All I had to do was go around collecting everything I could from the piles of bones they left behind them, thrilled to be getting a free ride and crying inside at all the experience disappearing in front of me. Unfortunately, I had no idea how to ask an NPC to join a group. I mean, I could have tried, but I wasn’t sure how Ragnar and his harsh Northern manners would react. Oh, so you want to grab someone else’s fame, you scoundrel? Signu, go ahead, do your worst with that spear of yours. I don’t think he’s the kind of person we thought he was!
Much better not to risk it and pass up the experience, I decided.
A few minutes later I got a message.
You completed a quest: Grave Iron
You got twenty pieces of grave iron.
To get your reward, talk to the blacksmith in Hexburg.
Thank God. My trip was a success, and the group was about to take out the Lord of the Burial Mounds—I was sure of that. I figured Ragnar probably wouldn’t be interested in loot, so I mentally rubbed my hands together in anticipation of what I’d find.
I thoroughly enjoyed watching the children of the Departed Gods wield their swords. Thinking back to how Turok, Erador, and Nox made short work of the nagas, I realized that they were amateurs next to the einherjar and valkyries in front of me. They were barely exerting any effort as they shredded everything that opposed them. Bones flew in all directions, and it didn’t look like anyone in the group had come close to being wounded. Their swords flashed like lightning, illuminating the skulls as they arced through the air and adding an apocalyptic feel to the whole picture.
At one point, four skeletons emerged out of the darkness to throw themselves at Gudrun and me, and I didn’t even have time to swing my sword once. She scattered their bones with four strokes that merged into one graceful maneuver.
It took us no more than five minutes to get to where we were going; a hard-working group of players would have taken at least twenty. Regardless, Ragnar called into the darkness as soon as we arrived.
“Hey, so-called Lord. Get out here! Let’s see if you’re as strong as everyone says. It’s me, Ragnar Olaffson—I think you’ve heard my name.”
“Ah, the faithful dog of a forgotten lord,” said a squeaky voice. Two small, red fires awoke in the darkness at the foot of one of the mounds. We heard footsteps shuffle forward until a large skeleton walked out into the circle of light created by the group’s swords, a crown on his head; black, battered armor covering his bones; and a two-handed sword in his…claws? Hands? I wasn’t sure. He wasn’t the most pleasant of fellows to look at, but I was intrigued to see that his cuirass was decorated with a picture of a tower being hit by a zigzag flash of lightning. That’s fun.
“What do you need?” the Lord of the Burial Mounds—it was definitely him—asked peevishly.
“I’m surprised you even have to ask,” answered Ragnar, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been saying some nasty things about me and my people, which is enough for us to kill you right there, but you also besmirched the name of my Lord. We’re here for your head.”
“I don’t think you’ll be getting it anytime soon,” said the Lord with a scratchy laugh. “You know very well that I’m immortal. All you can do is send me to nothingness for a short while. I won’t even notice, even if it will be a bit painful, after which I’ll assume my throne under the Mound like nothing ever happened. And that’s only if you can kill me.”
“If we have to, we’ll stop by more often.” Ragnar smiled. “But that’s enough talk—the night won’t last forever.”
“As you wish, you old fool. But as far as your lord is concerned, I’ve seen the signs, too,” the Lord said, baring his boney mouth. “He may be coming back, but so is mine, and that’s when things will get really interesting. Yours is just one of many; mine, the one that will ascend the Black Throne, is alone and unstoppable. Hey, mortal, you’ve already seen his power or at least a few droplets of it. What did you think?”
The Lord of the Burial Mounds stared at me. A shiver ran through me, though I really had no idea what he was talking about.
“You undead sure do love to spout nonsense,” Ragnar said with a sigh before swinging his sword at his opponent.
“Circle up!” I heard Signu shout. I barely had time to respond before I found myself in a ring formed by the group. Dozens of skeletons clambered out of their holes and rushed at us.
Two fights broke out at once. One was a duel between the Lord and Ragnar, and the second, the one we were in, saw us fighting off hordes of skeletons.
With that said, “fighting off” skeletons is a bit of an overstatement, as my new friends barely even broke a sweat. One wave of skeletons after another broke against them and collapsed into piles of bones at their feet. I just stood there, my sword hanging lifelessly from my hand, and hoped that I’d get to pick clean just ten percent of the bodies as well as that of the Lord.
“We’ll meet again,” I heard his voice say, and it was followed quickly by Ragnar’s reply.
“I don’t doubt it.”
Immediately afterward, came the clang of a sword jabbing into a cuirass. A flash of red light erupted into the night, letting us all know that the Lord of the Burial Mounds was dead. The skeletons around us disappeared.
“Well, that’s that.” Ragnar’s tone was carefree and betrayed how easy the whole thing had been for him.
It was impressive how he took out a monster like that so emotionlessly. Life is simple when you’re an NPC. So simple… Simple… He just up and killed a named monster. Hmm. Interesting. I’ll give that some more thought later.
“Ragnar,” I said, walking over to the white-haired warrior as he was about to wave his hand and give the order to mount and ride off. “Do you mind if I grab his things?”
“Go ahead,” Ragnar answered indifferently. “I don’t need them.”
I leaned over and checked the body.
You received
2700 gold
Molton’s Cuirass
Ulfrida’s Bracelet
12 pieces of grave iron
5 tines from the rusty crown belonging to the Lord of the Burial Mounds
Molton’s Cuirass? Who did we just kill? I recognized it as a set item since I already had the gauntlets. So, he wasn’t just a local boss? Or was that because an NPC killed him? I decided to check the forums later.
“Hagen, are you coming?” Ragnar was waiting for me.
“You bet!” I jumped up and ran over, Gudrun striding silently next to me.
Ragnar stopped his steed about a kilometer away from the burg and swung me down.
“By the way, what did that talkative skeleton mean when he was talking about his lord?” Ragnar looked at me sharply.
“I’m not sure.” I shrugged. “Really, I’m just as surprised as you are. Skeggy, am I right?”
“He’s not lying.” Skeggy nodded. “He really doesn’t know. Or, at least, he doesn’t yet know enough to connect different things he may have seen.”
Ragnar sprang down off his horse and extended his hand.
“I think we have quite a few battles ahead of us, Laird Hagen. And I imagine we will conduct ourselves well.”
We shook hands, and soon the Wild Hunt was riding off into the night.
“They could have dropped me off at the gate, considering how valuable everything I have with me is,” I muttered before walking away in the direction of the burg.
Thank God, my short trip was uneventful, and I stepped into the hotel alive and well. The local “commandant” was snoring again. I pounded my fist on his desk, but that wasn’t enough to wake him.
“Hey, my friend, the early bird gets the worm!” I barked.
He opened his eyes, pulled himself up, stared at me for half a minute, and started mumbling at me.
“Oh, it’s you, the new guest. Your room isn’t paid for, so fork over the money.”
I exploded. The night before, I’d been pretty sure that he was pulling one over on me because the math wasn’t adding up
. I can be non-confrontational at times, however, and the sum wasn’t that large, so I decided just to let it go. But the second time, I realized it was going to be a regular occurrence unless I put a stop to it…
A few short steps took me around to the other side of the desk, where I slapped Holm as hard as I could. He recoiled away from me, and I grabbed his hair. Pulling him up, I looked him in the eye and quietly gave him my reply.
“You think you’re going to milk me like a cow, you little backwater scum? I’ll slit your throat and toss your body over the wall, and nobody will ever be able to prove anything to anyone. And, you know, judging by what a piece of trash you are, I don’t imagine anyone will care enough to try.”
Obviously, I knew I couldn’t actually kill him, but there was nothing in the rules about scaring him. If I could kill him, I’d kill—
“Okay, okay, I get it,” stammered a cowed Holm. “I’ll give you back what you paid yesterday, too! I’ll give it all back!”
“Put it on my account,” I replied. “And don’t let it happen again.”
“It won’t, I swear.” Holm nodded vigorously and handed me a key.
You showed conviction in standing up for your interest, something that is esteemed highly in the North.
+2 respect in Hexburg
+0.5 respect among the peoples of the North
Interesting. Just one last surprise in a day that had gone surprisingly well. I decided to look over what I’d gotten the next day once I’d gotten some sleep.
After walking into my room, I hit the button to log out.
Chapter Nine
In which the hero figures out what he’s going to do next.
Back in real life, my underlings were starting to show some real promise. That was no surprise; they’d been working on the Fayroll Times every day for more than a month, and that had given them an idea of what was expected from them, a stable routine, and a chance to get acclimated. They were also more or less acquainted with everyone at the Capital Herald, and our staff had given them all kinds of professional tips. A month in, they knew everything from how best to submit a text to why it wasn’t a good idea to sleep with Lena, one of our proofreaders.
That Tuesday morning, I was once again pleasantly surprised that the chaos had been replaced by an orderly and mature three-person team.
I should also note that the conversations they were having with my old colleagues were taking effect, as well. No longer, did they call things and processes what they’d been taught to call them at school. Instead, thank God, they were using the slang I was used to. Jeans and t-shirts had replaced the old costumes. Yushkov even had an alcoholic smell to him—it was light, if constant, the result of an apparent friendship with someone from our sports department. Yesterday’s honors graduates, to put it simply, were normal people stripped of their affected habits. It was a job well done. We ran a newspaper, after all, and not a glamor magazine.
We decided to make Rivenholm the focus of our next issue. The paper took a look at the new continent from different angles, talking about points of interest, the clans that were gaining power there and preparing to repulse potential invasions from Rattermark, and monsters that were only in the new world. We figured the issue would push more experienced players to focus on their efforts to reach the new continent, while also encouraging new players to start there.
We did have some materials, including an interview with Harry the Eye, leader of Terra Incognita. He was a harsh guy who’d switched over from Rivenholm to Rattermark after either selling or losing his previous character—a high-level tank—and founded the continent’s first clan. Anyone wishing to establish a foothold there would have to go through him.
There was plenty more to write about, and so, we even cut out some of our normal columns to come up with Special Issue: Rivenholm. Everything besides announcements, a few short columns, and the chronicle of events was pushed back to the next week. The whole thing happened spontaneously, but we figured that was a good thing.
“Huh, boss,” I heard Yushkov say a little while later as he sorted through the materials we’d pulled for the issue. “This is cool. It’s a player who looks exactly like you.”
“What?” I asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Look,” he replied, coming over. “See for yourself.”
I checked what he was pointing to and found exactly what he’d said—a player who looked exactly like me. Well, to be more precise, it actually was me. The picture was a screenshot taken by some player right when Mandiblefighter was killed. Everything was there, including Mandiblefighter with his legs cut out from under him and the clan leadership on the hill. And there I was a bit farther but no less recognizable. I looked great, too—my eyes bulged, drawing attention away from my patchwork armor…
“Come on, you have to see it,” babbled Yushkov. Who does he think he is, a photographer for the Watchful Eye? It looked like my cover was about to be blown, and I was in no hurry to have anyone there know who I was in the game. It wasn’t a secret, of course, but still.
The other three came over and looked to see what we were talking about.
“Yeah, that’s the boss, all right. Maybe it’s really you? You play, right?” laughed Samoshnikov.
I chuckled, as well, to show that I appreciated his joke. Sure, yeah, of course, that’s me, as if to say, Look at me, so cool, off spider hunting…
“I’ve heard that we all have doppelgängers in parallel realities,” said Gennady in a doleful tone. “Maybe that’s true about games, too? Maybe that player has some kind of astral connection with the boss.”
“Gennady,” I said, cutting off that line of thought. “You need to stop taking those pills. The little blue ones and the little green ones, too…that won’t end well.”
Vika had taken the whole scene in, paying special attention to Mandiblefighter, and wrinkled her forehead before asking a question.
“What’s that scary guy? Looks like a monster that's about as unnatural as it gets!”
“Unnatural? That’s Mandiblefighter,” Samoshnikov explained condescendingly. “An elite monster. And you said you were going to be writing about the monsters in the game!”
“An unnatural monster that looks like a spider? I’d never heard of that,” said Yushkov.
“Yep,” replied Vika with a smile. “Awful and terrifying.”
“And I’m supposed to lay off the pills.” Samoshnikov rolled his eyes.
Thankfully, the conversation about my double finished on that note, and I made a mental note to be better about fading into crowds when it came to moments like that. It wasn’t worth having my face out there. There wasn’t much harm in it, but I wasn’t thrilled by the prospect of turning into some kind of public figure in the game. Oh, look, it’s a Walking Fayroll Legend over there! My job was to wiggle by the battleship clans dominating the game, take care of my quests, avoid attracting attention, and leave Fayroll forever. Okay, maybe I’ll stop by every once in a while for old times’ sake.
Ah, Fayroll isn’t what it used to be, I’d say. I remember when…
Vika, by the way, was a smart cookie. She’d uncovered my dirty little secret.
Our team, really… Actually, I don’t like using that word at work. It just reminds me of all those terrible team-building exercises. Who are we? We’re a team! And…applause. So let me rephrase that.
Our group, really, was growing closer to each other. The guys realized that I wasn’t actually a monster just as they realized that they’d been in the wrong on that first day. The first issue brought us together as well. Then we’d gotten drunk together, which is the best way to get to know anyone before really jumping into the work. They were rough, but I could see real promise.
***
The two days before publication flew by as quickly as ever, but I didn’t have much to do that Wednesday besides a few little things. I’d been the good boss and set up a solid process, leaving myself free to make small adjustments and keep everyone in line.
I’d already written my main editorial the day before when Vika went home to spend some time with her sister.
And so, I spent the day thinking and studying. First, I studied, saving the thinking for the evening.
I had just finished reading all the information I could find about building a reputation in the North. The reason was simple: before that, I’d learned everything there was to know about what happens in and around the Great Fomor Palace. It didn’t look good.
But my train of thought left the station well before that. As I looted the body of the Lord of the Burial Mounds, I thought to myself how simple it was for NPCs to kill anyone at all. That brought to mind Hilda’s words about choosing the right weapon. The dirty little apple-lover had been exactly right. Choosing the right weapon was everything, and it didn’t matter who held that weapon so long as they served my interests. What was wrong with a blade in the hands of an NPC? It would kill just as simply and effectively as mine would, and even simpler and more effective given the fact that an NPC wouldn’t be subject to the penalties I was worried about. There was nothing in the quest about who exactly had to kill the Great Fomor, after all. And so my job was simple: I had to get into the throne room and summon my new friends. Done.
At least, that’s what I thought until I read all the posts written by people who’d been up by the Ice Wall. It turned out that the guy Fomor kicked out after their discussion got in less by lucky chance and more because his host actually wanted him there. Fomor was tired of all the players tramping around his palace, and so he’d ordered his guards to bring one of them in so they could have a talk. The rest, as they say, is history. Everyone else, no matter their level, both before and after that conversation, was sent back to the respawn far before they ever got anywhere near Fomor. And that was hardly a surprise.
The Great Fomor valued his life dearly, and so, in addition to the 100-strong palace guard he’d made himself out of ice, he hired a motley band made up of a couple thousand soldiers from the many different warm-blooded races in Fayroll to take up residence outside. There were also five nearby ships with fully equipped crews ready at a moment’s notice for battle on land or sea. Finally, there were rangers spread out over the distant approaches with the order to stop and destroy anyone coming toward the Ice Wall, or at least send up a signal so the regular troops could arrange a welcoming party.
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