“The druid casting can’t control the result?” Glenn asked.
“Absolutely not,” Ron said, collecting the empty plates from the group. There was no need to gather spoons, as they’d eaten the sticky fare with their fingers. “The druid makes the request, and the divine entity granting the request, should he or she…or it, deign to do so, the entity decides based upon their design, or whim.”
Everyone sat silent as the drizzle shifted to a gentle rain, except for Kirby, who noisily licked his fingers clean.
“Revive or nothing,” Stephi said. “Byeol is—was—my sorority sister. Although we only met last fall, I know she wouldn’t want to be trapped in some sort of doll or puppet, or live as some sort of animal.”
“Even if doing that might keep the opportunity for her to return to our world—once we figure out how to do that?” Derek asked.
“It could be that that creepy GM is just watching us and could bring us back any time he wants,” Kirby said. “Her being dead,” he continued, making little quote signs with his fingers, “might mean she’s escaped here.” He was quick to add, “But I don’t think so.”
Glenn caught Ron making eye contact with Derek, who looked down and away, eventually focusing on a line of bent porters bearing bulky wooden crates on their shoulders. Something, some knowledge was between them. He’d seen a similar reaction at least once before.
The old man that owned the weapons shop had once been a swordsmith. His stocky frame still had a strength to it. The active smithy beyond the back wall smelled of burning coal and hot steel, and echoed the rhythmic pounding of hammers on steel. Standing in barrels were spears of various lengths and types of heads. Axes and maces hung from pegs and a few swords, from short to those requiring two hands to wield, were arrayed on a table behind the polished counter.
The old man examined one of the goblin short spears and tossed it on the counter between him and Ron, who was attempting to entice the shop owner into buying. He examined one of the scimitars. “See how the blade is warped?” He reached below and pulled a file and ran it across the blade. “It wasn’t properly tempered, and will never hold an edge for long.”
“They are not of the quality your sword smithy produces,” Ron admitted,” and would not meet your customer’s expectations, but surely you have connections with others that may find interest in these.”
Kalgore, standing on Ron’s right, nodded in agreement.
“I could take that off of your hands for scrap metal,” the old man said, scratching the back of his head as if to say: Why did I even offer that?
Gurk huffed and rolled his eyes. He’d remained just to the right of the doorway, beside Glenn and Stephi, who were supposed to remain quiet. Gurk, because he was a half-goblin with low charisma, and Stephi and Glenn, because they were inexperienced in game terms.
Unable to contain himself, he stomped forward and pushed between Ron and Kalgore. “You know your craft and your blades, fine sir, and what we’ve brought cannot hold a candle to what your shop creates, even the flanged mace which is a step above what we’re interested in selling. The big mace too? Certainly there are half-ogres that occasionally come to town that might be interested.
“Something like this,” he continued, slapping his hand on the flanged head, “would not be worth your time and materials to make, unless on special order. And even then. The scimitars? There are always merchants who hire untrained men to carry a weapon. Certainly they’re not going to be interested in spending a lot of valuable coin. You, or someone who peddles in lower quality weapons that you might resell to, could turn a profit.”
The old man’s curled lip lowered and he raised an eyebrow at Kirby. Tapping a finger to his lips he thought. Then said, “No, scrap metal or nothing.”
Ron started to answer but Kirby cut him off. “Kalgore, gather our weapons up.” He turned and gazed up at the old man. “We’ll toss them on the street or give them away rather than sell them to you for scrap, which you won’t. You’ll turn around and sell them.”
“Look, fine sir,” Ron said. “We expect you to make a profit. You have to pay your men, and your taxes, and purchase coal and iron. But we fought and bled to win these.”
The old man smiled. “Then accept four irons per scimitar, two per spear, a bronze for the mace and three bronze for the ogre’s mace, or take your junk and leave my shop.”
Ron started to speak again, but Kirby cut him off. “No way, Lysine. Kalgore, open your sack.”
When Derek balked, Glenn stepped forward. “Do what Gurk said. Better to be foolish and charitable than to be taken for dupes.”
Ron nodded agreement, lifting the heavy ogre mace star from the counter. Gurk grabbed the flanged mace and Derek begin stuffing the scabbarded scimitars and spears, shaft first, into the sturdy sack.
The old man watched, and when he determined Kirby and the others were not bluffing, he said, “I will triple my offer.”
Kirby laughed. “Chump change. Come on, dudes.”
“Chump change?” the old man said. “I do not know those words’ meaning. What is your price, irritable little man?”
Kirby held up the mace. “Two silver, which is one quarter the price new, and you’ll get at least half. The big mace, the same. It’s worth less but not of standard size. You’re right, the other weapons are low quality, but trust me, they function well enough.”
He pulled one of the spears. “Four copper each, and ten for each scimitar.”
Kirby showed his menacing grin. “And two bronze for me on top, for having to speak up when I didn’t want to.”
The old man cocked his head back, obviously feigning surprise. “Three copper for each spear and nine coppers for each scimitar, and we have a deal.”
The old man extended his hand toward Kirby.
“Shake on it for me, Lysine, and collect our coin.” Kirby turned. “I need to spit this bad taste out of my mouth.”
Exactly what the taste was, Glenn wasn’t sure, but he followed his friend out of the shop and onto the street. The rain continued. Glenn and Kirby moved to stand beside the shop so that they didn’t get mud splashed on them by the horse-drawn carriages that were rolling down the street, forcing those on foot and with carts to scatter.
“I bet Lysine sucks at buying used cars,” Kirby said.
“Maybe, “Glenn said, “but we might’ve come away with nothing. And we need as much in coins as we can get.”
“Naw, dude.” Kirby leaned back against the weapon shop’s outer wall. He hadn’t bothered to read the sign above it to determine the name before going in, and he had no desire now. Neither did Glenn, if it meant getting muddy or any wetter than necessary.
After a half moment, Glenn asked, “What do you mean?”
“Sure, we need coins for the Tether Spell, and maybe a Preservation Spell, if they don’t throw it in. Butchers use it for keeping meat fresh and adventurers do sometimes to preserve meat as they travel, so it’s not expensive.
“But really, what we get from the sale of the items is experience points.”
“Experience points?” Something about those words rang a bell.
“You get experience points by defeating monsters, solving mysteries or conundrums related to adventures, and finding—or earning—treasure, especially coins and gems. And magic items, which are pretty rare.”
“Like my everlast candle?”
“Sort of, Jax. But more like magical swords that help you fight better, or wands that store spells or rings that can do the same.” He held up his right hand, showing a battered bronze ring. “And enough experience points means you increase a rank. You know, level up.”
“Sounds weird,” Glenn said. “Sort of contrived.”
“What about this world isn’t weird?” When Glenn shrugged, Kirby added, “Just tell me when you get used to being a gnome.”
Glenn nodded and sighed.
About that time, Ron, Derek and Stephi emerged from the weapons shop. Petie, tucked under an overhang in the
roof, gave a brief warbling song.
Glenn recognized it as “happy recognition.”
“What we got here, was chump change,” Kirby said, patting Glenn on the shoulder. “The big score tonight, that’s what’ll allow us to get Byeol back.” He frowned, signaling Glenn to follow him in joining the other three. “Or give us a chance.”
“Where to next?” Stephi asked from beneath her cloak’s hood. “The Church of Apollo?”
Chapter 10
Glenn figured trudging through the city with the rain steadily pouring down wasn’t too bad, as long as they kept to the cobblestone streets, and didn’t have to come too close to the businesses with porches. Nobody had gutters, and there puddles formed everywhere.
The morning rain appeared to be keeping most of the casual workers and merchants and shoppers off the streets. Oxen pulling wagons and mules with carts and the occasional porter with a basket, cask or crate moved along. Some attired to fend off the rain, others not.
Ron led the way, followed by Kirby, Glenn, Stephi, with Derek bringing up the rear. Glenn held his shield over his head as a makeshift umbrella. Ahead of him, Ron didn’t seem put off by getting soaked. Nor did Kirby. Maybe it was their druidic and half-goblin natures showing through, or simple pragmatism. Stephi’s hooded cloak repelled the water well enough, and Derek had his shield, although he complained that he’d need to dry and oil his chain armor.
“If we need to stop,” Kirby said over his shoulder to Glenn, “you can lend me your shield.”
“Why?” asked Glenn.
“You’re just short enough to shelter under Marigold’s chest,” he said, laughing.
“I don’t think she’ll allow that,” Glenn said, keeping jest in his voice. The thought had crossed his mind, but he figured he was an inch or two too tall. It was funny. His erotic thoughts about her breasts resting on his head got him to thinking how heavy they were, and if it’d strain his neck. He then thought about how she managed to maneuver with such ease despite what should be a handicap.
He’d spotted a few other women in the city and noted that they were chesty as well. One had on armor like Derek and another was dressed in leather like Kirby. Nowhere near as epic as Stephi, but enough to be noticed. He guessed they were adventurers, like his group, because the peasant women were built more like normal women in that regard.
He’d only been in one tavern, but with male-dominated stereotypes of what fantasy women in such a game should look like, such as “tavern wenches” with breasts boosted up by corsets. That might be interesting. But that thought made him frown. Would even one of them be interested in a gnome?
Stephi interjected herself into Glenn and Kirby’s conversation, saying, “If either of you two midgets try that little stunt, expect pain to be the result.” There was a hint of mirth in her voice.
“I’m not a midget,” Derek said. “So it’s okay for me to try, right?”
“What do you think?” Stephi snapped; this time harshness hung in her voice.
Glenn was going to comment that it might be worth the pain, since he could heal. But he figured, after Derek’s comment, the joke had run its course, ending abruptly.
They trudged onward in silence, Kirby’s shoulders drooping more than they had been.
Ron seemed to know the way. Orienteering was one of his selected skills.
Glenn figured the hills with towers atop them certainly helped Ron, and the gnome worked to use them to keep track of where they were going. In the woods he knew his gnome instincts would help, but not so much in a city.
The plan was, once they reached the Church of Apollo, Ron would do the talking. Again, he had game experience, had a good intelligence score, and was the only one with any religious affiliation. Kirby was to advise, Glenn was to look supportive and amiable, and Stephi was to use her looks and charms, if called for, whether the cleric they were negotiating with was male or female. She was uncomfortable with the latter, but said she’d flirt with anyone if it’d help bring Byeol back.
Off of the main street to the left, or west of the main gate, on a street named Sun, being no surprise, they came to the Church of Apollo.
It was a tall structure that appeared a mash between a European Catholic church, with tall doors and steeple and stained glass windows, and ancient Greek or Roman construction, with great columns built into the structure.
Glenn scratched his head. Who thought this up?
Ron led them up the steps to the guards posted outside. Both wore breastplate, helm with yellow plumes jutting from the top, like sunflower petals. They might’ve been impressive if erect, but the rain had dampened them. Etched and painted on their breastplate was a yellow sun with a harp in the foreground. They held a spear and had a short sword, reminiscent of a Gladius, on their left hip.
For some reason, the guards ignored Ron and the others as they ascended the ten steps, and pressed on toward the doors. The pair were large and wooden, probably ash, rectangular at the bottom but each curved toward an apex where they met at the top. Intricate scenes carved into them of horses and chariots filled most of their surface, with a row of suns running up along the outer edge.
Glenn expected to see brass knockers in the form of a gargoyle or lion, but none were there. Ron gulped and pushed on the right-hand door, and it swung open.
The interior again reminded Glenn of a large European church: a large room of worship, with benches for members and a red carpet down the middle, leading toward a large marble table topped with a gold statue. It depicted a man wearing loose robes on a chariot pulled by four stallions. Directly behind, nearly as large as the man in the chariot, was a huge golden ball.
Glenn guessed that the man represented Apollo, and the ball represented the sun.
Music, harp and flute, coming from somewhere above, echoed in the sanctuary area lined with sturdy marble columns.
There were several men and women dressed in yellow robes moving about along the premier, and a small boy in a yellow tunic to the left of the main doors on his hands and knees, with a bucket of water and a brush, washing the stone floor. There appeared to be at least two dozen worshipers scattered among the benches, some wearing tattered clothing, others fine linen or silks, with apparent servants attending them.
Near the altar stood two more guards, one to either side. Their plate armor and helmets appeared much finer, sort of like the men out front were a pair of Chevy Impalas—nothing to sneeze at. But the two inside were like Cadillac Escalades. Each one was probably tougher than the ogre and all the goblins they fought combined.
Looking up, Glenn spotted a second level or tier, with sorts of balconies. Four of them had breastplated soldiers as well. These held crossbows.
One of the robed figures took note of the party standing in the entryway just as Ron and Derek removed their helmets. She strode their direction.
The woman was probably in her mid-thirties, moderately attractive with dark skin and hair in tight curls. If Glenn had to guess, possibly someone who was half African American and half Indian. She wore a yellow headband with what looked like a starburst formed from opals, and a golden pin in the shape of a harp. Even from a distance, the gnome’s skill said the gemstones were of decent quality.
“Welcome to Apollo’s Temple, Founded by Aktion, Giant’s Bane.”
Ron tipped his head forward. “Thank you. We feel most welcome.”
An uncomfortable moment of silence passed. Kirby nudged Ron, but the woman spoke first.
“How may the followers of Apollo be of service to you?”
“We have a close associate who was slain by an ogre while defending a caravan of merchant wagons.”
A look of concern fell over the woman’s face. “I see.”
“We are interested in having one of your order cast a Tether Spell, which would provide us with the time necessary to gather sufficient gold to have a Revive the Dead Spell cast upon her.”
The woman’s eyes widened, then they wandered over, examining each of the five
. Her lips pursed as her left eyebrow rose. “I am able to cast a Tether Spell, one which would offer fourteen days in which to gather sufficient contribution to show gratitude for what the Mighty Apollo grants.”
“We appreciate your generous offer,” Ron said, using as diplomatic of a voice as possible. “Might there be a follower of Apollo who could grant us more than two weeks to gather sufficient funds?”
“There is. High Priest Rullio, who would cast the Revive the Dead Spell, could offer three weeks and a day. The required contribution of eighty gold is, however, twice what I require for such a service.”
She paused. “Do you have the body of your friend?”
“She is at the Courthouse of the Chief Magistrate.”
“Is her time morning, sunset or midnight?”
“She is White,” Ron said, rubbing his hands together. “However, this morning was her second sunrise. She was slain at night and we rode through her first sunrise and did not arrive in Three Hills City until just before sunset.”
“Please, be seated in the back row while I confer with our high priest to see if he would be available to cast a Tether Spell before sunset.”
Ron held up a hand to forestall the temple representative’s departure. “We do not anticipate having sufficient funds for a Tether Spell until just before sunrise. I have made arrangements for her body to remain at the courthouse, under a preservation gem. I was told that it is possible to retrieve her body an hour prior to tomorrow’s sunrise.”
The temple representative frowned and shook her head. “You do realize that Apollo is the god of sunshine and music? That sunrise is a significant event in our life of worship, and that our high priest prepares for that prior to sunrise each morning?”
Ron nodded, trying to hide his disappointment.
We really came into this unprepared, Glenn thought, but he couldn’t see how they could’ve gotten the money last night, nor how they could’ve reached Three Hills City any sooner. Unprepared—that’s how we all arrived, he thought.
Outpost: A LitRPG Adventure (Monsters, Maces and Magic Book 1) Page 9
