The Long Road to Karn (Realm of Arkon, Book 5)

by Akella, G.

  "Take her," I gave a wave of the hand. "A wedding present. Treat her well."

  This felt right. When the demoness had lost her horse during the storm of Xantarra, I had loaned her mine, and the two had become so attached since then that taking Lucy from her would have been unseemly, to say the least. As for Alyona, I'd find some other present to give her...

  "Of course, I will! Thank you, dar!" Getting up on her tiptoes, Tilly pecked me on the cheek and, with a nod goodbye, scampered away, disappearing in the darkness of the hallway.

  Following a sleepless night, the tiflings presented me with a thorough plan of development for the princedom, to which I then added just one additional item: to build two guard ships in the Xantarrian port to patrol our section of the Great Lake, and ten trade ships to communicate with Suonu and the other satrapies. Then, building on experience, I instituted a bonus of five gold coins for birthing a child. And that was it! No paper currency aimed at word domination, no gunpowder or steam engines or airships, no democracy or socialism. I was no progressor, but merely a former manager, artist and junior officer in the air force. I wasn't even going to bother building a railroad, though the metal we'd amassed thus far would probably be enough for a couple of armored trains. The truth was that I had neither the time nor the desire to deal with any of that stuff—children, on the other hand, were downright essential. The treasury was currently pushing three hundred thousand gold that were begging to be spent, or rather, invested. And since the princedom wasn't going to start trading internationally any time soon, it made sense to start investing into one's own population—literally. Because one hundred thousand heads for a territory this huge was pretty damn weak. Even the Eskimos probably boasted higher population density.

  And then there was a wedding! One hundred seventy four weddings, to be exact—and that was only within my half-legion. Most of the troops recruited in Xantarra and Mishtah had been young, and therefore eager to pair up. The next two days and nights became one unending celebration. And yet, despite seemingly inexhaustible reserves of alcohol—discovered in one of the castle's storerooms—the revelry was free of any vile or wicked acts that often accompanied such events back in my former world. The worst thing about it all was that it left me completely drained in the end.

  On the morning of day three, after issuing final orders to my tiflings, Vaessa and I took a portal to the Swamp Cave, which was about eighty miles from the Rualt border. We then took a few moments to toast to her late father, whereupon I mounted Gloom, bid my goodbye to the necromancer's daughter, and set out north as my mind reflected on the strange customs of this world. I was certain that Master Diarten was now fully content as part of his mistress' entourage, and would eventually meet his daughter and have a nice chat with her about this and that, and yet she had been adamant about visiting his grave. And though she had tried explaining her reasoning, I hadn't understood any of it, to be perfectly frank. Something about new planes of the soul and consciousness, and other such gobbledygook that might have been grasped by some esoteric guru, which I was anything but.

  It took about a day to reach the ruined Rus'An Castle, and later that evening I was at the Rualt border, crossing which didn't evoke any unpleasant sensations for neither myself, nor the boar, nor Jaelitte.

  I released Gloom about half a mile from the first large settlement—a category five village named Rulata, its location on the map marked with a caravan route. I would miss my furry companion terribly, but the sad truth was that a mount of his stature was simply too conspicuous for these parts, where the locals rode either horses or lizards. And being that I was no longer surrounded by thousands of armored soldiers, there was no sense in bringing unwanted attention to my humble person. Caution never stopped being a virtue in my eyes, and if trouble were to find me anyway, perhaps some the gods I'd befriended over the past months might prove useful.

  The inn I decided to stop in was called Big Mac, its signpost depicting a clown with blue hair, a blue nose, blue lipstick and a particularly blue bruise under the right eye. It must have been the very Mac after whom the inn had been named, because the other mac, though smaller, still looked rather impressive. With a triple chin over a massive gut, a bloated face with bulging eyes, and a mouth half-opened in imbecilic astonishment, the artist responsible for this masterpiece must have had a real vendetta against the world-famous fast food chain. The picture looked all the more out of place given that there were no overweight characters in the game. Aside from the signpost, the establishment was virtually identical to others of its kind, including the very first one I'd come across that was run by Kort and Treis. And the village as a whole, judging by the local structures and the demons going about their business, was very similar to Lamorna, aside from the colors worn by the guards: red-and-white in Ashtar, blue-and-white in Rualt. Whether that was an original idea on the designers' part or an obscure allusion to the Bloods and the Crips or some sports rivalry, I would never know, and I didn't care—there were too many issues occupying my mind. I spent the whole of next day at the inn, waiting for the caravan while charting a course of action and generally ruminating on my future.

  Jaelitte had been silent since our last infamous exchange, and I hadn't been trying to engage her, either. If she wanted to talk, she knew where to find me. Sure, I wouldn't have minded the company, but considering how our last conversation had gone, I didn't feel like getting shot down again. My general philosophy when it came to women was to avoid escalation at any cost. For instance, I could readily offer an apology even when I didn't feel that I was in the wrong, but this was different. Despite being maybe fifteen-seventeen years old by human standards, this girl had the arrogance of an A-list movie star. Though, to be fair, her arrogance was well-grounded, what with her being the daughter of Alcmehn's Overlord and one of the Seven! And an Elder Demon in the making! Also, her interactions with men had been very limited to this point. Who were they to her? Expendable material, nothing more. She was no idiot, either—surely she had some interesting prospects with respect to me. History was rife with examples of powerful men turned bumbling sybaritic idiots while their wives—or even concubines—assumed real power. I was glad that my bride hadn't had any life experience, but only her sharp mind and excessive—even if well-grounded—arrogance. Had it been Lilit in her place, I would be genuinely scared, but it should take this one some time to mature and acquire some much-needed wisdom. And I wasn't going to stand idly by in the meantime. So, I was content to leave her to her prideful silence—at least for the time being.

  In the course of the day spent at the inn, I was approached on four separate occasions. No one had canceled standard game quests, and the village just happened to be located in a level 220 zone. Of course, I rejected all the proffered quests, caring not one bit what became of the crew of prospectors that had gone missing in the foothills one week ago, or what was the cause of the strange glow that blazed in the skies over those same foothills every night. Nor was I interested in taking the fight to the local brigands waylaying traveling merchants in broad daylight, and least of all in buying a piece of a map pointing to a treasure buried along the Great Lake's northern shore. Any regular player would think me mad for such sacrilegious attitude, and rightfully so—you could never have too many quests, and my adventures could easily end up taking me to the location of the treasure anyway. And yet, I just couldn't afford to spare any mental bandwidth on non-essentials. Perhaps after completing some of the more pressing tasks, I might be more amenable, but until then I really didn't feel like clogging my quest log with trifles. I counted fifteen quest-givers in the village in all, all of them marked by the translucent exclamation marks over their heads. But I made no effort to approach them, and most of them ignored me in kind. More interesting was the fact that the village had lizard mounts for sale! The price tag of fifteen hundred gold per mount quickly curbed my enthusiasm—somehow I doubted that Ahriman's legates were paying such exorbitant prices. I decided to wait until Iskhart to inquire of t
he Overlord where I might avail myself of these at a more reasonable price. Surely he wouldn't refuse his new son-in-law?

  The caravan arrived in Rulata on the evening of the second day. After paying the captain of the guard twelve gold coins, I was finally on my way to the dominion's capital. And the day after that was when this unbearable stretch of rain began...

  Listening to the raindrops drumming against the taut fabric that made up the wagon's roof, I sighed and reached for the flask yet again. Eighty proof cognac had roughly the same effect on me in the game as beer in the real world. Meaning, I could easily down three-four liters over the course of the day and only feel pleasantly buzzed throughout. My mind flashed back to all the nights in my youth guzzling beer in dive bars all around Moscow, many of them spent alongside Max and another good friend of ours—a journalist by the named of Andrei.

  I took a gulp, then gave a sad chuckle. How our paths had diverged from those days: I'd gone into commerce, Max had started his own business, and Andrei had found a home at one of Moscow's major newspapers.

  I like my yak meat lightly roasted. And always soaked beforehand in dry white Erantian wine.

  The voice in my head was so sudden that I literally choked on the cognac I'd been swirling around my palate. There are precious few things as disgusting as alcohol squirting up your nose canal.

  I'll be sure to note that fact for the future, dear, I replied after coughing and wiping away tears.

  I like my wine dry red, also Erantian. Or Lakian brandy, she continued, ignoring my remark.

  Not a problem, I grunted. As soon as I free you from bondage—

  After you find and use the first fragment of my soul's shell on the ring, I will be able to assume physical form and feel alive for four hours, Jaelitte didn't let me finish. For that to happen, I will need a female succubus whom you've already bedded, as well as her consent. Not that I expect any lower one to refuse the daughter of Alcmehn's Overlord. I can only hope that you don't suffer from impotence, and that you have enough gold to pay someone in whose veins flows a fraction of the true blood? Otherwise, I would need to wait until you've found the second fragment of my soul's shell. Well, why aren't you answering me? she demanded.

  It's all good, honey, I drawled, looking into the coachman's tense back while recalling Dara. Once in Nittal, I'll take you out for a walk.

  Gods be praised! her steely tone still carried notes of relief. You were telling me you came here from another world? Tell me about it. I didn't glean much from our last conversation.

  There's no sense in keeping secrets from your wife, so I went ahead and told her a bit about the world whence I came, who I was and what I did for a living. And when I got to telling her about my hobbies, Jaelitte interrupted me.

  A merchant and an artist! O Great Chaos, what have I do to deserve this punishment?! she drew a bitter sigh and fell silent.

  If anything, I should be the one asking that question, I quipped, though my tone was cool. Or were there many other alternatives for you?

  The woman didn't answer, and I decided to let it go. Paying attention to such provocations was a sure way for any man to develop a nervous tick by the age of forty.

  I thought back to Dara. Either the woman had uncanny intuition or she knew exactly what might happen two-three months down the line, but I could no longer buy her explanation for wanting to sleep with me just to add me to her collection. And if Nittal didn't work out, I had other options in Xantarra, even though I could only vaguely remember the faces of those girls... So, yeah, Nittal would be better, right after I dropped by Lamorna and surrendered to some good old-fashioned drinking and debauchery, if only for a day... I couldn't wait to meet my newborn namesake... I need to get him a present! I realized suddenly. A newfangled prince coming around without a present? That would be improper even for me.

  Memories of Lamorna brightened my spirits, which my better half seemed to be so adamant on ruining all the damn time. It's all right... Once she's out of the ring, I'll have her working off her sins in the kitchen, baking cookies and whatnot. I smiled at the mental image of Jaelitte in an apron with a skimmer in hand. For some reason, the apron was worn over her naked body. Gods! What had I done to deserve this punishment?!

  The caravan arrived in Sarykas the following evening. After bidding goodbye to the captain of the guards and then to my drivers, whose faces were beaming with joy and relief, I passed through a ten-minute customs inspection, and set out to look for a place for the night. Curiously, neither my title nor my arrival from barbarian lands appeared to have surprised the guards in any way. I supposed it was because I looked pretty harmless, answered their questions quickly and easily, and bore no ill intentions whatsoever. But then I also didn't spot any security agents among them, so that may have been the true reason for the swift and painless inspection. Or perhaps my giving five gold to the captain—to buy a few rounds for the valiant Rualt soldiers—and the fact that the guards' shift was ending in half an hour, had proved the more decisive factor.

  The city itself was very similar to Nittal, with few largely cosmetic differences. The street layout was almost identical, as was the design of the wooden and stone structures lining the main avenues. Even the local industrial zone was located to the right of the south gate, same as in Nittal. Having seen a few of these now, I was starting to suspect that the devs had designed all of the dominion's capitals using the same general blueprint. Each city had a number of standard attractions, like a citadel, a Temple of All Gods, a race track, and so on, but to give the illusion of variance the attractions could be switched places, or built of gray marble instead of granite. In fairness, implementing sixteen distinct cultures for all sixteen dominions was probably too great a task even for a highly advanced AI. Then again, I was no expert in computers and their processing power. Perhaps the devs had first designed sixteen similar mock-ups that would then be overlaid each with a unique culture and way of life? After all, redrawing a city was hardly a difficult task, only RP-17 would eventually throw a wrench in those plans.

  The inn I settled on, based on the guards' recommendation, was situated at the very center of the city and carried the droll name The Merry Widow. Winking flirtatiously from the establishment's signpost was a middle-aged demoness in a close-fitting lavender dress. Incidentally, the locals oft referred to this place as "the ass," probably because the artist had depicted the woman half-turned so that the first thing you noticed when gazing upon the signpost was her rather shapely posterior. You needn't be an art critic to know that the artist behind this "masterpiece" was a dude—anyone with the barest rudiments of logic could see it clear as day. To this day, Marilyn Monroe remained the gold standard of female beauty for most of the planet's male population, but even the fabled Marilyn wouldn't hold up next to the dame on the signpost in terms of the aforementioned body part—and this, too, was a testament to the changing times. My fellow artists were prone to indulge in exaggerations, especially when inspired by images of real women. And only guys like me who haven't gotten laid in forever take notice of these things, I grunted to myself as I entered the two-story building of the inn.

  The dining hall was pretty full, and permeated with scents of frying, tobacco and roast meat. The patrons' attire suggested they were mostly traders, and their conversations were loud and argumentative. Out in the corner, a young demon was playing a peculiar instrument that looked like a square harp on an improvised stage.

  Finding the ambiance less than enticing, I paid the innkeeper two gold coins for a five-liter barrel of beer to be sent up to my room alongside a plate of roast spareribs, and took the stairs to the second floor. The six-day voyage in rainy weather had worn me out, and all I wanted was a hot shower, followed by some peace and quiet with a tankard of dark beer and time to reflect on the matters at hand.

  Several hours later, sitting by the window with a pipe while gazing out at the nasty weather outside, I suddenly realized that I had no clue where to look for the bastard who had tortured my th
en-future wife. All I had to go on was a circled city on the map. Only this particular city had a greater population than my entire princedom, and was probably home to at least a couple of hundred necromancers. And if you were the vermin that had escaped Craedia on the sly, you were unlikely to shout from the rooftops about your identity and the circumstances of your arrival. Given that there was no love lost between Ahriman and the Twice Cursed, any mage who summoned the towheaded asshole in any dominion would be swiftly executed if caught. So where did that leave me if I couldn't even remember the demon's face, having glimpsed him only from the side? The logical solution would be to ask Jaelitte if she could sense the presence of this Belvert dar Ha'ar fellow, and if so, at what distance. But my bride simply ignored my attempts at a conversation, which brought me back to square one. Suppressing a surge of rage, I focused on my breathing and attempted to bring my thoughts in order. If the necro had made this city his home, there must be a record of it somewhere in the archives... or wherever such records were kept. At least I desperately hoped that was the case, since three-hundred-year-old records weren't likely to be classified. So, my first stop tomorrow morning should be the local archives, where an acolyte could be tasked to look into this matter for me for the handsome reward of ten-twenty gold pieces, leaving me to tend to the other pressing matter. And if that lead didn't pan out, I'd think of something else. I had the gnawing feeling that procuring the first fragment of the key wasn't going to go smoothly. After all, nowhere in the quest did it say that the scroll would be simply handed to me on request. Didn't I do something very similar just a little while ago? I thought with a sigh as I gazed at the ring gifted by Hart. There was no sense in guesswork—I'd learn everything soon enough. The one positive was that Master Vyardiz's home was a mere thirty minutes' walk from the inn. Tomorrow morning I would exchange the jewelry case for information, and from there head straight for the archives.