by James Hunter
Especially since Cutter had openly admitted to cheating them for the past several hours.
If anything, we were the bad guys in this scenario.
So, leaving my weapon at my side, I pivoted, easily avoiding the Imperial’s wild swing, then lashed out with a foot, catching the big fella right in the stomach and propelling him back into a nearby group of Inquisitors.
“Now that’s the bloody spirit, Jack!” Cutter called out with a drunken hoot, picking up a mostly empty tankard and promptly smashing it over another Legionnaire’s head. “Bar fight!” he roared, dropping the now broken mug, then he picked up a shoddy wooden chair and broadsided yet another Imperial with it, laying the man out flat as wood cracked and shattered.
More of the Imperials were charging us, and the big bruiser I’d kicked in the gut was back up and wading toward me with murder etched into the lines of his face. He wasn’t alone, either. A disheveled Imperial in a white toga launched a roundhouse kick at my ribs; I sidestepped the sloppy attack, shot inside his guard, and connected with a thunderous uppercut that lifted the swaying Citizen from his feet. He landed on the bar top with a crash, pitchers tipping over, mugs breaking, ale sloshing across the wood and onto the straw-covered floor.
“Oi! That darky just punched out Senator Primulus!” someone bellowed at the top of their lungs, and in an instant the dispute morphed into full-on bedlam.
Violence erupted across the bar as everyone and their brother tried to get at us.
I glanced at Cutter, worried the thief might be in trouble, but I couldn’t have been further from the mark. He stood on a tabletop, jamming golden coins into his pockets and crowing like a madman while simultaneously fending off punches with the broken leg of a chair. “Get buggered, Imperial Swine! Collect tax on this!” He threw a bag of blinding powder directly into the face of the bartender, who was reaching for a spike-studded club hanging above the bar.
Honestly, I hadn’t seen Cutter look this alive in forever.
We had places to be—and Amara would gut me if we were late—but after weeks of planning meetings and War Council briefs, I needed to work out a little pent-up aggression. Plus, that tax collector had called me “darky,” which meant he deserved a few missing teeth on general principle. As long as it didn’t turn to weapons, a barroom brawl might be just what the doctor ordered.
Grinning like a lunatic, I darted in and started working the big Inquisitor over, delivering a bevy of powerful body shots to his guts and ribs.
The man staggered from the punches, but his heavy armor absorbed the bulk of the damage, meaning there wouldn’t be any real lasting harm. It was still deeply satisfying, though—like working a heavy bag at the gym. The Inquisitor roared and charged, trying to wrap me up in a powerful bear hug. He was strong but slow; I ducked his groping limbs and spun around, slipping my arms around his ample waist, then heaving straight up and back. This guy was bigger than me, and though I wasn’t what anyone would call a tank, my Strength stat was still through the roof compared to most of the residents in V.G.O.
I fell backward, dragging the big man over as I suplexed him right into a nearby table.
The table groaned and shattered from the impact, the wobbly wooden legs collapsing beneath the Imperial’s impressive weight. The old-school wrestling move left the guy alive, but down for the count. He was going to wake up tomorrow with the hangover from hell and a splitting headache that would leave him seeing stars for a week. I scrambled back to my feet, dropping down into a low crouch, preparing to grapple a lean, scrappy Imperial ranger decked out in dark, mud-splattered leathers.
Cutter chose that exact moment to vault through the air, kicking some toga-wearing Citizen in the face, before grabbing ahold of the chandelier dangling from the ceiling and scampering up like an oversized monkey. Naturally, he still had the chair leg in one hand.
“Somebody pull that bloody fool down now!” the Imperial tax collector screamed, his face turning beet red as he waggled a finger at Cutter. “He’s a thief and a cheat, and he has my money!”
Right. That guy still had a few too many teeth by my estimation. Time to fix that.
I surged toward him, but was intercepted by the pesky ranger, who was harrying me from my left, demanding a fight. The ranger was quick with his hands and managed to land a jab, splitting my lip right down the middle, though doing very little real damage to my HP. He circled right, hands up, head bobbing and weaving, steps confident and sure. In a no-holds-barred match—one involving weapons and magic—I would’ve swatted this guy down like a fly, but in unarmed combat it was clear he had some serious chops and was probably the better brawler. He punched, driving a fist into my face and pulping my nose with a crack.
A splitting pain exploded through my face, radiating up into my skull. A hit like that might’ve put most guys down. Lucky for me, I could take an helluva beating.
Blood streaming down my face, I feinted left, then shot in low and right, angling for a devastating body shot. Once again, the guy read me like a book and moved accordingly. A hook caught me square in the temple, momentarily ringing my bell. A solid strike, but one that also left him open to a counterattack. I rushed him with a war cry. He shuffled back and jabbed again, but I caught the strike, pinning his arm against my body. I wrapped my free hand up around the back of his neck and pulled him straight into a massive headbutt. My forehead met his nose with a satisfying crunch, blood splattering as he fell away, grasping at his gory face.
Eye for eye, nose for nose.
“Take this, you darky scum!” came a high-pitched wail, a sword flashing through the air, the blow aimed at my neck. I wheeled right, narrowly dodging the attack from the tax man. He was no warrior—his technique was awful, and he held the sword like someone trying to wrangle a python—but a blade in the back was a blade in the back no matter who wielded it. And the fact that he’d just drawn a weapon on me meant this was no longer fun and games. Time to put an end to this and beat feet before the rest of these Imperial knuckleheads started drawing steel. The tax collector struck again, this time with a straight thrust leveled at my chest.
I parried the sword with the hooked blades running along the edge of my gauntlet, disarming him with a twist of my wrist.
“You wouldn’t dare,” the man stammered, backing up, hands balled into fists as I advanced on him. “You have no idea who I am!” he declared, puffing himself up like the useless peacock he was. “I’m a Quaestor of the Ever-Victorious Empire. Practically right hand to the emperor himself!”
“Is that so?” I asked with a grin, lowering my hood so he could get a good look at my blood-streaked face. “Well, I’ll be sure to apologize to Osmark for punching out his ‘right hand’ the next time I see him.”
His mouth dropped into a shocked “O,” his eyes wide as I drove a fist into his smug mouth. This guy had all the bluster of a junkyard pit bull and all the fight of a newborn kitten. His legs turned to Jell-O, refusing to hold his weight for another second as he collapsed to the floor.
“Jack!” Cutter called from the chandelier. Somehow, he had managed to grab more beer mugs and was throwing them seemingly at random while mule-kicking anyone who got too close. “These blighters are getting as ugly as their wart-covered mothers!” he bellowed, raising another indignant cry from the bargoers, who were actively drawing weapons—ready to shed blood. “Time to do your magic, eh!”
He cracked an egg-headed Legionnaire right over the skull with the table leg, then sprang from the chandelier, executing a perfect backflip despite being clearly intoxicated. Defying all logic and reason, he landed beside me, swaying slightly, the golden rapier at his hip springing to hand with impossible speed.
“You pigeon-livered mutton shunters couldn’t catch me on your best bloody day!” he shouted, a lopsided grin breaking out across his face. “And certainly not on your worst. Jack,” he said, turning toward me as he slung an arm across my shoulders, “please show us out. We have better bloody things to be about, eh?”
“Well that was one helluva bachelor party, Jack,” Cutter cackled as we headed for the door, stepping through the frozen goons as though they were made of no more than mist and shadow. Which was true, at least in this place.
“Glad you had fun,” I grumbled, pulling a bound scroll from my inventory as we made our way onto the narrow street, which was covered in muck and freezing mud. “You just better hope we’re not late, or that’s gonna be the last thing you ever do. Now get ready to move.” I stepped back into the Material Realm, pulling Cutter through with me, and popped the seal on the port scroll with my thumb. The paper turned to ash in my palm, blowing away as a shimmering opalescent portal appeared in the air—an instant doorway to the heart of an ancient cathedral. I grabbed Cutter by the shoulder, making sure he didn’t make a break for it again, and stepped through.
I turned, watching as the doorway to the Dusty Mustache burst open and a flood of Imperials poured out onto the street, all shouting in bewilderment. An Inquisitor in heavy plate mail caught sight of us, pointing with the tip of his sword as he bellowed at the top of his lungs, but by the time anyone else was paying attention, the portal was smaller than the size of a basketball. Then, in a blink, it was gone, my view of Harrowick vanishing with it.
I glanced at the time, 4:50 PM. We had minutes to spare at most, and despite the fact that Cutter was dressed in his Gentleman’s best, we both still looked like we’d just waded through a barfight in the dankest, dirtiest bar in Eldgard. Not wrong.
“Come here,” I said, drawing Cutter toward me. There wasn’t much I could do at this point, but I did my best. Straightening his cloak. Adjusting the lapels of his fancy coat. Pulling out a canteen of water and a rag to hastily dab off the spots of blood sprayed across his frilled white shirt. Damn. If anything, that made things worse. Yep, he was pretty much a lost cause at this point. But he was here. And mostly sober. I squinted, quickly eyeing him up and down.
Soberish.
That, at least, I could do something about. I pulled a pair of glass vials from my inventory, one filled with something sludgy and brown, the other topped off by a liquid so electric blue it glowed in the dark. I popped the cork on the first vial. The scent of rotten eggs and freshly turned earth punched me in the nose just like that no-good ranger had. I flinched back from the ghastly aroma and shoved the vial into Cutter’s open hand. “Drink that, quick,” I said, already going to work on the stopper of the blue vial.
“Cheers!” he said, slamming the mixture back without taking the time to smell it first. Probably a wise choice. He gagged and doubled over, dry heaving onto the cold stone tiles. “Gods below, Jack. That wasn’t mead! Are you trying to bloody kill me, eh?”
“Nope,” I replied with a grin. “Trying to make sure Amara doesn’t kill you. That’s Vlad’s patented Hair of the Dog—instant hangover cure.”
“It tastes like the inside of a dirty boot.”
“I think that’s part of the cure,” I said with a shrug, thrusting the electric blue potion at him. “This one’s to get rid of the taste.”
He took the second vial a bit more suspiciously, taking a deep whiff this time around. Already the actions of a more sober individual in my opinion. His face puckered up in disgust. “Gods, this stuff smells even worse than the first one,” he said with a grimace before gulping down the brew like a shot.
“Yep, but your breath is going to be amazing,” I replied.
Vlad’s new mouthwash did, in fact, taste even worse than his hangover cure, but boy did it leave a nice, minty after-flavor buff that lingered for hours. Amara would enjoy the smell even if Cutter wouldn’t. But the way I figured it, Cutter had already had his share of fun for the day—it was time Amara got hers. I checked the time. 4:53 PM. Damn we were cutting it close. Cutter was as presentable as I could make him, but I still had a face full of blood and armor that looked like someone had rolled it around in an icy camp latrine. That was an easy fix, though, thanks to V.G.O.’s quick change inventory.
I pulled up my interface and quickly selected my own formal attire.
First, I donned a puffy jacket, tight across the chest and flared out at the shoulders, made from the finest velvets. Next came a high-collared silk shirt that felt like a noose. Finally, too-tight pants that had approximately zero give in the thighs and groin and paper-thin black leather slippers that wouldn’t last more than a single minute in an actual combat situation. It was unbelievable to me that clothes this impractical existed inside V.G.O. I mean, I knew people wore these—I’d picked them up at a high-end tailor shop in New Viridia—but I couldn’t for the life of me begin to fathom why. I used a wet rag to wipe the blood from my face, though it was a half-assed job at best.
Face clean and new outfit in place, I toggled over to my slowly spinning avatar, watching myself in mute horror.
I looked like an absolute moron. But I was dressed, I didn’t look like a deranged murderer hobo, and I had Cutter in tow. Surely no one could ask more than that, right?
“Alright,” I said, grabbing Cutter by the arm and hustling him toward the formidable set of wooden doors barring our path to the heart of the ancient cathedral. “You ready to do this or what?”
He pulled his arm away before I could push my way in. “Seems to me, it’s still not too late to turn back, Jack. Just think about it. You and me, on the road again, just like in the good old days, eh? I have a brilliant lead on a dungeon we could raid. Excellent loot. And gold, Grim Jack. So much gold. Enough to set us straight for a year. Gods, enough to fill a bloody bathtub. Ten bathtubs, even. And not a Vogthar in sight, either. I’ll even be a gentleman and concede to a seventy-thirty split on the take. Obviously, I’ll take the seventy, but I feel thirty is a generous give—considering it is my lead.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Gee, a whole thirty percent, you say? You are a paragon of virtue and generosity. But you know that’s not an option, right? Right?” I said again, louder and more insistently, when he didn’t respond right away.
“Amara would find you,” I said after a long beat. “You know she would. No bar, dungeon, or fort would be safe. And once she caught you, she’d skin you alive—and there’s a good chance she’d do the same to me for helping you. I love you like a brother, but not enough to get on her bad side.”
He grimaced and nodded in defeat, deflating a little. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t I bleeding know it. I just... I’ve never been so unsure about anything before, Jack.” He grimaced, absently scrubbing his palms on his trousers. “But that’s not right either. Because I’ve also never been more certain of anything in my life.”
Ah. The paradox of love. I knew it well.
“Look. Everything is going to be fine,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time. “Think about all the crazy stuff we’ve done. Remember that Affka den over in Wyrdtide? The one with the Death Cult and that weird seven-headed flesh golem?”
He snorted and nodded, a wide grin breaking across his face. “That damned priest had me bloody well pinned to the table like a corpse waiting for the gravedigger’s blade. Or what about that time in Rihat with the Sewer’s Circle?” The grin widened as he shook his head. “I thought those old biddies were going to turn you into a gods-be-damned human puppet.”
“That’s my point exactly.” I absently adjusted the lapels on his smokers’ jacket. “If you could make it through that, then this is nothing. Nothing.”
“Obviously you don’t know Amara half as well as you think then, Jack,” he grumbled,
growing strangely somber as he talked. His eyes went hazy. Introspective. “She’s far more formidable than the Sewer’s Circle or the Lich Priest or any bloody other thing I’ve ever tangled with. Hells, I’d rather go toe to toe with Thanatos naked and weaponless than find myself on the receiving end of that woman’s wrath.” He paused and ran a hand through lanky blond hair, which had been pulled back from his face. “Truth though? It’s me I’m scared of, not her.
“The thing that keeps running through my head—round and round like a bloody wagon wheel—is, what if I’m not good enough for her? What if I disappoint her? Or let her down? Being a thief has always come naturally to me—there’s a reason why I’m the best there is. Because it’s in my blood. It’s second nature to me, like breathing. But this?” He turned and began pacing nervously, cape fluttering behind him as he moved. “I feel like I’m setting myself up for failure, and Amara is the one who is going to get stuck footing the bill. Leaving her now would crush her, but a part of me keeps thinking it might be less painful for her in the long run.”
His words cut surprisingly deep, and suddenly I found myself thinking of Abby. Leaving her now would crush her, but it might be less painful for her in the long run. Here was that pesky paradox again. Thing was, he wasn’t wrong. Those same thoughts had been plaguing me about my own relationship with Abby for the past several weeks, ever since squaring off against Khalkeús, Dwarven Aspect of the Forge, and unlocking the Reality Editor deep in the heart of Stone Reach. My doubts about Abby were my own, though, and Cutter didn’t need me reinforcing his fears. He needed support right now, not my own crippling self-doubt.
