Dean breathed out through his teeth, and tried to ignore the dull ache in his knee and hands. The central heating was on – it always was – and it felt stifling, too hot, and restricting. He was in pain, and there was nothing that he could do about it.
Right in that moment of pure, physical discomfort, Dean would have given anything to swap his real life for his virtual one forever.
*
“So? What do you think?” Nurse Marcy asked him the next day at his occupational therapy session. It was mid-morning by the time that her round got to him, and she brought with her the same old manipulation ball for him to try. But this time Dean’s hands could barely clutch it, let along unlock its opening mechanism.
“Dammit!” he swore, throwing the thing down onto the bed. “It’s no use. I thought you said that the virtual therapy would help me heal!?”
Marcy frowned. “It is, stupid.” She had become a lot more familiar now that he shared Aldaron with her. She treats me like she can boss me around, like I’m a noob in real life as well as the game. “You’re experiencing muscle agitation and swelling. It’s what happens as wounds heal, especially wounds as serious as yours.” She turned to rummage in her bag, taking out a clipboard to write some notes as she produced a small bottle of pills.
“I’m going to be adding a very slight muscle relaxant and anti-inflammatory to your dailies, okay? That should help with the pain more than any painkiller.” She tapped the pad as she thought. “Your body thinks it went to another world last night, fought Kobolds, ran from the Freebooters, so it’s reacting as if you have exercised those nerves, inflaming them. This is all really great progress,” she said encouragingly. “I just don’t understand why you turned down Skullcrusher – or Isaiah. He was trying to be your friend, you know.”
“I know,” Dean said, feeling surly and annoyed. Why do I have to have all this trouble and stress? Why do I have to have this broken body? “It’s just…” Dean sighed deeply. “In the game, everyone acts like a hero. Skullcrusher – Isaiah, wanted me to be another hero with him, go off and kill dragons or rescue princesses or whatever. But I’m not a hero, Marcy.” Dean found his lips quivering a little as he spoke. “I got beaten up in my own store, badly. I don’t think I even managed to land one punch before I was running, terrified.”
The shame stung Dean more than the pain of his bruised and broken body did. I’m no hero, I’m just a coward, he thought, feeling his heart start to hammer, and his breathing go shallow as he thought about the burglars.
“Dean? Dean.” Marcy’s soft hand was over his own, and she was lowering her head to look into his eyes. “Shhh. It’s okay. Can you hear me? Come back to me, Dean.”
Very slowly, Dean’s heart started to beat back to normal, and his breathing deepened under Marcy’s care. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m not panicking, I’m okay…”
“No, you are not okay, Dean,” his friend said critically. “You went through a traumatic experience, and this is one of the after-effects of that. You were very brave, Dean. You should realize that about yourself. And Skullcrusher – I can’t call him that – Crusher? He won’t care what you think you are. He’s probably just like you and me; another guy somewhere out there in the world who’s trying to enjoy a bit of his life…”
“Los Angeles,” Dean interrupted. “Crusher lives in Los Angeles.”
“That’s not too far away, you know. If you two become friends, there’s nothing stopping you from actually talking to him. In real life.”
Dean shuddered. “No. That would be weird. Aldaron is just a game, that’s all.”
“You talk to me, don’t you, Dean?” Marcy said with a frown, looking at him earnestly.
Dean hated the look of pity on her face. Just say it. I’m a cripple. I’m a good-for-nothing, about-to-be-homeless cripple.
“Just back off, okay Marcy?” Dean heard himself say caustically – his pain and self-hate making him lash out at the nurse looking at him. It was worse that she appeared to be so sympathetic. As if she could understand just how bad this is for me! “I don’t need your help, Marcy – and I’m not about to go buddying-up with the first person I meet in an online game, just because my real life is turning to crap!”
“Oh, I see.” Marcy released his hand and stood up. “Look, I’ve got to get on with the rest of my round, but I’ll check back in here later. Or you can send me a message through the Shrine of Tirael, in King’s City?” Marcy said, pausing at the door. “One thing, Dean – I know you’ve had it rough, but you’re going to have to go easier on yourself if you’re going to heal, and you’re going to have to stop pushing people away who want to be your friend.” At that, she turned and walked out, leaving Dean alone and stunned at her words.
“Okay,” Dean said, feeling even more stupid than he had done before.
Chapter 9: Grum’s Challenge
The Dwarvish Embassy of the Duma was aptly named, Dean thought, as he stood outside it, once again in the world of Aldaron. It stood set into a small cobbled plaza where the only ornamentation was that of an onyx statue of a dwarf striking a lump of black rock with a hammer. It looked so lifelike that Dean almost imagined it to come alive at any moment and for the ink-black boulder he was striking to shatter like a gun shot.
But even that wasn’t the most impressive sight in the plaza.
Dean had found this place easily – not even having to ask for directions this time, instead following the lines of dwarves who hurried back and forth from their spiritual home here in the King’s City. Down narrow alleyways and short, straight roads, he emerged into this place, surrounded on three sides by elaborately constructed buildings made of a cream-yellow stone, with archways and pillars, and high, narrow windows. I guess it’s clear who made them, then… Dean thought, as his eyes swept across the plaza to the building that he was actually here for.
The Iron Hall.
It didn’t gleam, and it wasn’t a trim and tidy building. It didn’t sparkle or shine like the smooth faces of the statue. Instead, its dark blue-gray, almost black blockwork was interspersed with pillars of roughly shaped slag iron many hundreds of feet tall, and holding the balconies and arches of the floors above, as it shot high into the sky. Far above he could see the steep peaks of the roof, where a flock of black-feathered birds were gathering.
Dean shuddered. The iron of its construction had the look of something organic, like it was the congealed blood of the earth itself, poured and instantly solidified into lines. Deep rust blooms spread here and there in fantastic shades of red, green, purple, and blue up the metal. This building didn’t need any artful decoration, or finely painted display; the natural properties of the matter was enough.
“That is incredible…” Dean whispered, for all of its imposing stance.
“Ha! First time to the Iron Hall, is it, mage?” said a voice, and Dean looked down to a see a diminutive fellow who looked similar to a dwarf – but not quite. He was smaller, not so stocky, and had no beard – just wispy whiskers that he smoothed with hands in fingerless mitts. Two large, pointed ears swept back from the sides of his head, and his clothes had medieval faintly medieval look; a jerkin and some trousers, a small leather apron over all of that.
“Augustus Bothy, gnome to the Ambassador!” the little man said, nodding to the building. “Come on, might as well see you get to whoever you want to get to. What is it? Why are you here?” The little man moved ahead of him through the crowd of dwarves as fast as a cat.
“Hey – wait up!” Dean immediately felt stupid and slow, apologizing and excusing himself as he followed the gnome through the crowds to the hall itself.
“The Iron Halls are the Duma’s sign of their power, see?” The gnome was waiting for him at the entrance to the building itself, as a parade of dwarfs wearing tall hats walked past solemnly, carrying incense burners. “Just as the Judgment of the Elves have their Shrine, the Dwarves here have the Iron Halls. Inside, they’re the ones who are boss!” h
e said with a warning waggle of his eyebrows, nodding for Dean to follow.
Dean’s footsteps echoed against the dizzying black-and-white checkered marble of the floors, as the smaller, lighter footsteps of the ambassadorial gnome seemed to not make any noise at all! The entrance hall was large, but it wasn’t quiet, or deserted. The low mumble of other groups of (primarily) dwarves could be heard throughout the hall, as they stood in twos or threes, or else congregated in huddles of muttered conversations. Large booths of stone lined the walls next to wide semi-circular archways, lit by strange glowing crystals. In these booths were high counters (higher than Dean was tall), and sitting behind on stilt-like chairs were dwarves wearing smart and constrained black suits, apparently writing records or passing judgment.
“Here, seeing as I don’t know your face, I’ll be nice, I’ll get you a spot with a clerk...” Augustus sighed theatrically. “It’s all about keeping peace between the factions, after all. Can’t have you going off and telling the other humans that the dwarves and gnomes aren’t friendly!”
Dean watched as Augustus bickered in a guttural and harsh language with one of the gathering groups of dwarves, before he was waved onto a booth and allowed to speak to the high-mounted dwarfish clerk above.
“One beanpole – uh, human, I mean, officer!” the gnome called, and Dean watched as the clerk raised a bushy eyebrow to regard him, shrugged, and turned over a new leaf to start writing.
“Name?” the clerk said.
“Dean,” Dean said, feeling a little self-conscious. Should I have picked a super-cool name like Skullcrusher or Mirelle, yet?
“Dean.” The clerk looked a little exasperated at this but wrote it down anyway. “And what business brings you, a human, to the Iron Halls?”
Dean swallowed nervously. “I want to train, sir.”
The clerk coughed. “Train? I beg your pardon?”
“Train as a smith, sir – and I heard that the dwarves of the Duma are the best smiths in the entire world!” Dean said.
“Well, that is true…” The clerk nodded.
Beneath him Augustus coughed.
“However, it is very unusual for a human to train with us here. Wouldn’t you rather join the Guild of Artificers in Flint Street? They make weapons and arms, all sorts of things that humans usually value…?”
Dean’s hands clutched at the staff a little tighter. “No, I want to learn how to be a smith, not a weapon maker!” he said rather forcefully. He knew, because he had passed Flint Street on his way here, the Guild of Artificers was a large and rich organization, with the constant sound of hammer blows and the roars of the furnaces coming from its headquarters. But it had shared the street with an outpost of the Freebooters’ Guild, and it seemed that was where the Artificers did a lot of their trade.
So no. I don’t think that I’m going to be welcome near there anytime soon… Dean remembered the crowd of red-sashed hooligans chasing him and Crusher just yesterday.
Crusher, that reminded him. “Oh – and can I find out about someone here?”
“Find out?” the clerk echoed imperiously.
“Yes. A dwarf named Skullcrusher, about this high…”
Character Search: Skullcrusher …
“Ah yes, he is not in King’s City at the moment, but left this morning…” The clerk blinked.
It’s a game function, Dean suddenly realized. That was why Isaiah said that I could get a message to him here, and why Marcy said I could track her down through the elvish Shrine. These places conduct searches for characters anywhere in the game…
“Do you know where he went?” Dean asked, more out of curiosity than anything.
“I do,” Augustus said.
“You do?” Dean was surprised at the tone of annoyance in the previously friendly gnome’s voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Skullcrusher is a trusted emissary for the Ambassador, just as I am, human. How do you know him?” Augustus rounded on him. “What do you know about him?”
“Nothing,” Dean was confused by this sudden change in demeanor. “Nothing at all, really. We just became friends out in the city, that’s all.”
“Hmm…” Augustus’s eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to Dean. “Well, if I were you, I would keep the information that you’ve seen, talked, or are friends with the Skullcrusher to yourself. That dwarf, and the ambassador, has a lot of enemies in this city.”
Don’t I know it, Dean thought. Starting with the Freebooters?
“Now, I’ve got to go. It seems that you are well on your way to being taken care of, beanpole,” Augustus said, without any of his old charm as he stepped away quickly.
What was all that about!? Dean shook his head, as the dwarfish clerk above cleared his throat.
“Is that all, sir? Did you just want to enquire as to Mr. Skullcrusher’s whereabouts?”
“Uh, no. Actually, I wanted to get back to the training. I want to learn from the best, and I want to know how I start it.”
“Seventy-five silver bits will get you a training license.” The clerk reached under his counter for the relevant bit of paper.
“Ah…” Dean checked his inventory page, still with the bag of stolen silver bits from ‘Kevin’ the Kobold. “I’ve got twenty,” he said, wondering how far this game’s mechanics went in terms of haggling.
Not very far at all, it appeared, as the clerk sniffed huffily. “Do I look like a generous dwarf to you, sir? Out of the question!”
Great, Dean was about to sigh, wondering just what he could do next if he couldn’t even train to do the one thing that he wanted to do – the thing that would heal his real-world body as well as advance his virtual life! He was just about to quit out of the game and throw the headset across the wall of his room, when the clerk interrupted him.
“But there is Grum, I suppose – if you don’t mind a challenge, that is.”
“Grum? Who’s Grum?” Dean asked.
“A Dwarfish Smith of the Silver Waters Clan. He has been looking for an apprentice for the last seven moons, as the last one was eaten by a Hippogriff. If you can get to his workshop, and offer to sweep it for him, then he might just take kindly to you.”
New Story: Grum’s Challenge!
Accept? Y/N
Y.
“Really? Thank you! Where is it?”
“In the Dock District, behind Storm Pier.” The clerk waved him off angrily. “Now, begone with you – I have dwarfish work to be getting on with!”
Dean thanked him again and turned to wade through the crowds of dwarves on his way to the docks.
*
Dean had, of course, never been to a European dock in the Renaissance, but he rather imagined that this was what it would be like – if during the Renaissance the Spanish, Italians, French, and British had also encountered dwarves, elves, gnomes, and even stranger creatures out there in the world. Dean even saw a huge, ten-foot-tall being whose shoulders were bigger than Dean’s entire body, and with skin the color of a green-blue snake.
The Dock District of King’s City was noisy, filled with the sound of the gulls, the ringing of the distant alarm bells on buoys out in the bay, as well as the crack of rope and the shouts of sailors either on shore-leave or working on the galleons moored here.
It was rowdy, busy, and bustling with carts and wagons thundering up and down the streets at irregular intervals. Even though a part of Dean’s mind knew that this was all a game, the noise and the press of bodies started to get to him all the same.
Breathe, just breathe like Marcy showed you… he encouraged himself in a small, mumbling voice, as his heart hammered, and he started to back towards the nearest wall. It was hard to describe the panic he felt – or why. Is it just all the noise and commotion? It felt as though the world around him was travelling too fast for a moment, and there was nothing that he could do to slow it down.
Storm Pier
Dean read the sign at the end of a street intersection and
dove down it, grateful for the wider streets and the mostly deserted atmosphere.
Storm Pier was in fact the last of the stone jetties that stuck out into the Storm Coasts on this side of the bay. Every now and again in between the low and huddled buildings, Dean caught a glimpse of the impassive stone jetty pointing out into the fog, lashed by high waves and winds. The buildings nearest here were wedged up under the cliffs, and that meant—Dean looked up—that the citadel of the High King himself was high above him.
“Scrowl!”
A cat burst out across his path, running from a small alleyway to a low house near the front sea wall, making Dean jump. But, as he looked, he saw that the place it had come from might be the very place where he wanted to go.
Grum’s workshop was a small white-walled house with a low, peaked roof, built back from the winding street and with a terraced garden that started to climb the cliffs beyond. The vines and wind-scoured bushes that clung to the rocks hung down and almost onto the eaves of the cottage itself, but a thin trickle of dark smoke emerged from the rear of the house, and Dean could hear the sound of clanking metal against metal.
“I guess I came to the right place, then,” Dean said, summoning the courage to walk down the side alley beside the house, the same one the cat had run from, to see who was inside.
*
“Who are you? What do you want?” said a gruff voice from the courtyard-style workshop at the back of the house. Dean saw that it was gloomy out here, with the fronts of the overhanging vines and the bulging rocks of the cliff walls looming out precariously over the house. Thank God this is a game, because I wouldn’t live under that! Dean thought skeptically.
The voice belonged to the only person resident in this small space – a dwarf who wasn’t as tall as Crusher, but certainly as wide.
Tales of the Gemsmith Page 7
