by Brian Simons
BROKEN
a Travail Online short story
by
Brian Simons
Copyright © 2017 by Brian Simons.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner of this publication.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places, and events are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
The King of Havenstock sat on a simple wooden throne upholstered with red velvet. A modest gold crown rested atop his gray hair.
“Your Highness,” Alua said, “Ze cautions against this.”
“Does the goddess of life,” the King asked, “foresee Sir Harold failing in this quest?”
“He will succeed,” Alua said, wringing her hands together behind her back. As the court’s Medium it often fell to her to tell the King unpleasant news. Today’s news was more unpleasant than most. “But his win will cause significant loss. Ze did not advise what that loss would be.”
“We will pray that the loss is not to Sir Harold’s life,” the King said, “but I cannot send a lesser Knight on this errand. If there is to be violence, we must have the stronger hand. Sir Harold’s hand is the strongest we have.”
Alua opened her mouth to speak again but the King held a hand up to silence her. “Guard,” he yelled, “let Sir Harold in.”
The throne was in a small room on the castle’s second floor. The King glanced out a nearby window with a view of southern Havenstock as his guard pulled open a heavy wooden door. Havenstock had nearly doubled in size under King Frederic. Not only did its mostly human population prosper, but people had started moving here from the other kingdoms in search of a better life. The city supported so many farms now that they continued to sprout up further and further south, edging ever closer to the marshland beyond.
The wooden door thudded shut behind the guard as Harold approached the throne. He bent down on one knee before the King.
“You may rise, Sir Harold,” the King said, returning his gaze from the window. “You have heard about the latest attack, I presume.”
“Yes, Your Highness. The undead are becoming a frequent problem for our farmers,” Harold said.
“We have determined why,” the King said. “The marshes separate us from the swampland further south. In that swamp lives a witch who conjures these undead and sets them loose. We must put a stop to this practice.”
“I shall kill the witch personally, Your Highness,” Harold said. Alua ground her teeth as Harold spoke. He was always so quick to choose violence over diplomacy. She tried to ignore him and focused instead on flattening out creases in her purple leather battle vest.
“I hope it does not come to that,” the King said. “I need you to go to Thanaker’s temple in the Ogrelands. As the god of death, he may choose to intercede in this witch’s work. If that appeal fails, you must bring the swamp witch here for trial.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” Harold said, though the enthusiasm had drained from his face. “Shall the court’s Medium contact the god to announce my arrival?” Harold glanced over to Alua.
“Alua’s powers are not limitless,” the King said. “We have a greater chance at successful contact with Thanaker if she speaks with the god at his chosen place of worship. You will escort her to his temple.”
Alua’s eyes went wide with surprise. The King had not mentioned a role for her before now. “Your Highness,” she said, “perhaps it would be wise for me to go to the Ogrelands while Sir Harold goes to the swamp.” Harold was obnoxious, violent, and self-aggrandizing. She would rather risk traveling alone than spend all that time with him. Besides, he was liable to cause an international incident if the King let him loose among the ogres.
“A long trip may be dangerous,” the King said, “and Sir Harold is our head Knight. Together you can ensure each other’s success.”
“You mean you want her to babysit me,” Harold said. Even in the presence of the King he had no sense of decorum.
“Alua is patient and kind,” the King said. “I need you to be the same with the good people of the Ogrelands. We must be careful that our visit to their fair kingdom is respectful.”
Harold rolled his eyes. “Their hovel is anything but fair,” he said. “The Ogrelands are a cesspool. I will protect Alua on our journey through the heathens’ camp, but I cannot treat those beasts as my equals.”
The King sighed. Alua had seen Harold disappoint the King before, time and again. The King kept giving Harold chances to prove himself, which Harold kept failing. “It breaks my heart to hear you say that,” he said. “I have treated you like a son, perhaps unfairly. I have no children of my own, but I have seen something in you. The strength with which you defend Havenstock is unparalleled. But you must understand, Havenstock is worth defending because it provides welcome and opportunity.”
“Havenstock, Your Highness,” Harold said, “is worth keeping pure. I fear that our great kingdom may regret extending a hand in friendship to a species known to bite everything in sight.”
“Unless you amend your temperament,” the King said, “you will never rise above your station as head Knight.”
I will not warn you again, Ze spoke directly into Alua’s mind. This can only end in blood.
Alua wished she were a higher level. As a Level 23 Medium, she had unlocked many of the skills necessary to communicate with the gods, but she had barely developed many of her abilities. One day she might be able to control a conversation with Thanaker from this far away, but as things stood, she’d need to undertake a long journey to accomplish that. “Perhaps we should bring a healer too,” Alua said.
“Very well,” the King said. “Go to Januar’s temple. Select a healer for your journey. When this is through, I expect that the zombie menace from the swamp will cease. That is all.”
Harold and Alua left the throne room together.
“A healer?” Harold said after the guard closed the wooden door behind them.
“In case you invite attack,” Alua said. “I don’t care to die on this trip.”
They walked in silence down spiral stone stairs, past the castle’s great hall, and into the city itself. Before long they arrived at Januar’s temple, a red building with brick arches supporting a large triangular roof. They stepped inside.
A priest with short red hair and sepia brown skin looked up from the altar. Cedril deCretum. He was a Level 20 Acolyte in the temple of Havenstock’s patron deity, Januar, the god of rebirth. When his study was complete he would be allowed to change his class to Priest. Alua hoped they would be engaged by then. They had been serious about their relationship for a long time now. A smile stretched across Cedril’s face when his eyes met Alua’s.
“Alua!” he said, and rushed over to give her a kiss on the lips. His demeanor stiffened when he turned toward Harold. “Sir Harold. To what do I owe this visit?”
“We need a healer for a trip to the Ogrelands, and then likely the swamp,” Harold said, avoiding eye contact with Cedril. He reached out his hand to run a finger along the golden arm of a nearby candelabrum. “How much gold goes into one of these?”
“Please don’t touch that,” Cedril said in a calm, unruffled tone. “I would be honored to assist you both. I can be ready in a moment, just let me gather my things.” Cedril hurried toward the back of the temple and disappeared through a side door.
“When you suggested a healer,” Harold said, “you didn’t mention it would be your boyfriend.”
“That,” Alua said, “is irre
levant. He’s a good healer and he’ll come gladly without pay. I know the King is concerned with the royal coffers.”
“That would be no issue if he didn’t extend public services to the influx of non-humans that continue to invade Havenstock. Either way, I doubt the temple needs the money. It’s the most decadent building in the city.”
Cedril returned with a small satchel. “Hold out your hand,” he said to Alua. She did as he asked, unsure what he had in mind. He placed a small item in her palm, wrapped in brown paper and string. She pulled the string loose and the paper unfolded. Inside was a gold ring with a large green jewel. “Cedril, I—”
“It goes on your thumb,” he said. “It’s a Cleric’s Band. It allows you to cast the prayer Holy Shield even though you’re not a Cleric.”
Not the ring she was hoping for, but a very thoughtful gift nonetheless. She slid it onto her thumb. The green jewel matched the tattoos she had accumulated during her training as a Medium. Each tattoo linked her to a different deity, and they tended to glow when she used her abilities. She hoped this ring would glow the same color, just for consistency.
>> Cleric’s Band. On a ring and a prayer. Activate to cast Holy Shield. Spirit +1. Durability: 65/65.
“It’s perfect, thank you,” she said.
“What would be perfect,” Harold said, “is if we could get a move on.”
What she wouldn’t give to be rid of Harold and take this trip with just Cedril. The gods knew they could use some time alone.
Harold walked out of the temple. Alua knew he expected them to follow, which they did. Better get this over with. She and Cedril stepped outside Januar’s temple. If things went wrong and any of them were killed on this trip, Januar would bring them back from the void — but only if they were to be reborn. If so, they would start at Level 1 again. If fate ruled against rebirth… Alua would rather not finish that thought.
The group had passed the fountain in Havenstock’s central plaza. It was thrumming with life. A street performer played a lyre while a crowd of humans and elves listened. An ogre yelled out from a food stand about whatever strange meat he was selling that day. If there were dwarves around they were probably in a nearby tavern. Nevermind that it was still morning.
Next they passed into Havenstock’s mansion district in the east. “Which one of these is yours, Cedril?” Harold asked.
“I live in the rectory at the temple, as you well know,” Cedril said. He clicked his staff against the cobblestones a little louder after that, which was the extent to which he was likely to show anger.
“Sell off a few of those temple trinkets and you could buy a nice big house for you and Alua. Raise a brood of children.”
Cedril’s cheeks turned red. “Enough,” Alua said. They proceeded in silence until Havenstock was well behind them, heading due east toward the River Rove.
Januar protect us, she begged with her thoughts. As often happened when she tried to initiate communication with the gods, she got no response.
***
They reached a small footbridge east of Havenstock, but no river flowed beneath it. The bridge spanned a wide muddy trench instead. The river must be running elsewhere today. “I’ll go first,” Harold said. “That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To protect the two of you.”
If this quest hadn’t come directly from the King, Harold would have turned it down. The only reward was XP, and he could earn that faster in his sleep. It was hard to hide his disappointment when the quest box had first popped up.
New Quest: Undead End
Zombies are invading Havenstock! Escort Alua to Thanaker’s temple to pray for help. If that fails, visit the swamp witch personally and stop the zombie menace.
Reward: 500 XP
The footbridge was comprised of simple wooden boards and thick rope. It swayed under Harold’s weight. As a Knight, he was the heaviest of the group by far, covered from neck to toe in steel plate armor. He only forewent the helmet, allowing his thick black hair to blow in the wind.
“One day,” he said, “when I’m King, it will be you who protect me.”
“You’ll never be King,” Alua said. “You lack the tact, and besides, you have no royal blood.”
Tact. That’s just another form of weakness. “Regent, then,” he said, turning around to face Alua on the bridge. “The exact title is irrelevant. King Frederic has no heirs and I’m his head Knight. It’s only a matter of time before I rule Havenstock.”
“Maybe,” Cedril said, “we should find another way across?” He pointed at the far end of the bridge, which now had two Level 28 Mud Golems on it, limping awkwardly toward them. Their eyes were hollow and black, their jaws wide open as though the sight of human flesh had whet their appetites.
“Coward. Watch how a real man handles a problem,” Harold said, drawing his longsword. He held it out in his right hand and raised a shield in his left. The golems charged at Harold, forcing the bridge to rock violently from side to side.
Harold activated Firebrand, a sword skill that infused his longsword with burning heat. He swung at the first golem and sliced its arm off, singeing its muddy flesh. The stump where its arm had been was blackened from the heat and cracked like clay baking in the desert sun.
>> Mud Golem takes 1,287 Damage. [Disabled]
With only one arm, it would hardly put up much of a fight. Harold rammed into it with his shield and knocked it off the bridge. It landed in the muddy trench below with a splat. The other golem had triggered an ability of its own, Mudflap. It swatted its hand at Harold’s face and left a thick smear of mud behind.
>> You’ve been hit! 263 Damage. [Blinded]
This was not good. With his eyes full of mud he couldn’t aim at the golem, which meant he would risk cutting the bridge’s support rope with his longsword. “Cedril!” he yelled. “What do you have for blindness?”
Harold heard Cedril mumbling but wasn’t sure what he was saying. Was he casting a spell? Harold instinctively raised his shield and collided against some part of the golem. It would be difficult to keep defending against these attacks without getting his sight back.
“Nothing, Sir Harold,” Cedril finally said. “I don’t have enough skill points to unlock Restore Sight.” The mud on Harold’s face was gradually drying and flaking away, but not quickly enough for him to take control of this fight.
>> You’ve been hit! 378 Damage.
“Harold, flatten out!” Alua yelled. He was reluctant to take orders from her, and especially when she didn’t address him as “Sir Harold,” but for now he was at her mercy. He dropped onto the wooden planks.
>> Buff added: Holy Shield. Damage reduced by 50%.
The bridge continued to sway. Harold lifted his head and tried in vain to scratch the brown sludge from his face. Light came through a few pinprick-sized holes in the mud. He saw Alua with daggers in both hands slashing madly at the golem on the bridge. She took a hit but kept going.
Finally, enough mud had peeled away that he was able to resume the fight. The golem’s HP bar was low. If Harold were going to get any XP out of this mess he’d need to be the one to finish off that mob. He lunged with his sword and stabbed straight through the golem’s torso as Alua dodged out of the way.
>> Mud Golem takes 508 Damage. Mud Golem dies. You receive 91 XP.
Now, where was that sorry excuse for a healer? Harold found Cedril several paces away from the actual fight, aiming his staff forward. The glass orb on top of the staff glowed faintly.
>> Heal. +50 HP.
>> Heal. +50 HP.
What a pathetic little heal spell. Harold grabbed Cedril by the robe and hoisted him over the rope edge of the bridge. “You are absolutely worthless. Tell me why I shouldn’t feed you to that one-armed golem down in the river trench!”
“Harold!” Alua yelled. There she goes again, giving him lip.
“And you!” Harold yelled, still holding Cedril twenty feet over the ground. “I am a Level 54 Knight. You will address me as ‘Sir Harold’ or y
ou will not speak at all!” He moved Cedril back onto the bridge and dropped him in the mud splatter that had accumulated during the golem fight. He stomped across the bridge, finally able to see fully again.
“Cedril,” Harold yelled, waiting for Cedril and Alua to come along. “I’m not fully healed yet. Don’t stop with the heal spells until I am.”
***
Alua walked with her hand in Cedril’s, ten feet back from Sir Harold. She had never been outside of the castle with the head Knight before. She saw now that he was even more offensive when the King wasn’t there to keep him in check.
They walked south through miles of grasslands. Alua stopped to pick whatever herbs she could find on the way. That fight with the golems was a near disaster. If the swamp witch were half as powerful as she thought, they would need any healing herbs she could find.
