by J D Astra
Ahead I could see the opening of the tunnel flickering a soft orange, like candlelight. The trickle of running water echoed up the narrow passage. Just beyond the opening was a white stone basin with water pouring into it from a spout in the wall. Otto brought me to the makeshift sink and washed his hands. A sheer white sheet covered the doorway into the Sanctum Memoriam, glowing soft with the light beyond.
Otto motioned for me to wash my hands. “We clean ourselves before meeting with the dead so our impurities cannot affect them in the afterlife.” He spoke just above a whisper, the typically harsh rumble in his voice absent.
I stepped up to the basin and dipped my hands into the stream. The water was frigid cold, the shock of it sending painful stabs of hypothermia up my arms to my chest. It was nearly unbearable to touch, so I rinsed quickly, then wrapped my hands back around Otto’s warm arm.
We turned to the white sheet and stepped toward it until the soft material was brushing across our faces. Otto whispered, “We walk through the veil of death to visit loved ones passed.”
The material glided over our bodies and slipped away as we emerged into a catacomb-like cavern, no bigger than my seven-hundred-square-foot apartment back IRL. The walls had been packed one hundred feet high with white stone. Eight stories of balconies lined with gold railing filled the space to the top. Each wall had two passages that led further back, and each level was lined by rectangular cutouts with gold handles.
It was a mausoleum.
It smelled pleasantly of flowers and savory spices, possibly to mask the scent of the dead, and the air was warmed by the glow of a thousand candles. The bright white stone reflected and amplified the light, bringing life to the hall of death. I leaned back to look all the way up and found a mural of a goddess staring back at me from the top, two exhaust ports on either side of her.
She was a sight to behold. Green eyes like radiant emeralds, smooth dark skin, and a voluptuous figure draped with sheer white cloth that flowed on an imaginary wind. She held a brilliant gold-and-silver sword in her right hand and a blackened scythe in her left. The crimson and jade foliage behind her curled and blossomed on the side of the sword, but shriveled and browned by the scythe. She was balance. Life and Death.
Otto dropped to his knees, gently pulling me down with him. “We praise the Goddess Sophia to hold our family at peace in her bosom before their judgement comes.”
He rose after a moment, and we walked to the stairs on the left wall. His greaves and chainmail leggings jingled as we walked, and his thumping footfalls made for the start of a solemn song. I breathed heavily as we made it to the first landing, my leg muscles aching in protest.
“Should I carry you?” Otto whispered, coming to a stop at the second staircase. I shook my head and inhaled deeply to calm my pounding heart to no avail. This death sickness was a bitch.
I clung to Otto’s arm as we ascended to the next level. Each step was painful, but Otto was slow and patient. We stopped at the third landing and walked across the balcony to the other side. I could see golden plaques on each handle: a name, date, and sometimes a rank or sentence about what kind of life they had lived. Some handles were wrapped with colorful string bracelets, other jewelry and trinkets, and sometimes fresh flowers. This place was visited often; it was important, revered.
We turned down the first hall. There wasn’t a shadow in sight. Small wax drippings painted the floor and scorch marks peppered the ceiling. Someone was in here rotating out the old candles, keeping them lit, cleaning excess wax, every day.
When we neared the end of the passage, Otto stopped and turned to the right. The nameplate there read “Kayleen Staldain, Second Lieutenant, Beloved Sister.”
“Otto,” I gasped as I reached out for the headstone.
He stepped closer and placed his hand against the polished white stone. “She and Auralia were very close, thick as thieves we all said.”
“Otto, you can’t blame yourself for whatever happened.”
His jaw flexed. “The raid was simple, straightforward. It should’ve been easy, but they had increased their watch, doubled patrol, like they knew we were coming that very night. Auralia had asked Kayleen to stay behind with her, that she had a bad feeling. We should’ve listened to her.”
“She chose to go, to follow you—”
“They all chose wrong.”
I punched him, hard, and my Health dropped by 5%. I shook out my fist and glared up at him while he glared down at me. “You are not a failure. You’re not a bad leader, or strategist. We were ambushed, Otto. Someone tipped off Carrera’s men, and I’ve got a big fat bullseye on Patrick’s head for this one.”
Otto softened. “No, Patrick doesn’t like me, started the rumors about my allegiance I’m sure, fought me a few times...” His eyes lost focus as he thought back. “But he’s loyal through and through to the rebel cause.”
I crouched down as my legs gave out. Otto had a good intuition about these things, but it wasn’t sitting right with me. It was too convenient. Patrick hated Otto, didn’t think he was innocent, and probably wanted revenge. He had the archive contact. He’d scheduled the meeting, the time, the place. No, it was a setup from the beginning. How did Otto not see it like I did?
Otto pulled something from his pocket, a small lavender colored sheer sack, and inside were three opalescent pearls. He kissed the bag, then tied the drawstrings around the handle of her final resting place. Something Otto said came back to me all at once, and I remembered sitting on a log in the forest, late at night, only hours after arriving in the game.
“There’s a special freshwater pearl that comes from the oysters in their lake. They’re not worth much, but...” Otto’s voice was quiet in my memory. I remembered thinking at the time he was embarrassed; how wrong I was.
“She liked these pearls?” I struggled to my feet, cradling the precious gift in my hand.
Otto nodded. “Our mother liked them too, it’s how Kayleen’s father won her over.” He stared at the pearls, a smile gracing his face. “My mother was very beautiful, and a strong leader. Many Risi men courted her after my father’s death, but she picked the little Mountain Wode from Havasil. She said she’d had enough of warriors and ignorance, she wanted someone to take care of her.
“I didn’t like Horace at first, Kayleen’s father. I thought he was pompous, weak, and I constantly tested him. He never grew impatient with me, as if he had all the time in the world to win me over.” He dropped his gaze to his feet. “It wasn’t until my mother died that we truly bonded.”
“My mother died at the hands of six Imperial guards. They did”—he clenched his fists and closed his eyes—“unspeakable things to her, then said she instigated it. My mother had turned away from Enyo, she had had enough of war, destruction, and chaos. She would not have started a fight with Imperial guards.”
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, holding the pearls in his three-times-too-large hand. “Our father became political, a social degenerate. He brought me and Kayleen to the Òrdugh an Garda Anam, my father’s order, and we trained. Night and day, he drove us to be stronger, faster, fear nothing, not pain nor death. He was with us every step of the way, getting stronger, fearing nothing.
“He had loved my mother so dearly.” He squeezed the pouch. “I knew when he died in her name, defending her home, that he loved her, and Kayleen, and me. All too late. I vowed to take care of my sister, protect her.” His eyes misted, and he dropped to his knees. I placed my hand on his, and when he didn’t recoil, I moved in closer, putting my arm over his massive shoulders. “I swore on his death that no harm would come to her. I failed him. I failed her.” He swallowed back tears and whispered, “I failed Tabor.”
I was at a loss for what to say. I couldn’t tell him no, that he hadn’t failed; he wouldn’t stand for it and I wouldn’t either. He didn’t want to be coddled or distracted—I knew because I never did either. While Otto and I had our differences, I felt in my gut this would be the same between us.
Honesty. I should just be honest with him. “Otto, you have failed in the past, but it doesn’t mean you’re a failure.” I gently nudged his dropped chin and he looked over to me. “You haven’t failed me, ever, not even in the secret zone when I told you to leave and said all you had left to do was die. You kept fighting, kept pushing, kept being there for me.” He stared into my eyes, holding onto my words. “You’re the closest friend I’ve had in many years, and I trust you with my life,” I smirked, “even if I wouldn’t come back. I would die beside you, Otto, and I’m sure Kayleen, Tabor, and Horace felt the same.”
Otto looked back to his sister’s resting place, then slowly gained his feet. He stared at the white stone, his face stoic. “I’m glad you’re here, Abby.”
I smiled kindly and locked my arm back in his. “Let’s go see Tabor.”
Otto guided me with some difficulty to Tabor’s grave, where we said our farewells. After visiting Tabor’s grave, he took me to Auralia’s. Otto murmured an apology, but all I could think about was Patrick. I knew what he was, and I was going to expose him.
Otto half carried me to the mess hall when we were finished visiting with the dead. It was just after 5 PM and dinner was in full swing, perfect for my next move... except I still had the death debuffs on me. There was no time to waste. I wouldn’t let Patrick get away with his treachery.
I scanned the room for his dark hair and spotted him pretty quickly next to Arcona. Otto had told me about her disappointment, her anger, her suspicion of Otto and me. But, Otto had succeeded in his trial by combat. Now, it would be Patrick’s turn. I only hoped the death debuff wouldn’t slow me down too badly.
Otto moved toward the closest seats, but I pulled him toward Patrick and Arcona. Nerves kept my stomach tight, but I knew I needed to eat. Food would help the debuff, and the Stamina boost from the Quarry Grub would definitely be welcome. I vacuumed up my food, my eyes locked on Patrick the whole time, and he seemed aware of it. Every time his gaze drifted my direction, it jerked away unnaturally. He knew I knew, and that was as good as confirming guilt to me.
It was on.
Patrick finished his bowl and dabbed a napkin at the sides of his mouth. Prissy jerk. As he stood, so did I. Otto grabbed my arm as I moved toward their table. “What are you doing?” he said with more accusation than curiosity.
I puffed up my chest. “What I can to make this right. You don’t believe me, but you will.”
“Patrick Vaust!” I shouted, and many eyes fell on me. The din of conversation dropped to a murmur.
“Stop it,” Otto whispered as he tugged my arm. I pulled it free, stumbling forward.
“Patrick, I accuse you of treason, betraying the rebels, selling me and Otto out to Osmark’s goons—”
“How dare you—”
“I wasn’t finished!” I screamed, and the hall fell silent. “I also accuse you of the deaths of Auralia Vaust and Kayleen Staldain.”
The audience broke into soft whispers, excited tones, and disbelief.
“On what grounds?” He put his hands on his hips but I could see the mention of his younger sister’s death perturbed him.
“The night before the raid in Glome Corrie, Auralia begged Kayleen to stay behind, to not go. She knew you had betrayed the rebels because you told her, because you didn’t want to lose her. Then last night, you told the Imperials that the group en route to the archive had changed, and that I was among them. An agent of Robert Osmark was there, and that agent killed Tabor, killed me.”
The room noise rose and fell, my accusations taking hold. “You were the one who arranged the meeting, you were the one who set the place, the time, and the code word. You set us up.”
Patrick smirked. “That’s hardly evidence. Anyone could’ve found you in those bright red robes.” He gestured to my garb.
I decided to take a gamble on a bit more information I had too little evidence on, a conversation from several nights before. “And you were the one walking through the baths at two in the morning, talking about how wrapped around your finger she was.” My words dripped venom as my gaze fell on Arcona. We locked eyes, and I could see something change on her face. Doubt morphed to belief, and the lines in her forehead flattened as she gained her feet. Her shoulders squared and she shifted her gaze to Patrick.
Patrick turned to face her, not a shred of fear in his eyes or his tone. “I would never conspire against our leader. I am your loyal servant, Arcona, you know this.” He bowed deeply, exposing the back of his neck to her.
Something changed. Arcona inhaled, then seemed to wilt before she turned back to me. “You’ve said quite enough, Traveler. You are not from here, but you’re walking the boundaries of—”
“Qat’ig Gual,” I boomed, and she seemed to snap from her stupor. Arcona shook her head and blinked, then looked back to Patrick.
She squared up again, projecting over the murmurs of the crowd. “This is a serious matter, Traveler. Do you truly wish to challenge Patrick Vaust to Qat’ig Gual on the accusation of the deaths of Auralia Vaust, Kayleen Staldain, and Tabor Rivera?”
I stood tall and stared Patrick down as the room fell to a hush, awaiting my response. I knew Patrick was a snake.
“Yes.”
Trial by Combat
THERE WAS A FREAKING arena specifically for Qat’ig Gual. The center of the room was the lowest point on the ground and the highest point on the ceiling, everything sloping up or down to meet the rounded, twenty-foot-high walls at the edges. The whole room was a massive oval with only two exits.
Roots of all colors and thicknesses snaked down from the roof, some providing adequate cover, others looking more like fire hazards. This could be bad for me. Keeping distance and line of sight would be important through the fight, but he could easily lose me in the dark between those roots.
At the top, several small holes had been punctured, like the lid of a shoebox with a wild pet inside. The sun had long since gone to sleep, leaving the illumination up to the ring of torches that surrounded the combat zone and the exits. This left very little light to see the growing audience I could hear filing into the colosseum-style seating.
Otto’s Qat’ig Gual had been maybe fifty or sixty people in a semicircle in the Great Room. This audience of hundreds made the whole thing even more intimidating. What if I failed?
Across from me, looking quite calm and unafraid, was my opponent, Patrick Vaust. He stood with his hands clasped in front, lazily, with a placid serenity on his face.
Otto had warned me that Patrick was an Illusionist, a skilled mind trickster who could literally summon my worst nightmare. I didn’t know what my worst nightmare was, so this was going to be a fun fight filled with self-exploration as well as retribution.
Otto also told me the rules:
One, no scrolls, wards, magical items, or weapons of any kind unless the opponent has the same weapon and it is agreed they can be used. That was how Arcona lost her fight with Otto; she picked up her axe. I would have to lose the staff, which was a big deal. I was going to need all the stat help I could get.
Two, no potions of any kind and no buffs of any kind outside of what the class kit provided. So, we had to wait until the Quarry Grub wore off. Fine by me. It got me closer to the Death Sickness ending.
Three, the fight ended when the winner said it ended. If Patrick was conceding, and I wanted him dead, it was my choice to enact justice in the form that pleased me. Such was the will of Enyo.
Four, any outside help would invalidate the claim. If Otto helped me, Patrick would be innocent. If someone helped him, he would be guilty.
Arcona’s voice boomed over the rabble of the massive audience, and though I couldn’t see her face, I could hear the amusement in her tone. “This Firebrand, Abby Hollander, Traveler, has accused the Illusionist Patrick Vaust, Rebel High Counsel, Citizen, of the deaths of three of our own: Kayleen Staldain, Auralia Vaust, and Tabor Rivera. He stands accused of consorting with our enemy and plotting the demise of our f
action through our exposure.” The crowd came alive with whispers of worry.
I turned to look at Arcona. Her face was shrouded in shadow, just the highlight of a frown visible in the flickering torchlight. “The Bindings Book was in your charge, Patrick, and you allowed it to be stolen. On this evidence, I accuse you of the highest treason, and elect Abby Hollander to carry out my justice.”
Patrick stammered, “Arcona, I have been nothing but loyal to you, this group, for half my life!”
“Yes, and it is the other half”—she stepped close to the firelight—“your time in New Viridia, that I believe has betrayed us, and has been betraying us all along.”
“Arcona,” Patrick said just above a whisper, “allow us to speak privately on this matter so—”
“You have been speaking privately with me, with Jeanette, with many others for too long. You drip words of honey in their ears and turn them to your favor.” Arcona boomed so that the audience could hear her rebuttal. “I know you are guilty of conspiring within the rebel group, and have overlooked it for your usefulness.”
The crowd gasped and murmured. She had known the whole time that he was moving her people for his own purpose? He must’ve been some kind of useful. I would not have allowed that shit in my rebel hideout.
Arcona boomed louder to quiet the group, “Of your guilt regarding the theft of the Bindings Book, and the deaths of our own, that is for the gods to reveal.”
Great.
The audience buzzed with even louder conversation as Arcona returned to her seat beyond my view. Well, let’s just raise the stakes one more time—now I get to represent the leader of the entire rebel underground faction in Alaunhylles in an accusation of the highest treason.
I didn’t agree with the trial by combat approach. I preferred a judge, and jury of peers with supporting evidence and eye witnesses, but it appeared I’d have to be happy with a confession, and whatever punishment Arcona felt was fair from that. I was going to blast Patrick to a pulp, then detain him with Flame of Holding and force his admittance of guilt.
