The Legacy Builder- the Chronicles of Lincoln Hart

by Ember Lane

  Aezal closed until he was toe to toe with Lincoln. Technically speaking, Lincoln knew he was still under protection, but from what he’d gathered along the way, that merely meant that if he was murdered, the perpetrators would only swing if they got caught. Cold comfort.

  “You can’t see my stats,” he replied. “I’m over ten levels above you so you don’t know what kind of warrior I am. You have to take me for my word, but let me share a few things about this land and warriors. Our ability to earn is actually restricted by war, and war is coming to this place.”

  “Restricted?”

  Aezal pursed his lips. “Restricted by death or in victory by the greed of a king or queen. You see, when they need you they’ll offer you the world, but when war is done, a politician will see a city thrive, not a fighter. And if you lose? Well, you meet the boatman, and wealth means even less.”

  “So, you need gold?” Lincoln asked, wondering if Pete was in on the coming theft. He glanced at his deadman’s coat cast to one side, his sack of holding in its pocket.

  “Everyone needs gold. But I’m not interested in your coin. I’m interested in you.”

  “Why?” Lincoln’s gaze flitted from Aezal to Shrimp, and from Shrimp to Pete, sizing up his meager choices.

  “I said, ‘I’m not interested in your coin,’” Aezal repeated, clearly seeing Lincoln’s darting glances.

  Lincoln furrowed his brow. “Then what?”

  Aezal smiled a rich and gleaming grin. “Some people are just lucky. Some people create gold.” He backed away. “I need me one of those now, and Pete here tells me you’re one of them. You, Lincoln, are a talisman.”

  “A talisman,” Lincoln repeated.

  “And I hear you brew the best ale.”

  It was Lincoln’s turn to smile. “I haven’t brewed any yet, just tinkered, but when I do…”

  “It will be an ale worthy of legend,” Pete chimed in.

  “So,” said Aezal. “You were wondering about the apachalant; what Shrimp could bring to the table during this little training session. Are you familiar with the term ‘Ghosting’?”

  “Nope.”

  “It is a method we use to bring a raw recruit up to a certain level with a pike, a sword, a dagger, or a staff. Leveling a skill up in the early days is as much about intent as talent. If you really mean it then the strike is purer, and if you miss where a lesser opponent would have been struck, well, that is hardly the fault of the skill, and so you increase your confidence, your fluidity, and therefore, your skill.”

  Aezal produced a knife from seemingly thin air. He balanced it on his forefinger then flipped it up into the air, catching it easily by the handle. Reversing it, he handed it to Lincoln, the whole motion nothing more than a slight of hand.

  “Now, stab Shrimp as many times as you can. The only rule: no grabbing or touching him with anything other than the blade. Once you draw blood, we stop.” Aezal withdrew from the ring, sitting back on his stool. Lincoln looked down at the knife. It was clearly better than his copper one. Its balance was near perfect, and yet it didn’t look like an epic item, just a knife. He looked at Shrimp. The boy wasn’t looking at the knife, just Lincoln’s eyes. All the while, he bounced up and down on his feet, loosening his shoulders, shaking out his arms.

  Builder, Lincoln thought, I just wanted to be a bloody builder. He edged forward, dagger out front, his free arm held up behind to counterbalance. Shrimp continued to bounce. Thrusting forward, as quick as a flash, Lincoln stabbed thin air, and yet the apachalant’s body was exactly where he’d struck. Lincoln surged forward, only to receive a tap on his shoulder, and he spun around, only to see the boy’s beaming face.

  Congratulations! You have been awarded the skill Blades. You are a level 1 novice, but then, you can see that, can’t you.

  Lincoln launched another strike, and another, and ten more; each time he merely jabbed thin air. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he cuffed it away; the blurred vision of the ever-moving, ever-taunting apachalant his full focus. Lincoln’s legs quickly became heavy, and his breaths shallow. But he still struck, and struck again, wary now about his plunging energy.

  “No stopping until blood is drawn,” Aezal’s voice rang out.

  But the boy was like a ghost. He was there, in plain sight, but yet not at the same time. Lincoln continued to strike out, to twist and turn, to stalk the apachalant apparition. His energy was below twenty, warnings flashing in his mind. He stumbled like a drunk, lurching a reach too far, and he staggered and fell. The blade in his hand nicking his forearm as he desperately tried to get it out of the way. Lincoln fell into a pile on the floor.

  “Blood!” Aezal shouted, and Lincoln remembered thinking that he wished he’d known earlier that his would count just as well.

  He felt himself being pulled up and turned, and then propped against a hay bale. Shrimp tossed him the apple.

  “Don’t feel bad, old man,” the apachalant grinned, and Lincoln wondered what it would take to wipe that smile clean off the boy’s face. He stretched his legs out and took a chunk out of the apple. He felt the fruit’s energy fill his veins.

  “Check your stats,” Aezal said.

  Lincoln did as the warrior told him and was surprised to find he’d moved up to level 3, nearly a third of the way to four. “How?” he asked, but he knew the answer. Lower-level skills were mere degrees in brawling. He’d just gone from an inept fool waving a knife around to the standard of a rowdy drunk.

  “It gets the part out of the way where anyone can kill you,” Aezal said. “We’ll have to refine it another time.”

  Shrimp vanished again, soon back with a handful of apples. Pete lumbered over to Lincoln and tossed him a staff. The next half an hour was predictably similar to the last, except Lincoln’s blood was replaced with welts on his shin—self-inflicted, of course. Close-quarter fighting was mere grabbing thin air. Sword fighting was slicing the same. The rest of the morning followed a now predictable course, and yet Lincoln began to enjoy it. He even laughed at the boy’s skills. He could only imagine the skills of a fully developed apachalant scout.

  Congratulations! You have been awarded level 4 Staff fighting.

  Congratulations! You have been awarded Level 4 Close-Q fighting.

  Congratulations! You have been awarded Level 3 Swordsmanship.

  Lincoln smiled up at the light-speckled roof, gasping for breath, sweating, and basking in utter defeat. And then he felt that glowing sensation in his stomach; that feeling of complete satisfaction. He saw a burst of light erupt from his stomach which then spread in a circle like the sweeping hand of a clock, and he felt himself elevating, floating up toward the lofted roof. The light surrounded him in a brilliant ball, its energy ranging through him to heal his aches and pains, and his bruised and battered ego.

  Congratulations! You have unlocked 10 skills. You have been awarded 400 experience points (XP). Experience points allow you to increase your levels. XP also gives you reputation in the land. Currently, your reputation is “Nobody.”

  You have 500 XP; you have leveled up. You are now level 3. You have 6 attribute points to allocate.

  Lincoln looked down at the three upturned faces. Each was grinning, proud of a shared achievement, and at that point Lincoln decided that none of them bore him any ill will. The glow faded, and he settled back on the ground. He understood that the early leveling in the game would be fast, would be much easier than later on, but that didn’t detract from its worth. He had ten skills now, and he had more attribute points to allot. Looking Aezal up and down, he had the feeling that the Atreman wasn’t going to be a passing acquaintance. Taking that into account, he'd put a point into vitality, two in stamina and three in luck. He’d never been a great one for relying on luck, but Joan had sworn by it, and this was her land as far as he was concerned. Three to luck, three to Joan. Her luck would be his guiding light.

  Name: Lincoln Hart. Race: Human. Type: Builder.

  Age: 46. Alignment: None. XP: 500. Level: 3. />
  Profession: None. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Nobody.

  Health Points: 80/80 Energy: 100/100 Mana: 10/0

  HP Regen: 8/Min EN Regen: 10/Min MA Regen: 1/Min

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (8, 0), Stamina: (10, 0), Intelligence: (1, 0),

  Wisdom: (1, 0), Luck: (12, 0),

  Strength: (8, 0) Agility: (7, 0)

  Additional Attributes will become available upon using city token.

  Skills: (Level, % to next level, Boosts %, Level Cap)

  Divination: (2, 14, 0, 25), Stealth: (1, 0, 0, 8), Commerce: (1, 0, 0, 40), Pickpocketing: (1, 0, 0, 6), Brewing: (1, 56, 0, ∞), Perception: (1, 15, 0, 10), Blades: (4, 67, 0, 14), Close-Q-fighting: (4, 12, 0, 18), Staff-fighting: (4, 33, 0, 26), Swordsmanship: (3, 92, 0, 10)

  Talents: None. Quests: None.

  “Trusting to luck?” Aezal questioned.

  Lincoln shrugged. “I met you, didn’t I?”

  Aezal shrugged. “Might not be so lucky. One silver coin for Shrimp, and we can be on our way. I have a thirst for supping your ale, if there’s any left.”

  Pete let out one of his full-throated laughs and told Aezal that they’d saved a good half of it. Lincoln felt sure his gambles were all beginning to come to fruition. Virtual reality and real life often followed very similar paths, one being born of the other, and his long years had told him folks would always hanker for a sweet-tasting brew. They left the warehouse and headed back toward The Shambles. Though Shrimp had duties back at the castle, Lincoln felt safe enough sandwiched between Pete and Aezal. They even stopped by the market and picked up a few more barrels of ale.

  It was lunchtime at the Orc ‘n Goblin, and the place was packed. News of its new, fine ale had spread like wildfire, and Lincoln found himself the center of attention. Assured that he’d be able to top up his speed-ups, Lincoln set about making a few more barrels of premium ale, as Allaise had named it. He cruised to level 7 brewing, a skill which appeared to have no cap for him, and he began to wonder exactly how far he could go with his talent for it. Allaise was now charging seven bronze for a mug, near double the going rate—noobs excepted. Lincoln found himself to be a personality in demand.

  “What’s Atremeny like?” Lincoln asked Aezal, feeling safe sitting with the imposing man.

  “The land of the scorched sun. It is a strange facet of this land that the farther north you go, the longer the days become. Yet south, to the tips of Tharameer and Karaktor, the nights grow long. It is told that in the land of Ruse, the city of Slaughtower sits in everlasting night.”

  “Ruse?” Lincoln asked, but Aezal wouldn’t be drawn into conversation about that place and clammed up.

  “Words and Ruse do not mix.” He took a slurp of his ale. “This is a fine ale,” he acknowledged. “Atremeny is a huge land that stretches from Shyantium.”

  “Don’t you want to go back there?” Lincoln asked.

  “To Atremeny? No, or rather, not now. Atremeny is a very stringent place. Warriors mix with warriors, alchemists with like-minded, and so on to farmers, carters, and herders. No, in Atremeny this conversation would be frowned upon. You would be classed as a maker, and as such, you should only mingle with other makers. It is a philosophy to encourage a purity of vision, but stifles creativity. I see that from my travels. Speaking of which, where do you intend to end up? You have already outgrown this tavern.”

  “North,” said Lincoln, just as Grimble and Ozmic poked their heads around the tavern door. The dwarves barged their way through the throng and muscled into the seats at Lincoln’s table.

  “Secrets,” said Ozmic. “Secrets should not be kept from brothers!” he near shouted.

  “We hear,” Grimble leaned in. “That a certain human brews ale that tastes of liquefied unicorns mixed with smiles.”

  “Well I…” said Lincoln. Aezal was roaring with laughter at Grimble’s words.

  Pete served the two full and frothy pots, and both dwarves fell silent.

  “Now that,” Ozmic whispered. “Is the ale you need to bring on your way north.” The dwarf smacked his lips together to reinforce his point. “Have yea decided where you’re settling yet?”

  “Spillwhistle,” Lincoln announced, “is my next stop. I have it on good authority that she will furnish me with a map to a special place.”

  “Confidence,” Grimble grumbled, “in someone who was out to trick you, is confidence indeed.”

  “Aye to that,” said Ozmic. “And might I tell yea,” he continued, leaning in. “That you’d best leave town afore the king hears of your ale. You might just find yourself named the crown’s brewmaster, fermenting yer ale from the castle’s damp dungeons.”

  The thought hadn’t crossed Lincoln’s mind, but once said, he could see the merit in Ozmic’s words. “When are you leaving town?” he asked.

  “On the morrow,” Grimble told him. “We have a cargo of Thameerian wine bound for Merrivale, and from there, who knows, maybe on to Shyantium or Castle Zybond?”

  “Room for one aboard?” Lincoln asked.

  “Two,” said Aezal. “I follow the talisman.”

  “Aye,” Ozmic answered. “You can pay your way in ale, and the Atreman with his sword. I hear tales from Atremeny are sparser than a Cendrulian’s modesty, but when told, are richer than Lamerell’s heart. What of you? Are you a man of cheap words, or cherished.”

  Aezal grunted, and in doing so, answered the question.

  “When do you leave?” Lincoln asked. “Early morn?”

  “Indeed,” said Grimble.

  “Then I’d best take off and see this Spillwhistle.” Lincoln stood and stretched, surprised that he didn’t feel any ill effects for his morning’s exertions. Aezal got up as did Grimble and Ozmic. Lincoln looked around at each in turn, and decided that he was quite comfortable with his escort. If Fawkes still had his sights set on revenge, then he’d have his work cut out. Allaise rushed over and asked where they were going. Lincoln told her of his plans, and she bit her lip, backing away into the crowd.

  Luck, Lincoln decided, was beginning to influence his game. If not entirely luck, then certainly a good measure. They were soon out of the shadows of The Shambles and back onto Keep Street, and then on to the bridge over the river. Aezal told Lincoln that the river was called Ratcher’s Vein, after a bandit that used to rule the forests to the west.

  “Why Ratcher’s Vein, though?” Lincoln asked.

  “Because once a year, the river runs red with the bandit’s blood,” he said grimly, and walked toward the castle.

  The keep straddled the road like a mighty colossus. It was a big, sturdy, and bulky castle. The tunnel underneath was dark and imposing with dull-gray stone blackened in the shadow. Murder holes perforated the tunnel’s side, with slots above.

  “Boiling oil,” Grimble said, pointing. “They pour boiling oil down through those.”

  Halfway along, two portcullises were raised. Heavily braced oak doors hooked back revealing two courtyards on either side. Full wagons turned in and empty ones waited in line to leave. City guard were everywhere as were the colors of ocher and red. It was a bustling, busy place.

  “King Muscat has an expensive upkeep,” Aezal told Lincoln. “He drafts troops from all lords in Irydia, bar Zybandian and Addison. He fills his chambers with barrels of salted meat, nuts, grain, and all, and sundry. He is preparing for a siege, when he should be reinforcing his borders. Makes no sense; warriors don’t fight well on their back foot.”

  Lincoln nodded, as they walked out of the other end of the tunnel and into the glaring autumn sun that sprayed the north side with its warming rays. Once again, he wondered why anyone would choose to live in The Shambles, half-elf and half-giant excepted.

  Keep Street ran north with a slight leaning to the east. Lincoln could almost spy its end; the city wall just a drab, gray line in the distance. It was clear that this was the more affluent area of a city of two halves. Its buildings favored more stone than wood and even managed an alleyway
each side to separate them. The street seemed somehow wider; either that, or the lining shops weren’t trying to crowd onto it. The red and ocher banners looked brighter, and the folks had cheerier faces.

  “Don’t be fooled,” Aezal said. “They'd just stab you with a smile on their faces, rob you with a ‘Good day,’ and double-cross you while kissing your hand.”

  “Good to know,” Lincoln said, walking off the bridge and onto the cobbled road. He pulled his cap over his eyes to shade himself from the sun. “Spillwhistle,” he muttered to himself.

  Aezal, Grimble, and Ozmic headed to the Fiddler’s Riddle, a fine looking tavern a couple of buildings down from Spillwhistle’s shop. Lincoln pushed open the door to Spillwhistle’s shop; a small bell ringing above and signaling his arrival.

  He eased himself in. The cramped shop was alive with activity, but no more than a counter across a ten-foot-square floor. Spheres spun in the air like planets, glowing, spreading colored light around, and hovering at shoulder height or above. Stacked shelves behind the counter were filled with colorful vials, and pyramids of scrolls were piled on top of one another. Lincoln breathed in deeply. The shop’s herbal aroma was so welcoming after the fetid stench of the city. Draping, multicolored ropes cordoned off a doorway behind the counter. Lincoln cleared his throat.

  A ceratog popped up from behind the counter.

  “Aaargh,” Lincoln screamed, jumping out of his skin.

  “Can I help you?” said the ceratog, clearly Spillwhistle.

  Finequill was right. Spillwhistle’s horns were finer than his, but in every other way, including the brown coat, they were identical. “Finequill sent me,” Lincoln said. “Or rather, Fawkes. It was actually Fawkes who said I should come, but Finequill mentioned you as well.”