Fasster admired the weapon, a longsword as common looking and inconspicuous as could be. One would find hundreds of such weapons as loot on the bodies of lesser goblins and rogues or in level-one treasure chests.
But this… this plain, faintly rusted blade, was part of the genius of the mod. Nobody who faced him, or even gave him a cursory glance, would suspect the powers of the Sword of Absolute, Total, and Utter Invincibility.
The Sword of Atui.
He slashed the air. Oh, this was going to be good. Hig-Tuli wouldn’t give the blade a second look as she charged, spittle drooping from her ravenous jaws, bellowing animal curses and reaching with her immense claws to rend him to pieces.
He only hoped her severed head would retain a moment of consciousness to realize just what had happened, to see who had vanquished her. Warmth filled Fasster’s chest, and a feeling he’d never felt before made his face split into a grin.
Pride.
The feeling wisped away like candle smoke in a breeze as he beheld what lay around the final bend.
* * *
A raiding party of no less than twelve jerks was congregated at the cave’s maw. With that many raiders, there was no way Hig-Tuli would survive. And if they killed her before Fasster did, he would have to wait weeks for her to respawn. Assuming she ever did. The thought that his victory might be stolen made Fasster’s blood sizzle in his brain.
A druid wearing a red cloak embroidered with verdant ivy vines turned away from the scrum of raiders and spotted Fasster. Black locks plumed from the hood which masked the druid's face.
It was too late to retreat, so Fasster dismounted and sent Nodo off to sniff around in the bushes. The reskin of his mount had a bug that overlooked a horse's tendency to eat grass. Fasster was vaguely embarrassed when Nodo starting munching away and trying to flick flies away with his cropped tail.
“Hail, sir,” said the druid in a feminine alto. “By the looks of you, you're a stealth archer.” The druid paused and took in Fasster's loadout of equipment. “And it appears you have secondary skills in one-handed weapons.”
By now the rest of the raiding party had convened behind the druid. A tank wearing nothing but a loincloth and three hundred pounds of muscle nudged the red cloaked figure. He braced a club the size of a parking meter on his shoulder. “You no invited. We no share XP with raid crashers.”
A chorus of agreement burbled from the others. From the looks of them they were all equipped with magic weapons. They had way more scars and achievement tattoos than players Fasster usually saw on this level.
A wave of defiant irritation arose in Fasster's heart. “I didn't come here to join your pathetic raiding party.”
Muscle Tank laughed. “You fight Rage Bear by self?”
Fasster let silence be his answer. He couldn't help but rest his hand on the pommel of his rusty sword.
The others laughed and shook their heads at his stupidity. All save the druid. With feather light steps, the red cloak approached. Long, nimble fingers pulled the hood back to reveal a mane of raven hair framing a face of such delicate beauty that Fasster wanted to take back all of his previous words and pledge his life and honor to her.
When she spoke, her words were soft with concern. “Do you truly mean to fight Hig-Tuli alone? Again?”
Fasster swallowed, conscious of the smirks aimed his way from all of the other raiders. He stiffened and jutted his chin forward. “I do.” His voice sounded weak in his own ears. “But how do you know I've tried before?”
She smiled and stepped closer. Fasster thought her heard the tinkle of wind chimes as she moved. Her presence made him slightly dizzy and the air smelled of strange and intoxicating flowers. “It's one of my talents. I can see the past.” Her eyes—large and luminous—dropped to Fasster's sword, then snapped up to meet his gaze.
There was no way she could know about the Sword of Atui. Was there?
She pulled her hood up and turned to address the raiding party. “I believe Fasster was led here by Fate to assist us, though he knows it not. I say we include him.”
Fasster blinked. He hadn't told her his name. And he certainly didn’t want to join the group.
Except he would do it if it would please her.
The smirks all disappeared. The Muscle Tank's face went red with fury, but amazingly he said nothing. A knight—visor lifted to expose a hard face with ebony eyes--even wore a look of interest. Next to him a cliché dwarf fighter with two axes strapped to his back stroked his braided beard and gave Fasster a reappraising look.
“What's your name?” Fasster called to the druid.
The beautiful red-cloaked woman did not respond. Instead, a spellcaster bearing a twisted staff ambled near. He was outwardly elderly, but had the bearing of an excited ten-year-old. “Everyone knows Jaconde.”
“Not me.”
“How is that possible? She’s legendary.”
“I play solo and I don’t chitchat in towns.”
Jaconde calmly addressed the party. “Our stealthy friend has been in Deller's Cave several times before. He’s faced Hig-Tuli, and has met many honorable deaths.”
The party laughed, but this time they seemed to give him different looks. Their eyes squinted and the smiles seemed to include him rather than mock him. Three witches—all dressed alike in black robes—conferred in cackling mumbles.
In unison, they spoke. “Lonely! Sullen! Bitter!”
Jaconde smiled sadly. “True.”
The witches pointed gnarled fingers at Fasster and repeated their declaration. Or maybe it was a denunciation.
Jaconde’s face turned dark and she was clearly losing patience. “Anyone can change.”
“He dies alone! Alone he dies! He dies alone!” the witches cried, eyes flaming at Fasster.
Before Jaconde could respond, Fasster stepped forward. “Fine. I’ll go in alone. I was going to anyway.”
“No.” Jaconde turned away from the witches and they bowed their heads. She challenged the rest of the raiders with her eyes, each in turn bowed to her will. Fasster was not surprised. Just being in her presence made him want to please her.
Even so, this was not at all what Fasster had wanted. Killing the bear—Hig-Tuli—was meant to be a test of his new weapon. He’d never intended to do it in front of an audience.
He pursed his lips as a new thought filled his brain.
Audience…
Would it not be better to have an audience for his triumph? A band of witnesses to testify that he had, in fact, single-handedly defeated Hig-Tuli?
Yes, he thought. That would be better. And Jaconde would see him do it too. That would impress her. He so desperately wanted to impress her.
Jaconde’s voice interrupted his musings of glory. “Fasster, please tell us what to expect in the cave.”
Conscious of the eyes bathing him with attention, he cleared his throat. “As you all know, Hig-Tuli is a rage bear. She is tough as a dragon, with a health meter a mile long. She is always pacing in the cavern at the end of the entry tunnel. Even with my stealth skills, I can only get within twenty meters before she senses my presence. She'll hear the tank—and you other stumble-footed clods—well before that. An arrow will get a stealth bonus, but that might as well be a pinprick. The best I've ever done was three arrows into her flank and one critical eye shot. That didn’t even slow her down. Two swipes of her claws and I was out.” Fasster deliberately eyed the Muscle Tank, whose name, it turned out, was Krahp. “You might be able to take three or four swipes.”
Krahp grunted something that was clearly against the Feyland Terms of Service and flexed his pecs.
Okay, Fasster grudgingly admitted, maybe Krahp could take five swipes from Hig-Tuli.
Fasster was warming to having an attentive audience and was about to go on, but Jaconde interrupted him. Not by speaking, but simply by taking one step forward. All eyes followed her.
With a voice barely above a whisper, she assigned the raiders their roles in the attack. Each nodd
ed respectfully and took their place in one of two lines. Fasster saw the red-cloaked leader was dividing the force into two waves, each roughly balanced with melee and range specialists or casters.
His eyes lingered on two female archers with blond braids. They were identical twins. They wore forest green genie pants, flowy crop top blouses, and curly-toed boots. Strictly speaking, the outfits were utterly impractical, especially for a raid. But wow!
“That’s Eve and Riah,” said the elderly spellcaster, nudging Fasster’s shoulder. His name was Doodoodalf (“everyone just calls me Dalf”), which confirmed to Fasster he was actually talking to a ten-year-old. “The twins are the two finest archers I've ever seen. They’re also pretty handy with their bows.”
Fasster allowed himself a chuckle, but couldn’t help but appraise the competition. He was no slouch with a bow, but these players were higher level. And the more he studied their equipment, the higher he estimated their experience was. Each of the twins bore Relic Bows, unique and endowed with powerful charms. No way to know what they would do just by looking, but the scrollwork and runes carved in the supple wood spoke of ancient magics.
“And you,” Jaconde said to Fasster, “I want you to go in last.”
“Last?” Fasster blurted. “But I was going to scout out the situation.”
The woman’s hood shadowed her face, but Fasster thought he detected amusement in the chime tinkles coming from her. “You've already scouted it. Twelve times.”
“But—”
She was suddenly standing toe to toe with him. The rest of the world went out of focus and the sounds of the raiders’ conversations dulled to an unintelligible warble. Chimes sounded again and her floral scent made him woozy.
Jaconde placed her delicate hand on his chest. Heat seemed to sear his skin beneath his leathers. It didn't exactly hurt, but it made his heart race and his vision swim. Only two points of light remained in the world. Glimmers from Jaconde's eyes.
Her whisper floated in his mind, as if she had somehow bypassed his ears and spoken directly into his brain. “Hold back. Watch the others to find the beast’s weakness. Then strike.”
Like the flip of a switch, vision and sound returned. Jaconde was already—impossibly—disappearing into the mouth of the cave.
“How does it feel?” Dalf asked.
“How does what feel?”
“The armor buff Jaconde just cast on your ass. What else?”
So that's what she'd done, cast a protective spell to improve his armor rating. The buff would probably last for the fight with Hig-Tuli, then wear off.
“I've never heard of her doing that for anyone before,” Dalf said as they moved to the end of their assigned line. “You must be very special indeed.” He flicked a finger against Fasster’s shoulder, making an odd thunk.
Fasster looked down, surprised to discover his leather armor replaced by… vines. He ran his fingers along the ivy armor, lingering on a sprout of leaves on one shoulder—like a living epaulet. He couldn't help but marvel. His armor was quite literally alive. He swung his arms and twisted, surprised at how supple it was.
As the last raiders disappeared into the cave, Fasster took a final glance at the world of daylight. It was the same Feyland he’d been exploring for over a year, but for some reason it felt different.
Shrugging, he followed Dalf into the dark and chill guts of Deller’s Cave.
* * *
A caster at the front of the procession had produced a dim ball of red light. It made the moisture trickling down the walls look like blood.
Dalf chanted quietly, preparing some spell or other. Fasster had never liked being a caster in games. Learning spells had always felt vaguely like homework.
A dissonant chime sounded in his head, followed by a woman’s stern voice. “System Temperature Warning 83°C.”
“Dammit,” he breathed.
Dalf gave him a concerned glance.
“It's nothing. My rig is overheating a little.”
“You rockin’ an overclocked spark wagon?”
“Yeah. But it’s more wagon than spark.”
Dalf chuckled. “I’m driving a fourth generation FullD. Got it for Christmas. My brother had a fit when he…”
Fasster tuned out the mage’s ramblings. He didn’t understand why was his rig was overheating. With his bedroom open and the fan going, it should be below freezing in his room by now. Fasster spat with disgust. There was only one answer. Dad had come upstairs and felt the draft coming from Fasster's room. He'd barged in and shut the window. He’d probably mumbled something about not being made of money and heating bills or some other nonsense.
At least Dad hadn't pulled Fasster from the game. The last time he'd done that, Fasster had suffered the worst migraine of his life.
He tried to calculate how much time this encounter with Hig-Tuli would take. The problem was that the more intense the game got, the more cycles his rig needed to keep up.
If the system got above 93°C, the operating system would override Fasster’s already-dangerous overrides and shut down. And if he was in-game when that happened… There was a reason why the User License included a disclaimer about simming on overclocked rigs.
A shut down could put him in a coma for weeks. If he was lucky.
A gut-twisting roar filled the tunnel with waves of rage. Hig-Tuli had discovered the raiding party. Ahead, the twins sprinted forward, nocking arrows as they ran.
“Something went wrong,” Dalf said.
“Krahp?”
The old-looking spellcaster nodded, a wry smile twisting his mustaches. “Aye, Krahp happens.”
If Jaconde had let Fasster finish briefing them, he would have been able to tell her about the side tunnel. But since he was the only stealth expert in the group, perhaps nobody would have used it anyway.
“Come with me,” Fasster said to Dalf. “I know how we can get behind the bear.” He needed to get this encounter over with and surface from the sim, and quick.
Dalf tapped his staff on the floor and soft blue light shone forth. “Lead on, my friend.”
Fasster dragged his hand along the cool wet stone of the wall. “The tunnel opening moves, but it's always on this wall somewhere.”
Dalf shook his staff and the top glowed with a ball of flickery amber light. The bloody walls turned to honey.
“Thanks, but the opening is invisible.”
“Then how did you find it the first time?”
“I fell through it once when I was running awa—uh, regrouping.”
His hand suddenly slid up to the wrist into the rock wall. “Aha! Follow me.” He plunged through the illusory wall and into the ink-black side passage.
Fasster was thankful for Dalf’s stafflight. Usually he lit a torch in here, but the smoke always made him choke and that alerted Hig-Tuli.
The sound of battle dulled as they plunged deeper into the narrow passage. “Careful here,” Fasster said as he knelt to squeeze through a particularly narrow point. “Ice spiders.”
Dalf made a dismissive spitting noise. “Stand aside. I’ll fry ‘em.”
Fasster did as he was told. Dalf muttered for a moment and thrust his staff into the narrowing. A burst of flame, like someone torching a pool of gasoline, flashed for a split moment. Shrill cries of ice spiders followed immediately after. “Flee! Flee!” they shrieked in pipsqueak voices. “The sneak-who-dies is returned with magical fire!”
“I didn’t know they could talk,” Dalf said, face drooping with obvious regret. “I’ve toasted thousands of those little devils in my day.”
Fasster scrambled through the narrowing tunnel. Dalf emerged after him, regal robes and beard smudged with soot. The passage widened and turned a corner before coming to an apparent dead end. Fasster skidded to a stop.
“There’s a narrow ledge on the other side of the wall. It’s at Hig-Tuli’s shoulder height, so don’t think for one second you’re out of range of her claws.”
Taking a deep breath, he stepped th
rough the wall and into chaos.
* * *
Having never been on a raid before, Fasster was momentarily stunned by the cacophony of blasts and roars and cries that met him in the cave. The great Hig-Tuli stood on her hind legs in the center of the cavern, taking great swipes at Krahp. Though he’d seen her many times before, her size took his breath away. This was no mere grizzly bear, this was a monster the size of a minivan.
Her black fur stood up at the hackles as she battled the raiders. Upon her hind feet, she towered over her adversaries, a raging giant. Mouth open, lips pulled back, her teeth glistened in the flashes of magic bolts and flames coming from the casters. Drips of slaver dangled from her great maw. And if this wasn’t fearful enough, her eyes glowed red, showing that her Rage Might was upon her.
Blood streamed from gaping claw marks on each of Krahp’s shoulders and ran in rivulets down his chest. Face contorted with battle madness, he met the rage bear blow for blow. His club swung in huge arcs, and made the bear’s furry hide ripple with every impact. Already, the beast’s pelt was pincushioned with arrows. A glance told Fasster that the twins would soon be out of arrows.
“Where’s Jaconde?” Fasster asked into the air as he searched for their leader.
The bear was encircled by raiders. The knight stumbled and tottered, swinging wildly. His helm had been caved in, misaligning his visor and blinding him. The stocky axe-wielding dwarf hurled more curses at the bear than he did blows. But when he did choose to swing, the blades seemed to bounce off the bear with no effect.
“Egads!” Dalf shouted. His face was drawn and he seemed to stagger back. “She’s immune!”
“What?”
“To magic. Look!”
At first Fasster didn’t know what he was supposed to see. But then a caster sent a fireball at the bear’s face. It should have left her as crispy as a match head. Instead, the eldritch fire glanced off the great beast like a ping pong ball and fizzled into a wisp of smoke.
System Temperature Alarm: 89°C
Fasster drew his sword. He had to end this now.
“Hold!” Dalf yelled, grabbing Fasster’s shoulder. “If you jump into the melee you’ll be dead in two seconds.”
Chronicle Worlds: Feyland Page 7
