by G. Akella
"So?" Cymon grunted.
"So?! The energy from the artifact will pass through four converters—the yellow crystals on the corner stands, and then—"
"How about another round?" the tifling interrupted his friend.
"You don't find this interesting?"
"Not really," Cymon admitted. "I cannot fathom what could be so fascinating about transferring energy from one accumulator to another. You're all mad here!" he shook his head. "Trading sleep for this madness!"
"Oh, what do you know! The paltry fourteen percent loss when transferring energy makes this method truly revolutionary!" Seeing his friend's ironic gaze, Kert gave a loud sigh and waved his hand. "Pour it! I can see I'm wasting my breath."
In the meantime, the mages in the testing hall had apparently completed their preparations and had dispersed to different corners. The one Kert had identified as Varkas held up his staff slowly, squeezing it with both hands, and shouted something. The visor didn't transmit sound, but it didn't need to—everything was clear enough. At his command, the pitch-black artifact—looking like the claw of some monstrous river crab hoisted on a small cubic altar—sprouted barely visible whitish lines that stretched toward the four crystals-converters on special stands, shaped like the main accumulator but at one third its size. The crystals were set at the top of the quadrant that was roughly ten feet wide, with the altar at the center, and the lines of power emanating from them interlocked at the dark body of the accumulator, which floated several feet above the altar.
"It's working," there were notes of awe in Kert's voice. "Varkas really is a genius. All right, let's get back to the table—we've got another two hours, at least," he nodded at the visor.
"Was Lita very upset?" asked the mage when they returned to their seats.
"Nah," Cymon smiled. "She's known you a long time."
"I really do feel bad," Kert said guiltily. "And I haven't seen my namesake in a month."
Suddenly the room shook. The multicolor indicators on the metal cabinets started blinking their alarm, and an ominous buzzing sounded from the accumulator's direction.
"What the..." Kert looked around alarmingly, and his eyes stopped on the visor. "Gods!" he exclaimed, rushing over to the screen, with the tifling following closely behind.
Something inconceivable was happening in the testing hall: in place of the construction erected by the mages now gaped the black mirror of a portal, out of which poured giant insect-like creatures resembling wingless flies the size of dogs. Wearing a shroud of grayish haze, the beasts dispersed quickly throughout the hall, leaving a trail of brown-green tracks. To the right of the portal, a dark disgusting mass rolled in a putrid pool, shuffling a dozen six-foot-long tentacles. The monster's eyes stared unblinkingly into the hall, its jaws moving slowly, masticating what was left of Master Varkas. The other participants of this experiment were lying nearby—still alive, but not for long by the look of things. Their bodies were decomposing in real time, twitching in the pool of that abominable liquid.
The protective canopy covering the central section of the hall had vanished, and all hell had broken loose in the tribunes: some of the mages were convulsing in agony, others were still fighting off the fiends, but most were already lifeless.
Out of the entire hall, only six could be seen working together. Having put up their shields, they were unleashing the full arsenal of their respective schools upon the gray beast.
"What the Hart is going on?!" Cymon pulled on the sleeve of his flabbergasted friend.
"Death," Kert whispered, his face ashen. "Death has come to Nittal."
"Snap out of it!" The tifling shook the mage roughly. "You're talking gibberish!"
"That is the Agent of Death, and its minions carrying the plague. There's nobody left in Nittal who can oppose the monster—all the powerful necromancers and healers have gone off with the legions. Varkas was the only one left who could... but..." Kert nodded at the screen.
The monster in the testing hall began to quake—hard enough that a gnawed-off arm stuck halfway out of its maw—then jumped back fifteen feet. A wave of rot spread from it in all directions, covering the hall with a brownish taint. One of the attacking mages' shield popped, and he crumpled to the floor. One of the corpses in the pool of ooze twitched, his ribcage parted and a bloody abomination rose from the remains—identical to those pouring out of the black portal.
"There must be something we can do" the punisher bellowed and shook his friend by the scruff of his shirt. "You're smart, god damnit, think of something!"
The demon's head dangled helplessly, and his eyes stopped on the main accumulator.
"Wait," Kert's hand pushed the tifling in the chest. "I know!" he shouted, his voice back to normal.
"Spit it out."
"We're already dead, you and I. But we can still save the city," the mage spoke quickly. He bolted to the front door and began opening it. "There's no way we're surviving this, anyway..."
"Cut to the point!" Cymon broke in, following right behind.
"I will blow up the accumulator and let the fire burn out the blight, but I will need about ten minutes. There's a box hanging on the wall in the first floor hallway—you passed it on the way here. Break the glass and turn the lever. In three minutes, the hallway will put up an invisible screen that the Agent of Death won't be able to pass through so easily." The short demon in a wrinkled brown mantle looked his friend in the eye. "Cymon, if even one of those beasts escapes, all of Nittal will turn into a necropolis by nightfall. With the damp weather, the plague will spread almost instantly. That's it," Kert gave the tifling a quick impulsive hug. "Farewell, my friend! Run!"
Cymon rushed out of the room and, unsheathing his swords and shifting into combat form on the go, zipped down the dark corridor. Out of the corner of his ear he heard the mithril door slam shut behind him. The tifling didn't give a damn about anyone—and especially not about himself—but up there in the sleeping city he had a wife and a young son. He could not afford to die without completing his task.
He was at the metal block in twenty seconds. The glass shattered from the strike with the butt end of his sword, and the tifling turned the sandpapery lever after the indicated arrow. There was a soft buzzing sound. Now all he had to do was hold the line for three minutes. Cymon moved another ten yards toward the entrance to the passageway, where the plague carriers were most likely to emerge, and froze, his form relaxed.
For about one minute nothing was happening, but then he heard scratching noises coming from the staircase leading down. The first two beasts, who were even more repulsive in person than on the screen, died instantly. Cymon shoved their corpses—chopped in half and oozing green goo—aside and to the wall, trying to conserve his breath. Three more carriers emerged from the stairs, scurrying, and then a few more. Cymon became a three-handed vortex of steel, with the mithril tip at the end of his tail striking down the plague spreaders with just as much precision as the blades in his hands. But the fiends poured forth faster than he could kill them, and there came a point when the tifling realized that in another twenty-thirty seconds the torrent would become too much, and one of the carriers would surely slip by him. The punisher howled with despair at the thought.
The help came unexpectedly. There was a shuffling of feet at his back, and suddenly a wall of fire went up before Cymon, burning alive the stream of monsters rushing him. The tifling turned around. He was struggling to breathe, having inhaled too many toxic fumes. Despite all his defenses, he didn't have long to live.
"Allet?" he wheezed.
The old gatekeeper had transformed. Maintaining the spell with arms raised to shoulder level, his eyes glaring bright yellow beneath the massive arcs of those bushy brows. In his combat form, the demon looked nothing like the old grouch Cymon used to know.
"Master Allet, if you will," the old gatekeeper hissed, coming up to the tifling. "This shield," he nodded at the box buzzing on the wall, "is not going to hold the Agent of Death," he stated gri
mly.
"Kert will blow up the accumulator soon, and the fire will burn out all this filth..." the tifling doubled over in a fit of coughing. Despite the draft coming in from the street, the stench in the hallway was unbearable.
"You and your friend Master Kert have done well," the old demon smiled weakly—he was using all his strength to keep up the spell. "Sure, the lord will need to rebuild half the palace, but it's a fair price to pay for saving the city."
"Master, but why are you—"
"I've got family up there, too. Three granddaughters..." A translucent screen went up with a swoosh behind them, blocking passage. "There we go," the old mage sighed wearily. "I'm happy to have met you and Master Kert. I'll hold out another three minutes or so. The rest is up to the two of you."
"Thank you, Allet," the tifling just remembered that he'd forgotten to thank the old demon...
When the wall of fire died down, and the old mage collapsed onto the tiles, having given his all to the cause, Cymon leaped on top of the heap of scorched corpses and bellowed his legion's war cry.
The tifling became death incarnate. His two swords and tail were pure lightning, slicing through the darkness and monsters' bodies as if through butter. His armor—buffed to the max with all resistances—endured their bites with ease, as he no longer needed to hold the line or preserve his strength. He began to feel pain somewhere on the outskirts of his consciousness, but he could not stop. He had to keep a step ahead lest it swept over him.
How long did he have left? The tifling dodged a plague carrier that had leaped at his chest, cutting down the fiend in midair. What if Kert were to fail? Cymon slipped on the tiles, but kept his balance. Three more beasts materialized before him. He chopped down twice and leaped to the side, whipping the third target with his edged mithril tip, knocking it down. A quick step forward and his blade pierced right through the disoriented foe.
There were squelching sounds from the staircase, as the Agent of Death himself crawled into the hallway. The quaggy, sponge-like mass and the trail of brown-green slime underneath now blocked nearly the entire space. A set of unblinking yellow eyes bored into now-still Cymon. What the hell is happening with Kert? The tifling noticed the monster start to shake and, remembering what usually followed, covered the twenty-yard distance between him and the Agent of Death with a single leap. Cymon kicked with his metallic boot, interrupting the monster's cast, then drove both of his heirloom blades into the beast's unblinking eyes.
The floor beneath him gave way. Paying no mind to the bloodcurdling wail of the wounded monster, Cymon gazed into the mouth of the volcano bearing down on them. Smiling, as if to an old friend...
***
"Can you hear me? What's wrong with you?" Master Prant kept asking me in distress.
I was standing, gripping the tabletop, my breath short and shallow. It took me several seconds to realize the vision was over. No more plague carriers, no more Agents of Death. What have I done to deserve this... I sighed mentally, then said to Prant:
"I'm all right, master. Just got dizzy for a bit, is all."
"You need a medic, young man," the demon shook his head. "You were standing there with your eyes closed for a good five minutes. I didn't know what to do with you."
"At least it wasn't a few hours," I chuckled. "I will definitely take your advice. But for now, I must take my leave." I nodded goodbye to him. Then, lurching slightly, I left the premises.
I was sitting in the shade of a small tree by the pond, next to the library, gazing at the calm water and gradually recovering my senses. The clock was showing close to noon; there was a ton of time till dinner at Ylsan's, so I wasn't in any hurry. In essence, I already knew what needed to be done, but I didn't want to change my plans. New information certainly wouldn't hurt, nor a chat with the healer's father.
So, what did I find out? That Krajde was a barbarian princedom spanning two provinces, and that it was cursed by Ahriman. Some answers, but a boatload more questions as well.
First of all, barbarians weren't supposed to have princedoms; they lived in clans or tribes. That much I knew, and I didn't feel like looking up barbarian culture on wiki. Could Prant have been wrong? No, NPCs couldn't err—if he didn't know the answer, he would have simply kept quiet. Fine, let's just accept it as a given that barbarians had decided to found a princedom—what the hell did I care?
Secondly, why would Ahriman bother cursing a fairly large territory like that? I had no doubt that he was capable of it—after all, he was on par with gods here—but what was the point? He'd already driven out the light army, so why curse the land? Even if he had somehow learned that the light forces were hiding somewhere, it still didn't make sense since the curse wouldn't affect them. Maybe the reason had to do with the actions of the local lord whom the Foxes and Altus' mages had put to rest? There was something about the renounced and cursed gods... The second version seemed more probable, but it didn't really matter—I wouldn't know anything anyway until I got to the archives. Unless Ylsan's father had something to say on the matter.
Thirdly, I now knew the cause of the explosion and fire in the west wing, and the journey through those two floors was shaping up to be rather interesting. I wasn't worried about encountering anything truly scary—according to Prant, the area had already been cleared by mages when extracting the equipment. I was close to the ruined section of the palace, and had the time to at least walk over and sneak a peek.
It took me about ten minutes to get there. I'd passed a small lovely park with a fountain and several sculptural formations, rounded the barracks and ended up in the desired place. There wasn't anyone around save for a few gardeners a hundred yards away cutting the lawns. I didn't see any desolation around me, but only a long one-story extension with a solitary door. Even to the untrained eye it was obvious that this structure used to be at least several stories higher—it was simply too much of an eye sore amid the general architectural style.
I stopped near a large metal door leading to a level 80-85 instance, and sighed mentally—getting answers in the near future wasn't in the cards. Maybe there were games out there where a character could solo a dungeon ten levels above their level, but I sure as hell didn't know any. Considering that mobs in instances were roughly twice stronger than regular ones and usually came in packs of three to five, I'd need to be at least 100 before attempting this venture, and even that was optimistic. What was it Gerid had said? Small stuff: mice, rats, pups and the like... Maybe he didn't need to worry, but me... I shivered at the mental image of a level 85 mouse, then shrugged and, with a sigh of disappointment, set out to look for the healer's house.
In order to find the residence of my demon acquaintance, I had to skirt the entire territory of the Temple of All Gods. Passing by those white brick walls I realized it wouldn't hurt to have a peek inside the actual temple. In a world where gods were a real force, visiting a place in which you could address such a force directly could certainly prove useful. Besides, I'd already managed to gain the favor of one goddess. It was settled, then—after visiting Ylsan I would return to the temple and donate some money to Setara. What if something might come my way eventually as a result?
Once past the temple enclosure, I was finally on the right street. The large three-story house of the healer's family stood deep in the garden, barely visible from the main street. I pushed the creaking gate and proceeded along a narrow gravel road. Everything around me spoke of a woman's touch: the neatly pruned lilac bushes, the beds of daffodils and tulips set elegantly atop decorative stone, the small pool on the lawn, and the marble statue of a woman with a pitcher peeking through the fruit trees.
An elderly demoness in a white apron opened the door.
"You must be Krian. Young master said you were coming," she squinted at me nearsightedly. When I nodded affirmatively, she stood aside to let me through. "I'm going to call him. Please wait here," she gestured at the leather sofa just past the front door.
I thanked the woman, took a seat an
d waited, examining the fantastical potted plants.
"You're Krian?" a young girl stood on the steps of the staircase to the second floor, holding the rail. She wore a dress of pale pink, with a matching ribbon adorning the tip of her tail.
"I am, my lady," I rose from the couch and bowed my head slightly in a greeting.
The girl ran down the stairs and walked right up to me. She curtsied, then blatantly sized me down. She couldn't have been older than fourteen years of age, and her eyes burned with curiosity.
"I'm Velda, Raey's sister. And what's a 'lady'? Is that how you address women where you come from? Will you tell me what life is like up there?""
"Raey?" I echoed.
"Yes, Raey Dar Ylsan, my brother. Thank you for saving him, by the way."
"Got it," I smiled. "You're right, 'my lady' is the proper way to address a woman. And life up there is pretty similar to here, actually."
"Don't embarrass our guest, Velda," came a soft voice that belonged to a demoness around forty, wearing a house dress of dyed linen. Ylsan was standing right behind her, smiling.
"Daressa Ylsan," she introduced herself, extending her hand. "As you've probably realized, I am the mother of this young man, and I am very grateful to you for his safe return."
"Don't mention it, really," I was feeling awkward.
"Do you have children, Krian?"
"No," I said, and thought somberly that I probably would never have them. Then again, who knew with RP-17? Perhaps it had or would eventually manage to implement even this function...
"When you get them, you'll understand," she smiled. "My husband will be here in time for dinner. The table will be set in half an hour, so don't be late. Children, won't you show our guest the garden?" She gave her daughter a stern look for some reason, nodded at me and took her leave.
"Come," the mage beckoned me. He wore a pair of black silk pants and an orange tunic untucked.
