Warsinger

by James Osiris Baldwin

  Karalti got her clawed hands under her chest with some effort, and pushed herself up - or tried to. The left arm wobbled and nearly went out from under her. Whimpering, she lowered herself back to the wet stone.

  “It's okay, girl. You're gonna be okay. I think you just cracked a couple of ribs.” I stuffed my panic down, stomped on it for good measure, and tried to think calmly. My own chest was aching, and I hadn't even hit anything. “Shit shit shit. We can brew you potions to fix your chest up, okay?”

  “Sure. Don't worry - I'm alright. Take care of Suri.” The dragon rolled toward her right side, huffing with discomfort.

  While Karalti caught her breath, I checked my notifications:

  [Karalti is Injured! HP reduced, Maximum Stamina has been reduced to 25. Karalti cannot Fly. HP: 1001/1440]

  Shitballs. I didn't have any ranks in Field Medicine (Dragons) yet, so no HUD prompts appeared to help me diagnose her injuries. All I had to go off was my relatively basic understanding of her anatomy. I carefully began to push around her ribs, searching for a break - and quickly realized that with a creature of this size, 'carefully' wasn't going to cut it. I had to put my whole bodyweight into imaging her, stopping only when I felt her flesh dimple and she huffed with pain. Even then, it didn't feel like human ribs.

  [You have gained a new skill: Field Medicine (Dragon/Solonkratsu)]

  [This is an Advanced Crafting Skill. You can only learn up to Rank 4 without a racial tutor (Solonkratsu).]

  “Owww!” Karalti huffed out loud, snapping her jaws.

  “Sorry, Tidbit.” Even though I now had the skill, I didn't have enough ranks to gain special insights. “Yeah, I'm sure you snapped some ribs off your sternum there. Don't worry, okay? We'll brew you a ton of Bonefuse, and you'll be okay.”

  “Fuckin' hell, that was rough. Is she alright?” Suri made her way over to join me. She was still wobbly on her feet: rumpled, dirty, exhausted, and windblown.

  “She will be. But I have to brew an ass-ton of potion, and we have to be at the parliament house in an hour.” I unequipped my helmet and yanked at my braidhawk in frustration.

  “No way. We didn’t take that long, did we? I thought we had six hours left on the clock?”

  “Look at the time. I forgot that this game had fucking timezones.”

  Karalti whimpered. “I'm sorry!”

  “No, Tidbit, it's my fault. You handled it as well as you could. I'm an idiot and didn't think ahead.” I rubbed Karalti's arm, frowning. “We have an hour to find clothes… Karalti can’t fly…”

  “We'll figure something out, alright? Come on - let's go get Masha and see if she can help Special-K here. We can't leave her like this.”

  But fortunately, some clever NPC was ahead of us on that particular curve, because we'd barely started to push our way through the crowd of onlookers before the sea of people parted to admit the Masterhealer of Vulkan Keep. Masha was a tiger trapped in an old woman’s body. She was roughly four feet tall and three days older than dirt, with the steely eyes and clenched-jaw underbite that made me salute her like a drill instructor on reflex.

  “Tuun!” she shrilled. “Report! What happened?”

  “We got caught in the storm, ma'am!” I replied - before remembering she wasn't actually my D.I. “I think Karalti's got a couple of broken ribs.”

  “You think or you know?” The woman's eyes narrowed to dark slits.

  “Think, ma'am. The world’s short on dragon doctors, and this is a first for me.”

  “True enough.” Masha pursed her wrinkled lips as she palpitated Karalti's chest and side. The dragon winced as she lifted her left wing, turning her muzzle toward me for comfort. I rubbed her snout, watching as the healer ran into the same problem I had - her sheer size. The diminutive woman grunted as she tried to find the injury, and was nearly knocked over when she shoved a tender spot and Karalti's wing twitched.

  “You're right. Broken ribs, and one look at those big uneven pupils of yours tells me that you have a concussion, too,” Masha said briskly. “No flying for you tonight, missy. “

  Karalti groaned, and laid her chin down on the wet ground.

  “Will a Bonefuse potion fix her ribs?” I asked.

  “Pooos-sibly…” Masha drawled. She rubbed her chin, scowling up at Karalti's shoulder. “But it's hard to say. I've never treated a dragon before. Given the ingredients are so universal, I'd expect that it would help her, provided she had an appropriately-sized dose. Bonefuse is approximately one dram of potion per pound of bodyweight, and she weighs...?”

  “Approximately two-point-seven-five tons on the ground.”

  “On the ground? Hmm.” Masha looked up at the sky as she performed the mental calculation. “So she needs about five and a half gallons of Bonefuse, which iiiiisss… a lot of mana, Tuun. A lot of mana. The average potion vial is a mere five ounces.”

  “I don't care how much it costs. I'll pay for it.” But with a sinking heart, I knew it was going to cut into the gold we needed for Myszno. “What do I owe you?”

  “It is not the cost so much as the availability. We need about a gallon of liquid mana or powered greencrystal,” the healer replied. “It will take time to source it, and will cost about a hundred olbia.”

  A hundred olbia was a lot, and it was money that took food from the mouths of my citizens in Karhad. But one look at Karalti, shivering and panting on the ground, and my mind was made up. If we worked hard, we could earn it back from quests. “Done. Are you able to do that? We have to go meet with Ignas at the Orlihatz.”

  “Of course. I would not leave this holy creature to suffer such.” Masha bowed to me, and bustled off back toward the tunnel that led to the castle. “And while I’m down there, take a bath! I don’t know what you were doing before you crashed, but you both smell like a pigpen!”

  Chapter 12

  The Orlihatz, Vlachia’s grand parliament house, was built at the terminus of the river that ran all the way from the glaciers of the north through the volcanic bastion of Vulkan Keep, down a steep gorge that separated the castle road from the city, and then through the city itself. The water descended under the grand mosaic that ringed Andrássy Square, and then spewed out from underneath the Orlihatz through short, wide waterfalls that raged down into a network of canals. They wound through all but three of the city’s eleven fortified districts, sometimes disappearing underground to re-emerge in other parts of the city. The canals were fresh and clean and scenic in the better parts of town, polluted and sluggish in the International District and the Tanner’s District: the former a slum where the Meewfolk of Taltos lived in squalor, the latter a clean but ghettoized industrial area occupied by the city’s Mercurions. From the air, it was obvious that the city planners had carefully considered the position and symbolism of Vlachia’s parliament. It was, quite literally, the beating heart of Taltos.

  The Volod and his garrison lived in Vulkan Keep, but the Orlihatz was where hundreds of administrators toiled on the affairs of the realm. It even had its own small skyport. The port was host to a flotilla of small to medium-sized airships, their idling engines blasting the river water to either side of the docks. To my delight, I recognized one of the ships: it was the Hóleány, the royal cruiser that had first brought me to Vlachia.

  “God, look at us. We look like a couple of derros.” Suri strode up the stairs to the grand entryway, clanking on every step. “Are they even gonna let us in?”

  “Who knows? Maybe we can ask for some nicer clothes.” I jogged up the stairs, half my attention still on Karalti. Even though she was five miles away, I could feel her pain like a deep, throbbing ache in my own chest. “You have some nice clothing though, don't you? In your Inventory?”

  She gave me a side-long look. “I lost it all when I died, remember? Weapons, armor, dresses, pajamas, the lot.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. What’s a derro?”

  “A bum. You know, someone that looks like they shouldn’t be let into the Orlihatz.”

  She
wasn’t far off the mark. When the snooty little butler waiting in front of the closed doors to the Public Chamber saw us, his mouth pulled back at the corners with disapproval.

  “Hector. Dragozin Hector, uhh, Voivode of Myszno. Do you have any clothes we could wear?” I gasped.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Mm... yes, 'Your Grace'. We can fit you with something, I'm sure. Come with me.”

  “Thanks.” I hurried after him as he started sedately off down the gold-gilt corridor. “Can we pick up the pace? I'm already late for the Volod's session-”

  “Do not worry yourself, my lord. There is a reception before the crown presents the report from Ilia. You are not the last to arrive - we are still waiting on Revala.”

  “Who's Revala?” I asked, trotting along beside him.

  He flashed me a side-long look. “Revala, the Hercynian nation? The eastern neighbor of Ilia?”

  “Oh.” Right: THAT Revala.

  Another fifteen minutes later, we rolled up to the doors of the Scarlet Chamber, where the rulers and dignitaries of the White Sail Alliance were doing typical rich people stuff: eating cheese, mingling over wine and canapes, discussing war and politics and the possible end of the world. The butler had sourced me a basic eastern nobleman's outfit: a neat black tunic black, a long heavy embroidered coat in royal blue, a red sash, loose silk pants, and boots that reminded me of tooled cowboy boots with upturned toes and bright silver toe-caps. Suri had taken one of only three dresses they had, a corseted gown roughly the size of a small circus tent and richly embroidered with gold - not that anyone would notice much about the dress, because the front of the bodice elevated The Girls to spectacular effect.

  “I feel fucking ridiculous in this,” Suri fumed. The skirt of the dress was hoop-framed, so when she accidentally rammed it against the edge of a table, the whole thing wobbled like a plate of jello. “It's pinching my waist so hard it feels like I'm gonna throw my guts up on the face of the first person I talk to here.”

  “I think as long as you don't puke on Ignas, we'll be fine,” I said, taking her by the elbow and scanning the room for Ignas and Rutha. I was anxious to find both of them, for different reasons. The Ilian sorceress was nowhere to be seen - but there was a particularly flamboyant Dakhari man staring at the four of us, dressed like a peacock in brilliant indigo and turquoise silk. When we came properly into view and he saw Suri, he got the kind of expression most people would have gotten if they'd seen a rat scurrying away with one of the Volod's fancy crustless sandwiches. “How about that guy over there? He looks like he could use some hot corn chowder.”

  “Don't make me laugh in this corset, or I'm going to squeeze my liver out my arsehole.” Suri gripped my arm for balance as she took as deep a breath as she was able to. “This thing comes with a fatigue penalty, Hector. Name me one item of men's clothing that comes with a fatigue penalty.”

  “Chastity belt,” I blurted.

  She paused. “Fair enough.”

  The Volod was up the front of the hall, leaning back against a table with his arms folded as he listened to the man currently speaking with him. I arched my eyebrows when I recognized elements of Korean traditional dress. He was speaking softly and urgently, while Ignas listened and nodded now and then. The king of Vlachia - tall, wiry, with a face as narrow and noble as a greyhound's - glanced past him to me and minutely jerked his chin up in acknowledgement.

  “I beg pardon, enlightened emissary, but I'm afraid we cannot wait for Revala any longer. We must continue this conversation after Lady Rutha has presented her evidence to the council,” he said crisply. “I would be pleased to open my home to you and offer hospitality in the aftermath so we can continue?”

  “Indeed, this one would be delighted to accept your invitation, illustrious highness.” The man - he had to be from the Jeun Empire - had a clear, pleasant voice. His Vlachian was flawless, without a trace of accent. Ignas nodded, and the Jeun man bowed deeply from the waist in the East Asian style. Then he straightened and brushed past me, lifting a fan to obscure his features. Ignas let out a tense breath, then motioned me forward.

  “Give it all to the Black God,” he muttered. “I'd forgotten what it was like to have to play this part of being a king. Wining and dining people when we are here to discuss an emergency, as if the violins will keep playing while Hyland’s armies rage across our land. It was easier in the underworld, you know. Everyone was eager to get to business and be around each other as little as possible. We would have our meeting, eat some pie, then return to our lairs and brood. None of this poncing and prancing and strutting.”

  “Starting to have some regrets, hey?” Suri's golden eyes danced as we came to a stop in front of him.

  “Not a single one, my lady. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Though, speaking of strutting, you are ravishing as always.” He reached out his hand. Suri took it, as if to shake, only to blush when the man lifted her knuckles to his lips and planted a polite, chaste kiss on them. I was about to jokingly ask for the same treatment when he flung an arm around my shoulder and pulled me into a hug. He kissed me on the cheek, thumped my back, and let me go.

  “It is good to see you both again,” he said, his white-gray eyes flicking from Suri's face to mine. “The tales of your success in Myszno have spanned the country. Both of you are being featured in songs and tavern gossip, and your success has enriched and cemented my authority in Taltos. I could not be more pleased.”

  “... Songs?” I felt the muscle near my eye twitch.

  “Well, of course. ‘The Black Rider’, ‘Demon Slayer Dragon Queen’, ‘The Fire and the Darkness’… all good songs, by the way. How do you think news gets around a country this size?” The Volod finally smiled, showing the edge of one gold tooth. He had several, testament to five rough years of exile in the underground world of illegal bloodsports. “At least the Jeun emissary was polite. I was expecting a frosty conversation, but talks are going well. Unfortunately, my betrothed has since been married off. I'm glad we'll be able to salvage some kind of relationship with the Empire, but Khors' balls, they are so relentlessly, unironically formal.”

  “You know that guy was snubbing you, right?” I remarked, falling in beside him.

  “He was?” Ignas arched an iron-gray brow.

  “Well, yeah. You said he's an emissary. He's not a prince or a king or anything, is he?”

  “No, nothing like that. That's Moon Juk-Song. He is a diplomat, the younger son of a provincial warlord. It's customary for Jeun nobles to place their excess children into the civil service.”

  “Then yeah, he was insulting you. He bowed to you like you were his dad or something. You're a king, and this is your government's home. He should have gone all the way down at the waist.” I shrugged.

  Ignas' thin mouth twitched up in a wry smile. “That wouldn't surprise me. Ambassador Moon is the first diplomat to attend the capital in nearly five years since my brother's grab for power. They still believe Andrik's wild fantasies.”

  “About the Meewfolk sword dancer?” Suri asked.

  “Indeed. Sordid nonsense.” Ignas chuckled, and dropped his voice. “So, what I told Ambassador Moon just before is the truth. We cannot wait for Queen Aslan any longer. I must order the Speaker to seat these people and go fetch Rutha.”

  “How is she?” I asked, dropping my voice.

  “Fragile.” The smile faded, and Ignas’ pale eyes flicked down. “Come with me, Hector. My apologies, Lady Suri, but she requested that no one else but I or Hector be admitted to speak with her in private. She is physically delicate, and has little energy for meeting new people.”

  Suri flashed him a small, brittle smile. “I understand. Well, give her my regards.”

  “I will.” I offered Suri a small round-the-waist hug, which she accepted and leaned into.

  The Volod gave a short nod, then beckoned me and swept off through the crowd, out a door, and down the wide marble hall. I followed him, stomach twisting nervously. I could hardly believe it was Rutha
– the Rutha, the woman I’d met when I first incarnated in Archemi. On the one hand, I desperately wanted to see her, make sure she was okay, comfort her if she wasn’t. But on the other… I had a whole lot of questions that needed answering. Why had she given me the Spear? How much had she known about Ororgael's plan to hijack a Starborn player character to achieve his goals? After my half-remembered encounters with Violetta, I had to admit that I was worried. Violetta was a player - she could respawn, and was theoretically more psychologically resilient than any NPC could be. It was possible that Rutha was now a shadow of the vibrant, intelligent, willful woman I had met when starting out in the game. Even worse - she could be Void-touched. Insane, twisted, or worse.

  We turned the corner, approaching an ornate door guarded by a pair of knights. They saluted smartly, and the Volod inclined his head to them before he rapped the wood with a knuckle, then let himself inside. I followed warily.

  The parlor inside was almost as large as a San Francisco apartment, set up with multiple round tables, elegant sofas, rugs and bookshelves. The storm had broken, and sunlight streamed in through a row of tall gothic windows, spilling columns of pale white light across the floor. Rutha sat beside one of them, staring out at the river with her hands in her lap. She rested in a luxurious wheelchair, a sleek device with a stuffed leather seat and big brass-framed wheels. My throat clotted up a little. Rutha had never been a big woman, slight and small-breasted, but now she seemed hardly bigger than a china doll. Her long ears drooped, and she was still malnourished, her cheekbones sharp enough to cut paper. The chair dwarfed her.

  “Lady Rutha.” Ignas gave her a courtly bow as we drew closer. “Please excuse us for your meditations once again, but I brought someone you might want to see.”

  Rutha slowly turned her head. When she saw me, her lips parted in a small 'o' of surprise. Then, to my great relief, her beautiful freckled face flooded with a smile. She sat up straighter, her fingers twisting in the blanket on her lap. “Hector?”