-eyed. "We’re just going to let them go?"
Serik sighed. "If you’re ever going to make officer, you need to understand one thing."
"What's that?"
"Never order soldiers into a situation that you wouldn't personally touch with a polearm." He pointed at his right shoulder with his left hand. "Now get this fucking arrow out of my back."
12
Some time later, Mark found himself sitting in a comfortable leather armchair, surrounded by books, his latest notification pleasantly framed by a brightly burning logfire.
Congratulations!
You have completed “The Warlock’s Back Passage” quest.
Your XP Reward = 25 XP
Progress to Level 5 = 142/200
In his right hand he held a silver goblet with some very nice red wine it. Mark took another sip. It was smooth, full flavoured with a touch of gooseberry, notes of oak, a touch of honey and quite a strong aftertaste of dead warlock.
"Enjoying the wine? It’s several hundred years old."
"I am, thank you."
Instinctively, Mark looked around the library for the source of the voice, but then checked himself. Walls, floor, ceiling and even fireplace were all ‘the source’.
"So, let me get this straight. At some point you were a warlock, like me, and you lived roughly two hundred years ago."
"Two hundred and thirty-seven.”
"Right, and under threat of lynching from a mob with pitchforks and torches, you cast a spell of your own invention that bonded your soul with the building itself."
"It was more like assassins with curved daggers and illumination orbs, but that's pretty much the gist of it."
This wasn’t the first time Mark had been spoken to by an inanimate object. He fondly remembered a haunted dungeon that liked to utter macabre phrases about one’s impending doom. And talking swords were a dime a dozen in RPGs. Some could even hold the illusion of a conversation within scripted bounds. But Citadel sounded and felt like a living being, albeit one made of timber and stone.
"Does that mean you know everything that's going on within the boundaries of your… structure?"
"More or less."
Mark took another sip of his wine, and wondered for a moment whether it was possible to get drunk in this version of Reign of Blood. If it was, then that was one helluva step forward in neural terms. Most games had the basic sensations down, especially pain. They seemed to specialize in pain. But none had yet managed to simulate more complex physiological states.
And speaking of physiological states, he couldn't help but spare a thought for his own body, wherever it was right now. Although he had no real wish to leave this world, he once again experimented with logging off. Nothing. He was still stuck here, for better or worse, and whatever the situation of his flesh and blood body, it was at least alive and seemingly healthy. He had no doubt that he'd be experiencing some fairly strange mental ticks if he was on the brink of dying from dehydration or hunger.
"Tell me about the less bit, Sid."
“Sid?”
“It’s easier to say than Citadel.”
“Sid, yes, I quite like that. Now what was your question again?”
“You were going to tell about the limitations of your sensing abilities within the boundaries of your architecture.”
“Yes, and eloquently put, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
Mark realized he’d just answered his own question about “getting drunk”. There was a comforting warmth around his skull now, and he always liked to use big words when he was feeling tipsy. He took another sip of wine for good measure.
"It's not like I have eyes and ears everywhere. I did once have viewing orbs installed about the place, though they have either broken or failed over the years, leaving me effectively blind. I've not had the resources to replace them. But I tend to hear most things pretty well, as the timber and iron parts of my construction are quite sensitive to vibration, and even some of the stone portions allow me to pick up the more dramatic sounds and movements."
The fire, now a pitiful smoulder due to lack of wood, flared to life again as small bits of timber tumbled into it from a cunningly constructed shoot near the back of the flu.
"So you heard the wagon arrive, the one carrying my friends and the other captives?"
"I heard a wagon, yes, and it was considerably heavier on its wheels than it had been when it departed. It was being followed by a pair of horses that had not been part of the exiting party."
That’s pretty cool, thought Mark. Here he was, talking to a building that could feel what its occupants were up to.
"I'm going to have to go up there pretty soon and rescue those people."
"Yes, I expected as much." Citadel sounded a little saddened by the prospect.
"Worried that I won't be coming back?"
"A little. You’re the first warlock I've had the pleasure of hosting for many many years. It would be a shame if our acquaintance was to be cut short."
"I wouldn't worry about that," Mark assured the concerned architecture. "I don't seem to be able to die, at least not permanently."
"Oh!" Citadel sounded both astonished and delighted. "You're one of those warlocks!"
"Those warlocks? There’ve been others like me?"
"On extremely rare occasions, yes.”
“Are we talking about Zevryn the Everborn?”
“He was the first of his kind to be noted in the annuals, yes.”
Interesting, thought Mark. He wondered if the game had been designed to remember previous high-level players and factor them into the lore, or perhaps Zevryn was a generous Kickstarter supporter who’d spent enough to have his gamer name plastered all over the warlock class abilities. Not that Mark had ever seen any expansion of Reign of Blood feature on Kickstarter.
Mark drained his chalice and set it down on an ornately carved side table. “Do you have a name, other than Citadel?”
“Not that I recall, no.”
“Your original warlock name, perhaps?”
“Gone, along with most of my pre-citadel memories. I
believe I wiped them as part of my bonding process.”
Although Mark found the thought of wiping away his past mistakes quite appealing, he felt compelled to offer his sympathy. His mother had raised him that way. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Don’t be. I kept one memory, and that is the clear recollection that none of my other memories were particularly happy ones. Compared to my life, I think becoming a building was a decided improvement.”
Mark understood completely, but rather than let that lurking grey cloud of rumination smother him, he quickly changed the subject. He learned long ago that there was a fine line between self-reflection and self-flagellation.
He took a deep breath and got his ‘game face’ on. He had MOBs to battle and some NPCs to save. Despite the high chance on another agonizing death, this was pretty comfortable ground for him.
“Sid, thank you for the wine and the fascinating chat, but I need to go topside, battle a bunch of reivers, and save some new friends of mine.” Thinking of Dayna, he corrected himself. “One friend and one useful but annoying acquaintance.”
“In that case,” Sid answered cheerfully, “you’ll be pleased to know that you have only twenty-nine potential enemies to overcome. I’ve deduced that from the number of individuals I’ve felt moving freely above ground level. I would assume that the captives are restrained for the majority of the time?”
“Twenty-nine?”
Mark was only a Level 4 warlock with 52 essence points to spend each day, twelve of which he’d already spent on Ethereal Flesh and Arcane Edge. Not to mention that he was still running about with his basic noob kit. Sure, he could best a reiver in single combat, but twenty-nine of them? And that likely included the tidy officer who had plunged his dagger into Mark’s armpit. He felt the muscles on that side constrict at the hint of that painful experience.
“Yes. In which case, please procure for yourself the seventh book to the right of the fire, fourth shelf from the floor.”
“I don’t really have time for reading, Sid.”
“As you will see, there are tomes in this world to be read and tomes to be absorbed.”
Mark did as he’d been bade and hefted the book in his hands. It was bound in a light-toned leather, cornered with copper and felt-
“Gaaah!” Mark dropped to his knees and the book fell from his hands with a resounding thump on the floorboards.
Citadel laughed. “I’m sorry, I was going to warn you about that, but the sound and feeling of your reaction was just too priceless to pass up.”
Mark felt like he’d just run twenty kilometers on a gutsful of food poisoning. He fought back the urge to vomit and focused on getting his mind and voice working again.
“What just happened?”
“Avalar’s Leech, it’s called. Avalar devoted his career to the study of life force, in particular, the drawing of life from one creature to another.”
Mark pulled up his HP score. 40/52. Ten points lost and he’d touched the book for only a moment.
“Holy shit!”
“I have no record of any religion that sanctifies excrement, but anything can be rationalized in the name of spiritual certainty, I suppose.”
Still not trusting his legs to work properly, Mark shuffled back from the book.
“Why did you make me pick that up? Damned thing could’ve killed me.”
“By your own admission, you would’ve come back. In fact, I took the liberty of establishing a respawn point here for you in this library.”
“You can do that?”
“Yes. And I can also see that you have a Mind score of 10. You will need a score of at least 11 if you wish to have a fighting chance at mastering Avalar’s Leech, so I would strongly recommend you apply both of those spare attributes points of yours to your Mind score.
“You can see my character sheet?”
“Indeed. I’d be a poor warlock stronghold if I could not.”
“Okay, good to know, but I’m still not touching that thing again.”
“A shame. The binding is of the finest leather, the tanned skin of Avalar himself.”
Mark fought down a second wave of nausea. “Not helping.”
Citadel made a tut tut noise, strikingly similar to the sound his high school English teacher had made when checking Mark’s spelling. “Then Avalar’s Leech will remain bound within those pages rather than at your service.”
As a Level 4 Warlock, you have two spell slots left.
You may choose one of the following spells.
Doppelganger (Cast cost = 6 EP)
Cunning Linguist (Cast cost = 7 EP)
Forge Anew (Cast cost = 7 EP)
Or you may persist with learning Avalar’s Leech.
Avalar’s Leech
Enables the warlock to leech HP from enemies at a short distance.
Base casting cost = 7 EP
Tier 1: Has a range of up to 5 meters and a leech rate of 2 HP per second for up to 10 seconds.
“Life is precious and therefore worth stealing.”
- Avalar the Shade
Mark scanned through the descriptions of Cunning Linguist and Forge Anew. Being able to understand and speak any language. He could see the appeal of that, but it wasn’t going to help him much with the Slaver’s Bane quest. And Forge Anew would be useful whilst out adventuring, but he didn’t think he’d be getting any quiet moments for gear maintenance in the battle ahead.
So it was back to Avalar’s Leech, and though he hated it with a vengeance, the phrase “no pain, no gain” sprang to Mark’s mind.
“Fine, what do I do?”
“Take the book in both hands and subjugate it through sheer force of will. Will is an aggregate of your Mind and Spirit scores. The higher those scores are, the easier this will go for you.”
Heeding Citadel’s advice, Mark dropped his two spare attribute points into Mind.
Mind: 12
Spirit : 13
He got to his feet, rubbed his hands together, and took a step towards the book. For the first time, he noticed the hairs on the cover. They were dark and sticking up on end, like arm hairs do when one feels cold or excited. He swallowed his disgust, bent down, and grasped the book with both hands.
The wave of sickness and lethargy hit him again but this time he breathed through it. The book redoubled its efforts, literally sucking the life out of him.
Avalar’s Leech has consumed 5 HP!
HP: 35/52
He turned to the fireplace and stared into it, centering himself with the flames as he struggled to keep the fire within him alight. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his Life Points creeping downwards.
Avalar’s Leech has consumed 5 HP!
HP: 30/52
Avalar’s Leech has consumed 5 HP!
HP: 25/52
At this rate he’d be dead in about thirty seconds. His fire was guttering, but it wasn’t out yet. With a raw scream, he pushed back as hard as he could, feeling the book’s hold on him give a little, and then with a sharp intake of breath, he started to pull, drawing his energy back out of the book like a man hauling a water bucket up out of a well, hand over hand.
You have gained 5 HP from Avalar’s Leech!
HP: 30/52
Bit by bit, he clawed back his life, watching with growing satisfaction as the HP counter climbed.
You have gained 10 HP from Avalar’s Leech!
HP: 40/52
Mark reeled the spell in like a fisherman landing a mighty salmon.
You have gained 12 HP from Avalar’s Leech!
HP: 52/52
The sickness was gone, the lethargy boiled away. He was wide awake, more awake than he could ever remember feeling in his real life, and every muscle, every fiber of him ached for action. Mark looked down at the book, and watched with quiet horror as the hairs rippled, like grass caressed by a breeze. The cover felt warm and pliable beneath his fingertips.
“You’re about to drop it again, aren’t you?” Citadel’s voice was a w
hisper against his ear.
“Thinking about it.”
“Pop it back on the shelf, if you’d be so kind. It bruises easily.”
Mark did as he was told, happy to relinquish the strangely fleshy tome to its resting place. As he rubbed his palms against his pants, trying to rid himself of the book’s sweaty residue, the notifications started to roll in.
You have completed a moderate Test of Will.
Your XP Reward = 20 XP
Progress to Level 5 = 162/200
You have learned Avalar’s Leech.
Enables the warlock to leech HP from enemies at a short distance.
Base casting cost = 7 EP
Tier 1: Has a range of up to 5 meters, and a leech rate of 2 HP per second for up to 10 seconds.
Had Mark seen his own grin in the mirror at that moment, a shiver would have run down his spine.
“Sid?”
“Yes?”
“Got anything else like that?”
“Alas no, although I’ve taken the liberty of tagging a few books you might find illuminating once you attain Level 5.”
Mark shrugged off his pang of disappointment. He’d reach Level 5 soon enough, especially once he’d dealt with the reivers squatting in his castle. His castle? When had he started thinking of this place as ‘his’? Was it when he’d laid eyes on the sarcophagi of the other warlocks, or earlier, when he’d touched his fingers to the walls and seen them light up in recognition?
“Mark?” There was an edge to Citadel’s voice, a strained quality that snapped Mark out of his reverie.
“What’s wrong?”
