by Ember Lane
“Like, did you open up the skill Worming, or something?”
Lincoln grinned. “Worming? Is that a skill?”
Aezal looked on in horror. “You just… you just slithered up like a worm; it was unnatural. How did you do it?”
Thinking about it, Lincoln turned and looked at the hole. He remembered…slithering along it. There was no doubt about it; it was weird. “Not a clue,” he admitted. Checking his stats and skills, he couldn’t see anything obvious that had changed. “Unless I’m missing something.”
Congratulations! You have joined a guild. The land has chosen you to head the ancient guild of Mandrake. You are awarded five thousand gold. You cannot access the gold at this moment. Build a strong guild. Take lands, build powerful cities. All hail Mandrake! The gods favor you!
“Eh?” said Lincoln to himself.
Aezal started to grin. “When did you alter your alignment?”
“My?” Lincoln started to say, but scanned his stats and saw that it had changed from none to Mandrake. “What does that mean?” he asked.
“Mandrake is the name for all the lands combined—Irydia, Atremeny, Kobane, The Lowlands, Petreyer, Shyantium, and Beggle. It is the name before all dissolved into chaos.”
“Is that good then?” Lincoln asked.
“Mandrake is a dream, a poisoned chalice that has never been in recent times, and probably never will be again. It is Lamerell.”
9
The Key To It All
Lincoln gulped, confused about the name of his new guild.
“But the way you all cry his name, I thought Lamerell was one of the good guys.”
Aezal shook his head, a rueful grin spreading on his face. “One day I’ll remember you have no knowledge of this land. Lamerell is 'one of the good guys,' as you say. She is Barakdor.”
“But she…” Lincoln was all manner of confused.
“I tell you what,” Aezal said, backing away. “I’ll tell you all about the ins and outs of this place as soon as we get a peaceful minute. The way I see it, that little stunt you just pulled was a gift for your alignment. You were one with the land itself. They have chosen you, and so have we. We have a name for our guild, but it is a name you must conceal. That is the first thing we must work on.”
“Conceal?”
Aezal threw Lincoln one of the dwarf’s shovels. “First things first, let’s cover up the hole. I’ll shovel it all back in from outside, you fill it in.”
Lincoln turned back to the hole and popped the lid back on its shaft. Aezal started shoveling the dirt back into the tomb, and Lincoln gradually filled the hole. Patting it down with the shovel and smoothing it over, he nodded to himself and grunted. “All back,” he said, and walked out. Aezal’s silhouette appeared in the entrance.
“What the…” he muttered, pointing directly at Lincoln.
Lincoln didn’t have to turn to know something had altered. His back had suddenly warmed up as if a great fire had been lit behind him. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw a bright orange glow now adorning the tomb’s arched walls. He stopped dead still. The question, What now? briefly crossed his mind, as he slowly turned.
The altar was a bed of orange and yellow flame, flickering, licking, lapping up to caress a spinning, twelve-inch-high, golden key. As it turned, brilliant amber light sprayed around the tomb. Lincoln swore the earlier murmur he’d heard had returned once more, its eagerness again urging him forward.
“What the…” he muttered, as Aezal drew abreast of him.
“That would be the second thing,” Aezal muttered, and they both approached the altar.
Lincoln reached out, understanding that the flames wouldn’t burn him. He plucked the key from the altar’s top. It felt cool to the touch and pulsed with pent-up power. Lincoln felt it, like it was trying to tell him something, like it was trying to get back home. He felt Aezal’s arm on his shoulder once more, and they both stepped back.
“Any idea?” Lincoln asked, not expecting an answer.
“I would say put it straight in your sack and forget about it until you happen to find one big-assed door to open.”
Lincoln pursed his lips, nodding faintly. He gazed down at it. Now away from the flame the key had dulled from its golden hue, now just a simple iron color. Its bow was shaped like a dragon’s head, identical to the one on Darwainic’s coffin. The key’s shoulder looked wreath-like, with leaves etched around it. From there, a cylindrical barrel stretched to a collar, throating and pin. Upon its bit, Lincoln counted seven wards etched, and he knew each represented one of the knights in Darwainic’s chamber.
“This opens no ordinary lock,” he whispered, and Aezal agreed.
Lincoln dropped it into his sack and looked at Aezal. He said nothing, but they reached an accord nonetheless. Now they had a secret, one they’d decided to keep from the dwarves and more importantly, the gnome. Lincoln had niggling doubts about Crags’ loyalties. They walked back outside and into the day. Ozmic was just spluttering awake.
“Well,” he asked.
“The tomb is resealed. Lincoln closed the way and got his gift. It is up to us to conceal his stats from all others for now, until he can conceal himself.”
Ozmic’s face dropped in shock, but quickly recovered as he clearly studied Lincoln’s stats. “House Mandrake,” he said, his tone now hiding any emotion he thought about. “I suppose it tells us whose side we’re on if war comes.”
“Whose?” Lincoln asked.
Ozmic grunted and Grimble stirred. “No one's,” Ozmic eventually said. “We aren’t on Irydia’s, nor Petreyer's, nor Kobane's, nor Atremeny's. We are on no one’s side.”
“What?” asked Grimble, but Ozmic pointed at Lincoln, and Grimble then studied him.
“Or everyone,” Grimble said. “We could be on everyone’s side—the folks, the people—not the king, not Sutech Charm, not the Conbinium. We could be the house that serves the common folks—the ugly folks—that no one wants to know. Just like Lamerell did.” Grimble bowed his head, as did Ozmic.
“That sounds good to me,” Lincoln replied, and he meant it. It was like Joan was looking over him, nudging him along a path. “We shall build a sanctuary, hidden from the war, and it will be a home for all who can find it. We’ll send out rangers and guides who'll coax them there, who weed the good from the bad.”
“Aye!” the three shouted.
“Aye what?” slurred Crags.
“We’re gonna build something good,” Aezal told the gnome.
“Hmmph,” he said. “I suppose it’ll make a change.”
Lincoln sat cross-legged by the waning fire while the other three made plans for the coming night. He had much to mull over. The two dwarves got up and went off in search of wood. Crags staggered away with a promise to return with a rabbit or two. Aezal poured Lincoln a mug of wine, primed his pipe for him and then leaned back against the troll hammer.
“You’ve had a hell of a day,” he said.
“Is it just one? Just one day since I woke up in Digberts' cave? Seems like a week. Seems like a month.”
“Be dark soon. You can sleep, and I’ll watch over you.”
“I think that Digberts' crew have gone for good.”
“Ha!” Aezal exclaimed. “Gnomes, never trust them. There, rule number one in this land—never trust a gnome. They proclaim that they have no control over the chaos portal, but I’m telling you this, they’re lying.”
“How do you know?”
“Say gnome three times, and the gnomes appear. Tell me, Lincoln, how could they do that if they have no control over the portal.”
“The universe?”
“Ha!” Aezal spat again. “The universe isn’t listening to me nor you. Trust me, there’s more to Digberts’ crew than the random band of hooligans he portrays. Crags, now take Crags, why would he agree to be exiled away from the group?”
“It looked like he was pushed.”
Aezal shook his head, tensed, but then instantly relaxed. He kicked hi
s feet out in front of him and took a puff on his pipe. “Just talking about them gets me wound tighter than an arbiter’s purse. Crags is a beacon, that’s what I reckon, and when Digberts wants to find you again, he just looks up Crags’ position on some gnome map, and boom! The portal will open and they’ll spill through like a plague of rats.”
Lincoln shrugged. “They didn’t seem all bad. I mean, at first, heaved in and out of the cave...well, it annoyed the hell out of me, but they were…were…exciting?”
Aezal let out another vast puff of smoke. “Exciting? I’ve heard them called many things, but exciting, no, never that. Maybe you are the one to start the House of Mandrake and unite us all.” He patted Lincoln on the knee. “And that’s where we should start.”
“Mandrake?”
“Lamerell: Lamerell is the land. Lore—ancient lore—hatched before Ruse, before these new gods. The lore spoke of Lamerell. She was the earth’s mother, and from her, the land was born. It is said she fashioned the races—humans, giants, elves, dwarves, basilisk, ceratog, croxen, beggle and more, but I think not. I think it was just her way to let the land get on with hatching its own sons and daughters.”
“Where is she now? What of her lore?”
“Destroyed by the ancients, you see their remnants everywhere. There is the bridge to nowhere at Castle Zybond. The Gilden Lode that radiates from Shyantium. The Gates of Striker Bay—a feat that no civilization in this land could fashion. Slaughtower—a monolith that reaches for the sky and defies logic. Countless structures that just can’t be explained. It is said that Lamerell despised the advancement and set a dragon called Mandrake loose to crisp the land back to a time of magic, of stories, and of laughter. That is why Mandrake predates all. That is why Mandrake is the center of this land.”
Lincoln accepted his words, likening Lamerell’s actions to those that should have happened back on earth, on his earth, on Joan’s earth. Someone like Lamerell should have put a stop to it all before it got so out of hand, before it had destroyed the planet.
“Then I’m happy to be Mandrake. Do I get the dragon?”
Aezal laughed. “Anyone who has ever seen such a beast knows that no one gets a dragon. One of the first rules of Lamerell’s law is that even the all-powerful should be vulnerable, else what’s the point?”
“Everything’s a balance,” Lincoln said, as much to himself as to Aezal. “So, how do I conceal this piece of information?”
“Simple, really,” Aezal replied. “You need the skill, Concealment. I should have thought of it back in Brokenford. Spillwhistle has some particularly disgusting elixirs that can advance that skill. Let me see.” Aezal scratched his stubbly chin. “I’ll try and study your stats, and you try and block me. Think of it like…putting a sheet over your board—something like that.”
Lincoln visualized his stats in his mind.
Name: Lincoln Hart. Race: Human. Type: Builder.
Age: 46. Alignment: Mandrake. XP: 2000, Level: 3.
Profession: None. Un/Al pts: 0. Reputation: Somebody.
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: (3, 55, 0, 25), Stealth: (2, 44, 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), Magic: (1, 0, 0, 3)
Talents: None. Quests: None.
Then he tried to put an imaginary blanket over them, just as Aezal had instructed, but his friend’s piercing eyes just stared straight through it. He thought about other ways, trying to push the list to the back of his mind, but Aezal just pulled it back. He tried blacking it out, but Aezal just flipped the script to white. Lincoln took a breath and then imagined his stats blurring and running into one another.
Congratulations! You have opened the skill Concealment. You have concealment level 1.
All of a sudden, the blurred writing started to fade, and slowly became transparent. “There,” Lincoln said. “Bet you can’t see it now.”
But Aezal narrowed his eyes, pulling back the script, cleaning it up, scribing the words where none had been. Lincoln fought back, taking the letters and trying to pull them away from Aezal. At first, it looked like he was succeeding, the words hiding within the recesses of his brain, but Aezal just focused in and plucked them back out.
Congratulations! You have leveled up the skill Concealment. You have concealment level 2.
“And that is enough for one sitting,” Aezal announced, and Lincoln felt the man’s mind withdraw.
Lincoln suddenly realized he was drenched in sweat. His head pounded away as if his brain had been bruised by the encounter. Aezal got up and sauntered over to Ozmic’s wagon, grabbing a water bottle.
“Drink that,” he said, tossing it over. “We need to get that concealment up to eight or nine. At those levels, only the best will strip you bare—it’s not a skill with thousands of tiers.”
“We can carry on,” Lincoln gasped, having taken a huge slurp of the water.
Aezal shook his head. “No, no we can’t. My perception is much higher than your concealment. I could just go in and take your information; but to teach you, you must resist, and I must control my probing. Too hard, and I could destroy your mind; too soft, and you learn nothing. No, I need to stop for my own sake.”
He sat back down next to Lincoln. “It is dusk, the day has been a long one. Plus, you have died today.”
Lincoln’s eyes grew heavy. His mind was exhausted. Aezal was right; he knew that, but he wanted to learn everything. Sleep...sleep could wait until he’d made his settlement. It could wait until he’d created his sanctuary. Now he could see it in his mind’s eye. He could visualize it as his eyelids closed, and his breathing became shallower. His head sagged, and he felt the water bottle pried from his fingers.
He saw her face, his Joan, smiling out from a mountain, and Lincoln recognized it for what it was, the mountain depicted on his map. From it, two high, red ridges reached out and around, enshrouding a circular vale filled with all the shades of nature. A river ran through its center, filling a lake and feeding a waterfall at the vale’s end. His vision withdrew, and he saw the surrounding land, and it was blazing, afire, scorched. Over the mountain—a part of a mountain—Joan was smiling out.
“Joan’s Creek,” he murmured, and Aezal grunted.
“Joan’s Creek,” Lincoln repeated, waking after his brief doze, and he shuffled up against the troll hammer. “The name,” he said, yawning. “It’ll be called Joan’s Creek.”
10
The Last Inn
The landlady of Hunter’s Lodge was an evil-looking woman. She had a round and hearty face and a cheerful set to her mouth that held her toothy smile. With more chins than the rest of them put together, she had a homey look of one who would take great delight in kneading dough to bake you bread, or cook you a hearty pie. Rosy cheeks hung down like ripples on a pond, and her hair was parted in the middle with bunches over her ears, making her look the type that would warm your bed with a pan of hot coals. Usually, with those kinds of features gracing an old lady’s face, evil would be the last word you’d associate her with, but this particular lady had the deadpan eyes of a mass murderer which messed up all the good work the rest of her face did.
Lincoln, Aezal, Grimble, Ozmic, and Crags hugged a dark corner of her empty bar. They’d been on the road for two weeks, and without the promise of a bed upstairs, each one of them would have fled the pub there and then. Her unreadable eyes scanned over them again, no doubt a passing sweep to
make sure they’d eaten their broth.
“She’s looking again,” Aezal whispered, hunching farther over the table. “I’m telling you, those soulless eyes are scraping the light from my heart.”
Her name was Morag Cullhaven, and she was the proud owner of the tavern called Hunter’s Lodge. She was also the hamlet’s blacksmith. By her account, Morag owned all five of the dwellings that made up the little hamlet of Thickwick. By her account, she was also Thickwick’s sole resident. So far, she’d shown them no reason to think her anything other than a lonely, old woman.
But there was something about her…
“Have you seen out back, behind the stable?” Ozmic asked.
“What about it?” Aezal asked, uneasily.
“Three rectangular patches of turned mud,” Ozmic muttered, menacingly.
“Graves,” Grimble whispered, nodding intently.
Lincoln screwed his face up. “Really? Why does she have to be a serial killer?”
“A what?” asked Crags.
“A killer…a murderer, why does she have to be one of those? Can’t she just be the woman that was left behind when everyone else sought their fame and fortune in the city?” Lincoln took a sip of his ale, wishing he could glance over his shoulder at the woman.
“We’re stuck now,” Ozmic pointed out. “Cart’s stabled for the night, and she’s locked everything bar the front door.”
Aezal leaned even farther over the table.
“So we’re trapped,” he hissed. “Trapped with this devil woman.”
“Look,” said Lincoln. “There’s five of us and one of her. What’s the matter with you all? Grimble, Ozmic, you’ve both been through here before, surely. Has it always been like this?”
“Been a while,” Grimble muttered. “Last time…” he lowered his voice until each of them could only just hear it. “Last time…it was a thriving little hamlet!” he said through gritted teeth.
