by Ember Lane
“A hoard of angry elves is not to be trifled with,” Aezal said. “They knocked me and Crags straight out with some damage-over-time potions imbued into their arrows. They could have killed you any time they wanted and then raced back here and killed you again.”
Lincoln quickly checked his respawn point’s location to make sure it wasn’t set where they’d put the fire.
“We’ll get him back tomorrow,” Aezal said, clapping one of his big arms around Lincoln. “Grown quite fond of the little mutt myself.”
“So, how did we fare today,” Lincoln asked the dwarves. “I’m liking the fire pit.”
“The farms should be done lunchtime tomorrow. As you can see, we let them complete the six cottages, and the extra bodies are working on completing the level 2 woodyards earlier. The question is, what’s next. You’ll have idle labor tomorrow,” Grimble told him.
“Bethe?”
The city guide appeared next to him. “Yes, Lincoln.”
“Remind me, how much for the warehouse?”
“One hundred food, 1,500 lumber, 1000 stone, and 300 iron. Five men, 1 day, but you’ll likely need to increase that rapidly with the farms coming, starting to produce and no population barring you five…four. Though as yet, you aren’t classed as population.”
“Five. We’ll get Crags back, one way or the other,” he said, grimly, then perked. “Okay, what to build?” Lincoln tapped his lips in thought. “We’ll need a central place, like a town hall to run everything, but not yet. Tavern!” he cried. “How much for a tavern.
“Same as a warehouse,” Bethe replied.
“Really? I thought it’d use a bit more iron. Right, we’ll build a tavern and a warehouse.”
A small cheer went up from the three others.
“You can’t build an tavern until you upgrade some cottages to level 2.”
“Okay, we’ll do that instead. Five times, I want each of us to have the same level.”
“You haven’t got enough food until the farms start producing. As of this moment, you only have 980 food left,” Bethe explained.
“Exactly what I was afraid of. Damn, I hate running out of resources.” He pulled up his city stats.
“Dump my unallocated points into politics, let’s get some build speed going,” Lincoln said, and then did some mental calculations. “Okay, this is what we’ll do. We’ve got plenty of labor and not enough food. We don’t want to be clearing that forest to house farms in the valley, so we’re going to have to supply the food from up here. The sawmills we’ve built in the forests of the vale will serve most builds and will save us hauling timber up that slope. Lumber’ll become a real issue when we start thinking about defenses and building that wall spanning across the valley, then it’s all going to be about wood, stone, and iron. We’ll hunt the minerals out later.”
He was thinking fast, rambling, ideas falling over each other, then he made his mind up. “For now, it’s all about farms for us up here, and we’ll start losing workers if we can’t get some population. So, we need to upgrade the cottages and get that fissure passable. Farms and a community—that’s what we have to build here.
“Bethe, upgrade all farms to level 2, then I want another five level 1 farms built over the river, and one just over there, but don’t plant it with the usual—it's mine. I want hops planted, and barley, and some fruit trees.”
“Why just over there?” Ozmic asked.
“Where better to grow the ingredients for your ale than right behind the tavern? We might not be able to build it yet, but they can’t stop me making the ale! Bethe, I’ll need fifty of these too.”
Lincoln imagined a wooden barrel. “And one of these,” and he imagined a big iron pot over a fire pit similar to the one they were sitting around.
“It will be done. And if the workers are finished before the day is done?”
“Have we got enough food to get the warehouse done?”
“Just.”
“Then that will do, but the priority is the farms. How much can they each store before it goes bad?”
“Each level 1 resource can store ten thousand units before it has to go to a warehouse.”
“So we’ll be fine. Now, on to tomorrow’s real plans.”
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
“I don’t know how you keep all that in your head,” Aezal said.
Lincoln huffed. “Are you kidding? I’ve only just gotten started.” Despite Crags still being held by the elves, he felt good especially, now he had a course decided. Food was the immediate key, but he’d have to hope the elves would help move the tree. It’d take a day to get the next settlement’s cottages up and give him the workers he needed to dig out the tree, but he knew the food price would be harsh. The farms would just be churning out daily produce until they matured—not much use to any apart from fuel for the workers. Lincoln knew it would swing around soon enough. He hoped Forgarth would feel fit to release Crags as soon as he saw progress.
Their conversation petered out, and Lincoln yawned and stretched out. “I’m done for the day,” he said.
“Ah then, we’ve got one more little surprise.” Ozmic led Lincoln over to the cottages on that side of the river. “Now, it’s not the best, and it still needs a bit of work and that, but we decided the first cottage should be yours. We’ve built you a little bed and one of the workers made some mattresses—don’t ask me what out of, they only cost food, iron, and wood, though in miniscule amounts. Anyway, enjoy.”
Lincoln opened the door. Though it was pitch-black, his night vision kicked in and he saw the bed tucked in the corner, and a small table by it.
“Needs a candle. I’ll get to making them, soon as I can find me a good kill,” Ozmic muttered, but Lincoln hardly heard him as he darted for the bed and lay straight on it, boots and all. He didn’t hear Ozmic pull the door closed.
His dreams were filled with desperate visions of Crags, but his exhausted body hardly moved; his nightmares allowed no escape. The day had been long and hard, both for body and mind, and so when he heard a constant thumping on the cottage’s front door, he could hardly believe his ears. Soon after, it opened and he heard the clunk of boots on floorboards, and Lincoln looked up to see Aezal staring down at him.
“Time for training,” the warrior announced.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Lincoln growled.
“After yesterday? You think I'd let you off? This place is unpredictable, and will be for a while. You need to be able to defend yourself. Who knows when you’ll be attacked again. Here...” Aezal tossed him an apple. “I used a speed-up on one of the farms and got me some fruit. Take a bite. It’ll get your energy pumping. Outside in five.”
Aezal spun around and left the room. Lincoln very nearly lay back on his bed, but groaned, slapped his leg, and pushed himself up. “This place’ll be the death of me,” he sighed, as he took a good-sized bite out of the apple.
The warrior was lurking just outside and shoved a water bottle into Lincoln’s hands as he emerged from the hut. They walked over to the spot they’d practiced at the previous morning, and Aezal took out his staff.
“Right,” he said. “Plenty of time until dawn.” He grinned, and swiped at Lincoln before he was even ready.
Like the day before, Aezal trained Lincoln until the sun broke over the eastern ridge. Then, sweating, panting, and aching, they traipsed back toward the fire pit. Ozmic was cooking up a pot of the best smelling broth Lincoln had ever savored, yet it didn’t smell of the usual squirrel or rabbit.
“Crawfish,” the dwarf declared. “Grimble’s found a spot down river, thousands of the critters.” He looked positively over the moon about it, and preened his revitalized, purple Mohican. Lincoln sat next to him. It appeared the pit was currently the center of their fledgling village, and he decided that he might just dot a few around the place.
“The workers have just finished the first farm, and they’ve all jumped on the next. Should be getting some food outta them today,
” Grimble shouted, as he crossed the bridge and dumped a couple of carp on the bench by Ozmic. “The lake’s teeming, the river’s teeming—why’d we need farms? There’s food everywhere.” He slumped down next to Ozmic. “Don’t like to say it, Lincoln, but you need a swim.” And he waved his hand in front of his nose.
Lincoln lit his pipe, using the very last of his leaf. “Before we get going.” He guessed that a wash was probably in order; he appeared to have his own half of the fire…
“We still going to explore the mountain?” Ozmic said in surprise.
“Nope, by ‘let’s get going,’ I meant over there.” He pointed toward the other valley. “You two are building doors while I work out how to move a tree and make sure Crags is all right.”
“And me?” Aezal asked.
Lincoln called for Bethe. “Can you get one of the workers to make something for me?” he asked her.
“Of course, Lincoln. You’ll have spare capacity by the end of the day.”
“I’d rather have it sooner.” He imagined a log split in two with the words Joan’s Creek branded along one and an arrow pointing upward on the other. Within ten minutes, a worker appeared with it in its hands. “There,” said Lincoln, “I want you to go plant that by the entrance to the fissure, then mind the settlement until we get back tonight.”
Aezal took a bowl of broth from Ozmic and tucked in. Lincoln could tell he was reluctant to be the one to stay behind, but someone had to. After spooning a couple of mouthfuls in, the warrior looked at Lincoln and nodded. “Just do the deal, get the damn gnome back.”
Half an hour later and a swim in the lake, Lincoln, Ozmic, and Grimble were on their way. Before too long, they were in the tunnel. Grimble told Lincoln that mountain dwarves had carved the route. It was too smoothly done for the deep-down dwarves, and too rough for the stonecutters that lived above the land. Lincoln asked why.
“Army,” Ozmic interrupted. “Mountain dwarves are the fighters. They protect the deep-downs, and will guard the quarries and mines in time of war. They’re the fierce fighters, the bezerkers. If they’ve left their mark here, this far above the land’s surface. This place has seen bloodshed.”
They arrived at the tunnel’s exit and stood on the ledge. “Might explain that then.” Lincoln pointed to the ivy-clad, stone buttress opposite.
“The elves call it Rhangnarg,” Lincoln said.
“Aye,” Grimble replied, darkly. “That they do.”
“You know of this place?”
Grimble shuffled from foot to foot, Ozmic looked a mix of overawed and terrified. “Aye, the dwarves named it Ragnorkgh, and the elves can’t get their tongue around that word. It’s a harsh name for a harsh place that I thought was lost forever.”
“Lost forever?”
“Aye. It is where Darwainic fell, where man’s reign on this earth ended for a while and was plunged into a black age. It is where the night won.”
“When Mandrake scorched the earth?” Lincoln asked.
“No, after that. As the land emerged from that, and order was just beginning to fall into place, Darwainic fell, and he fell there.” Grimble stabbed a stumpy finger at the monolith. “That place was called by another name, one humans used. That place was named Starellion. It was the last refuge of a great king. So legend has it,” he then whispered.
“It seems that you and coincidence go hand in hand,” Ozmic muttered. “Had you not obtained that map from Spillwhistle, we could be quite content in Thickwick by now.”
“Aye,” muttered Grimble. “With ready-brewed ale to boot.”
Lincoln let out a chuckle, but his gut just wanted to be sick. Was that enormous rectangle of rock really a castle? Surely not. It was the size of a city and the height of a skyscraper—and he couldn’t even see how far back it went. “Aw come on,” he finally managed. “It wouldn’t be as much fun in Thickwick.” But he was beginning to wonder if he was telling the truth. He was beginning to wonder what he’d gotten himself into.
“Ho! Lincoln’s coming!” Ozmic shouted at the top of his voice, and it echoed around the valley.
“Ho Crags!” Lincoln shouted. “The morn is upon us!” and his words reverberated around the gorge.
By midmorning they stood in the middle of the clearing. Sudden realization that everything hinged on the next few moments filled Lincoln’s nervous belly. That feeling they were being watched had been constant since they’d descended the steps and plunged into the dense woods, now even more so. Just as he took out Alexa’s city token, he spotted Glynweth standing atop the same bough as before.
“You returned to us, Lincoln the Builder; that is unexpected. Humans have a tendency to run away from problems they can’t kill with a sword or ax. Does the gnome mean that much to you?”
“How is he?” Lincoln spat, his nerves drowned in a rising tide of anger. Just the mention of Crags brought visions of his cage, of his suffering.
Glenwyth shrugged. “He is with Forgarth. They appear to…have found common ground.”
Lincoln let out a sigh of relief, his sudden anger drifting away. Though he doubted that her words would be so comforting if the token merely flopped to the ground: dull, useless, and lifeless.
Ozmic shifted uneasily, and Grimble grunted and muttered some inaudible words. Lincoln flipped the token up and it spun majestically, cresting a few feet above his head, there it hung, growing and spraying a coppery light around the clearing.
Lincoln’s eyes were drawn to Glenwyth who had jumped down from the bough and was staring up in awe at the token, at its radiant light. More elves crept from the forest, lurking at the clearing’s edge, and muttering unheard words of amazement.
Then he felt that glowing feeling in his stomach. He took a breath as copper light burst from it, spreading in a circle around him, soon encompassing him in a euphoric, glowing ball. He was lifted from the ground and hung in the air while his mind cycled notifications one after the other.
Congratulations! You have founded your settlement. Barakdor favors those who build. You are awarded 1000 experience points.
Congratulations! You now have two settlements. You have progressed your title to Lord.
Congratulations! You have increased in rank. The land favors those who command positions of responsibility. You are awarded 1500 XP.
Congratulations! You have been awarded a guide. The guide will help you carry out the tasks associated with building a great and powerful city.
Congratulations. You have exceeded 5000 XP. You have leveled up. You are now level 5. You have 6 unallocated attribute points.
The elves all took a step toward him, and then a look of horror crossed all their faces as one, and they nocked their arrows and all stepped back into the forest. Lincoln floated back down to the grass and turned to see a city guide hovering by him. It was identical to Bethe, and standing, awaiting instructions.
“I am your guide,” it said. “Do you wish to assign me a name?”
“Echo,” Lincoln said, and smiled as he then added. “Echo, I’d like to build a cottage over there.” He pointed to the very edge of the clearing. The lumber, food, and iron appeared close to the spot, and the elves gasped as one. “There you go. Get door building,” he said to Ozmic and Grimble.
“Now, a name for this place?”
Lincoln noticed Glenwyth had ventured back out of the trees and was tiptoeing toward Echo, a knife in her hand. She had murder in her narrow eyes.
“He summons a monster to kill us all!” she cried, and ran at the guide, knife raised, and Lincoln shoved Echo out of the way taking the full force of her lunge. He felt the knife plunge into his shoulder.
Damage! You have received 60 damage points. Your health is now 20/80.
Lincoln stared into Glenwyth’s eyes as they rolled back onto the ground. She crouched over him, her mouth twisted in anger, her breathing hard. Lincoln felt his consciousness slipping but tried to rally. Then looked into Glenwyth’s eyes again and saw doubt, anguish, and concern.
“
No!” she screamed, as Lincoln closed his eyes.
“Echo,” he muttered softly. “Build twelve level 1 cottages around the edge of the clearing.” And then he slipped toward death.
Lincoln saw the catacombs, the same slab he’d once lain on with the candle at its end. Down deep below, the same glowing river meandered lazily past, what had one of his companions called it? The Endings River, that was it. He felt his soul, his body behind drawn toward the solace of the stone slab. It was a place to rest, a sanctuary from all the hostility of the land. It offered sleep, rest, peace, and he knew he could sleep, would sleep, longer this time.
This was not how this land was supposed to be. This was not Joan’s dream. Ice ran through his veins, spreading from his mouth. His body became rigid, stiff, and he shivered like he was having a seizure. The slab started retreating, becoming smaller, the river too. The golden rock all fled from his dreams, and he exhaled a lung-emptying breath and opened his eyes, grabbing the first thing he could see and pulling it violently toward him.
“Aaargh!” he shouted, and pulled Elleren ever closer to him, his hands clasped firmly around the elf’s throat. “Joan!” he gasped, and let his grip slip. “Joan,” he whispered and shut his eyes again.
“Sssh…” came the reply.
Lincoln felt his hand grasped, and held up to what he thought was a soft, tear-drenched cheek.
“I’m sorry, so sorry. My rage; it grows,” Glenwyth’s soft voice said.
“I know,” Lincoln groaned. He checked his health, and was relieved to see it was now above thirty. His head was tilted back, his lips parted by soft fingers, and ice-cold liquid was poured down his throat once more. As it froze his veins, the throbbing in his shoulder subsided, the bleeding shut down, and he saw his health bump up by another ten points. Lincoln opened his eyes again.
He was lying on a bed in a small, wooden room. It had a great, warty tree branch growing through it, taking up an entire corner, and its window was filled with filtered green light. Elleren was sitting next to him, her hand cupping his. Glenwyth knelt by the bed’s head; her own dipped to the floor.
