by Edwin McRae
Seeing Vari like this got him to wondering. This was a game and he was surrounded by AIs. He’d not met another player this whole time, although that wasn't unusual in and of itself. He was obviously in some form of single-player instance. It suited him just fine as he was more of a loner player than a MMO pack hunter. In previous games, he'd been lulled into thinking that the NPCs were living and breathing people, usually through the cleverly scripted dialogues and the fact that most offered quests in one form or another. It was the most fundamental of human relationships, really. Someone asked you to do something for them, you did that thing, and they rewarded you with gratitude and material compensation. Those transactional relationships, if well written, could feel perfectly natural and very real.
Yet there was nothing scripted about Vari, nor Dayna for that matter. The ranger was currently locked in a drinking competition with the redheaded druid, a battle that her flush-faced opponent appeared to be losing. The way Dayna behaved, the way Vari behaved, and Citadel, and Denniston, suggested that these AI were creating everything on the fly. He wasn't even sure about the quest he’d just completed. “Depths of Corruption”. Had it been a set-piece or had it emerged out of the system. Was it simply a product of conflicting motives? The iron-toothed creatures versus Calder and his miners? It was now that Mark wished he’d taken those game development papers he’d been tempted to try at polytech. They may have at least gone a little way to explaining what the hell was going on in this version of Reign of Blood.
Mark washed away such heady thoughts with another swig of dark ale. It had that full, chocolatey yet not-too-sweet balance he adored in dark beer. He could feel the effects of the alcohol in his lightly swimming head, and judging by the soft warmth enveloping his body, the game was doing a wonderful job of telling his neurons how to simulate being tipsy.
When Denniston returned from the newly constructed composting toilets, the conversation turned to the reason that Mark had been summoned into the game, or in Denniston’s terms, into this realm of existence.
"It’s the reivers, you see."
Mark nodded. "Those slavers who captured this lot. They’re not an isolated incident, are they?"
The old man shook his head, dislodging many a breadcrumb in the process. "We don't know how, or why, but clashes with the reivers have increased dramatically over the last year."
Despite the calming effects of the beer, Mark still felt the tremble in his voice as anxiety screamed to be heard like a drowning man. "And one warlock is supposed to stop them?"
Denniston chuckled. "It hasn't taken long to make allies." He nodded in Vari's direction and then inclined his head towards Dayna.
The ranger was now rubbing the redheaded druid’s back while the man unloaded most of the beer he’d drunk into a corner of the courtyard. He made rather loud retching noises as he did so.
"Both Vari and Dayna kind of just…happened," admitted Mark.
"When you go out of your way to save a bunch of villagers from slavers, and then go and clear their mine of foul creatures from the Barrens, things like Vari and Dayna tend to happen more often than not."
Mark was a little taken aback by that. "So the more I put myself out there, the more allies I’ll make?"
"In my experience, that’s how it generally works. The full mug attracts the drinker. The empty mug is left on the bench for someone else to wash."
In a couple of statements, Denniston had effectively summed up Mark's real-world life. He’d never been one to take action without somebody telling him to. It'd been like that with the education his parents had told to him get. It’d been like that with the jobs he'd been told to take by the recruitment agency. It had been like that when his ex-wife had told him to marry her, buy that rundown suburban villa and spend all of his weekends fixing it up.
"Don't take this the wrong way, Denniston, but just because you've summoned me, doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do."
Mark wasn't sure whether the words had come from the beer, or from the confidence he’d gained during his short time in this world, but they leapt into his mouth before he was even aware of them.
To his relief, Denniston let out a hearty laugh and clapped Mark on the shoulder with a surprisingly strong hand.
"Wouldn't bloody dream of it, Mark. This is Garland, not the reiver lands. And we are elders, not rulers. Somebody has to have a bird’s eye view of everything, of course. Someone has to make the uncomfortable suggestions, but what Garlanders do at the end of the day is up to Garlanders."
It all sounded a little too idyllic to Mark. "You mean, you don't have any laws?"
"Of course we have laws, and we have rangers to enforce those laws, but those laws have been voted on by Garlanders, and to break those laws is to break one's own promise to one's own country. If you don't like a law, you ask for it to be changed."
On the surface, it sounded like democracy was actually working in Garland, far more than at home where voting was done with dollars rather than ballots.
"All right, then if you were to suggest what I should do next, what would that be?"
Denniston’s eyes gleamed with mirth. He’d clearly been expecting this question.
"Just keep doing what you’re doing." He gestured towards the walls of Citadel with outstretched arms. “This fortress was built on this very spot to guard Hawker’s Pass against reiver incursion."
"I've heard that the reivers can enter Garland via other passes as well. Dayna told me that.”
“True," Denniston agreed. "But this pass is by far the lowest and largest, making it the best one for reivers to traverse in force. Up until now, the Barrens have prevented that kind of disaster, but it seems the reivers are growing more determined to brave the Barrens in order to reach us. It's only a matter of time before we have a reiver army turning up on our doorsteps."
"So I’m the only thing in their way? A lone warlock who stands between you and total conquest?" The thought bore down hard on Mark’s shoulders, enough to make his neck ache.
"Well, we’re not completely helpless." Denniston pointed at Dayna. "If you'd like, we can send for a few more rangers to protect your budding settlement here."
Mark shot Denniston a sardonic smile. "Do you have any that are a bit more mild- mannered than Dayna?"
Denniston winked. "Rest assured, Dayna is one of a kind."
"Quietly glad to hear that."
Denniston gestured at the redheaded druid now leaning on Dayna as they staggered together back to their seats. "Braemar has also expressed interest in helping you, and just quietly, we'd be more than happy for you to take him on. His talents are, how do I put this gently, a little heavy-handed for our usual druidic duties.
“Does that mean he has spells that can do some damage?"
Denniston’s expression grew solemn. "He has a knack for the earth element in particular, but is better at breaking things than he is at fixing them."
That sounded just fine and dandy to Mark. "The more breaking the better, I reckon. I'm sure the reivers will appreciate his talents more than the folks back home."
"I think you might be right about that, Mark."
Denniston leaned over to the nearby barrel and filled up his tankard. He then gestured for Mark to pass his over and gave it a healthy top-up. Mark gladly accepted the brimming cup.
As Mark took a solid swig from his brew, he looked over at Vari and saw that she was watching him from the edge of the dancing circle. Mark wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then presented Vari with a thumbs up, hoping that she would take it the right way, that it was somehow a universal symbol between realities for "good things just happened".
Vari returned an enthusiastic thumbs-up of her own, along with the most beautiful smile that Mark had ever seen.
23
A town built up around Mark over a matter of days. The druids planted seeds and cast spells. Fruit trees grew and blossomed before Mark’s eyes. They made similar headway with crops of potatoes, barley, spelt and
corn. It was like watching time-lapse photography in a nature documentary.
Calder and Citadel worked together to get the foundry fully operational, and then started work on repairing the more dilapidated sections of the towers and walls. And most importantly, at least to Dayna and Braemar, Denniston established a brewery.
In the meantime, Mark and his fellow adventurers prepared for their next expedition, a scouting trip over the pass and into the outskirts of the Barrens. If possible, Mark wanted to find out what the reivers were up to, and hopefully spot any signs of impending invasion.
As part of the preparations, Mark noted that Citadel’s store of potions was in desperate need of replenishment. When Vari explained her alchemy skill, Mark was quick to ask her if she could brew up some Health and Essence potions. She was happy to oblige, and the two of them spent a couple of pleasant afternoons picking wild herbs in the woods.
On the second afternoon, Vari stopped and smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. When Mark had asked what was on her mind, Vari explained that she’d just leveled up her Alchemy Skill, from Tier 1 to Tier 2. They’d celebrated that night over a couple of mugs of Denniston’s finest golden ale. Calder joined them, having just returned from the mine, and Vari grilled him about the explosive formula they’d used to destroy the Ghast Queen. In the end, Calder promised to bring her the necessary compounds from the mine, and Vari got a rather wicked look in her lovely eyes as she contemplated how she might produce even mightier explosions. While he was really growing to like her smile, Mark found himself even more taken with her rather “moo ha ha” enthusiasm for the darker sides of alchemy.
And whilst he was thoroughly enjoying his budding relationship with Vari, Mark's biggest surprise was Braemar. The village’s miners and stonemasons had resurrected an abandoned quarry nearby, one that could provide the right types of stone for Citadel’s reconstruction. The druid gave Mark a quick demonstration of his earth elemental skills by raising up a number of small stone golems to help out.
The stone golems were slightly larger than a Garland adult, but twice as thick through the limbs and body. Their stiff movements reminded Mark of the factory robots in automotive factories back home. And like those robots, Braemar’s golems were able to follow simple, step by step instructions. They proved to be perfect for smashing rocks and for hauling large amounts of stone here and there, but Mark could also see their potential in battle.
"You think you could make some bigger ones?" Mark asked Braemar as they stood on the cliff-face overlooking the quarry.
"Hopefully at my next level, I will," Braemar answered. "Faster too."
Mark nodded. "Nice. And earthquakes? Can you do those?"
Braemar liked to pluck and scratch at his beard when he thought, so it ended up with a permanently teased look. The twisting and plucking became quite rigorous in response to Mark's enquiry.
"Earthquakes are a bit beyond me just yet. But I could manage the odd landslide given the right conditions. Still got a bit of leveling up to do though, so will see how things shape up."
"All good."
Mark found himself quickly warming to Braemar. The young druid reminded him of some of the Kiwi farm blokes he'd gone to school with in the South Island of New Zealand. They’d had the same careful, understated way of speaking. Never wasting words, but still getting their point across.
"Mind you, gotta be careful with earthquakes."
"How's that?"
"The damage, it's hard to focus."
"Too indiscriminate?"
"Yeah, that's the word. Indiscriminate. Tends to mess up the shit you don't want messed up, along with the shit that you do. Catch my meaning?"
Mark laughed. "Yeah, better to keep your good shit sorted from your bad shit."
Braemar grinned. "Otherwise, you’re in for all shades of shit."
"A shitstorm?"
"Shit yeah."
Mark was once again reminded that, in stories like his, these pleasant moments always proceeded death and disaster. But for now, he was simply happy to enjoy shooting the shit with a nice bloke like Braemar.
Later on, as the sun set over Citadel, Mark made his way up one of the towers to grab himself a little quiet time. While he found himself really enjoying the company of his newfound friends and the contented bustle of his prosperous little town, he was also finding it all a bit tiring. Prior to coming to Garland, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper conversation with someone. Between his gaming and their partying, he barely even saw his flatmates. And he kept to himself at work, preferring not to add gossip, complaining and backstabbing to his already excruciating job description. The last lengthy conversation he remembered had been with his ex-wife when she’d painstakingly pointed out his many deficiencies and how they added up to the destruction of their marriage. Actually, when he thought about it more, she’d done most of the talking, so it didn’t quite qualify as a conversation.
He smiled at that, as he leaned against the parapet and watched the promised rangers arrive through the gates. There were eight of them, mounted on horses and led by a tall, lean woman with a wild mane of ash-brown hair.
As he watched the rangers dismount and hand their reins over to the stable girls, saw Denniston greet them warmly and usher them towards his makeshift bar, Mark’s failures seemed so very far away. Here he was, standing on his tower, in his fortress, surrounded by people who respected and needed him. In this moment, Mark didn’t care if none of it was real. For the first time in too long, he felt happy.
24
Mark, Vari, Dayna and Braemar wended their way up the switchback road towards Hawker’s Pass. It was a picturesque ride through alpine forest, the sun shining overhead, capped off by a welcome notification.
Your Horse Riding skill has reached Tier 2.
Your ability to remain in the saddle during galloping and jumping has increased by 30%.
You now have a 40% chance of calming your horse during a fearful encounter.
As they neared the pass, clouds gathered and greeted them with a steady, chilling drizzle. Cloaks pulled up against the rain, Mark and his friends rode in silent single file, each content to simply ride and think.
Mark continued to mull over his situation, this very real virtual reality he was in, and how he still had no way to leave it. Not that he wanted to, but he’d woken on the morning of their departure from Citadel with a tightness in his chest and a prickling worry in his guts. He needed to know where his real body was, and what might be happening to it. Was he in Christchurch Hospital? Was he lying in a coma or some sort of drug-induced stupor whilst he recovered from catastrophic injuries?
No, he tried to assure himself, your body is fine.
Or, at the very least, his brain was fine. He was thinking and feeling as clearly as he had ever done. Probably better, in fact, since now he had a sense of purpose, and equally, a sense of camaraderie. Both factors were doing a great job of keeping his chronic depression at bay. Yet he wished he could wake from this world, just for a moment, to make sure that his meat body was being looked after. It quietly terrified Mark to think that he was slowly dying of dehydration or starvation in the real world, and that all of a sudden everything would go black as his flesh failed his oh-so-willing mind.
Out of habit, he tested the log-off function again, and wasn’t surprised to find it still unresponsive. The prickling anxiety in his belly was growing stronger, so he took several deep breaths, like his counsellor had advised him, and focused on the patterns of the rain as it was shifted and shunted by the mountain wind.
It was in those patterns that he noticed something strange. The raindrops swirled, then shivered, then coalesced into a writhing obscenity of membranes and tentacles. Mark let out an involuntary shriek as the thing dropped straight onto him, wrapping its tentacles around his neck and shoulders, bringing him face-to-face with a hideous, tooth-ringed maw, one that looked horribly similar to the mouth of a leech. The thing whipped one of its tentacles back and unsheathe
d a long, wicked claw. Mark tried to raise his arms to block the attack but the tentacle was too fast, lashing forward and plunging through his left eye. Pain grated down the left side of his face for the barest of moments before the claw drove through the back of his retina and into his brain.
25
"Mark!" Vari cried out, but her warning fell on deaf ears.
Mark toppled from his saddle and crashed to the ground, the writhing monstrosity still clinging to his chest and face. The creature found purchase on the ground and dragged Mark into a better feeding position. His face was frozen in a tortured scream and his unmolested eye was dull and lifeless.
"Vari! Duck!" barked Dayna.
Vari knew better than to question the ranger’s instincts. She threw herself forward, wrapping her arms around her horse’s neck, getting as low and close to the animal as possible. The first arrow sailed over her, skewering the creature and knocking it free of Mark’s corpse. Then she heard the thwack of a second arrow impaling another creature in mid-air just above her head. She felt the thing’s wet and rubbery tentacles caress her back and neck as it tumbled down into the grass below.
"They’re like Mark's spell," Dayna shouted. "Turning from mist into flesh. Watch for distortions in the rainfall!"
That's right, thought Vari, Dayna had been watching when the captain killed Mark, when he'd materialized out of the mist on top of the slave cart. She must have noticed the same distortions in the water vapor that the captain had noticed before deftly driving his dagger into Mark’s heart.
She looked up from the trembling neck of her horse, stroked his warm flank and whispered for him to stay still. She saw another of the creatures materialize behind Braemar and drop onto the hindquarters of his mount. The horse reared up in alarm, and the creature, unable to gain a decent grip, slid from the horse’s rump onto the ground. To his credit, Braemar stayed in the saddle. Hauling on his reins, he was able to bring the frightened animal about so that he could glare at the monster below him. With fury in his eyes, he roared "Quagmire!". Dirt became quicksand in the blink of an eye. The tentacled thing struggled and squirmed as it was sucked down into the suffocating mud.
