Another, louder grumble from the crowd around Dean, who thanked the butcher and thought maybe it would be better if he got away from the near-treasonous seller.
He ate the ribs, some cheese, and old bread as he trudged back through the city—
3 Health
He wended his weary way along the docks to the high and winding bridge, rising up and up into the air and down the other side until he was back in the docks under the cliffs of the palace, and the sign of Storm Pier was swaying in the air over his head.
Home he thought, picking up his pace as he walked to the very last street that ran along the narrow strip of land, the cobbles washed with rain, towards the workshop that was now his own.
“Mage Winters?” a voice disturbed his journey, and Dean looked up to see that his way to Grum’s workshop was blocked.
Four very large dwarves stood across the road, in full battle gear, featuring fully-enclosed face visors with curling horns and snarling, stylized face designs. In their hands they held iron-shod hammers easily. But the figure who spoke to him wasn’t one of these dwarfs, but was instead the compact, very tidy form of the ambassadorial gnome to the Iron Halls, Augustus Bothy.
“Augustus? What is the meaning of this?” Dean asked.
“The meaning is, Mage Winters…” The gnome’s tone was cold, very cold indeed, and his eyes were like hardened sparks of ice as he glared at the mage. “The Master Artificer Grum is dead, and you have apparently inherited his workshop, and that is only the start of it!”
“I can explain!” Dean started to say, before Augustus nodded at his guards.
“Seize him and throw him in the cells of the Iron Hall until we can question him.”
“What?” Dean shook his head. “No!”
*
“Dammit!” Dean tore the VRM visor off his head after quitting out of the game. His session had ended with a cut scene of his character being dragged off by the scruff of his robe through the streets, with horrified human citizens of King’s City looking on. Most of them were appalled, but some of them seemed to be smirking.
There had been a big Continue to Next Chapter Y/N hovering over his distraught head, but Dean was tired – and he needed to give his character a rest anyway. But still, it annoyed him all the same. What had he done wrong? He had played the game as well as he could, hadn’t he?
But at least I’ll get all of my Mana back, he thought. And he had a fair bit of experience stacked up now – was it enough to level up? To buy some more spells? Dean wondered if, when he logged back in, whether he should even use that summoning spell Lady Efen had given him.
“Nah,” he yawned, shaking his head as he leaned his head back against the soft pillows, glad for the material against his ears and the back of his neck. The foam of the visor was comfortable, but living inside it for hours at a time had its drawbacks.
No, I’m not going to use that Efen spell… he thought to himself. Not yet, anyway – I want to find out more about whomever that ancient elf is first…
Dean turned on his bed, his eyes alighting on the official letter sitting on his side table, with his name stamped on the cover in black, very official looking ink.
“Oh great… Now what?” Someone must have left it there when he had been gaming, and hadn’t bothered to ‘wake’ him up. “Fine,” he grunted, wanting to leave it until the morning but deciding instead to open it now.
Inside was a badly printed letter, with the City of San Maria Housing Council logo and contact details at the top.
“I really don’t need this…” Dean murmured, scanning the bare couple of sentences the letter contained.
Dear Mr. Winters,
As per your landlord’s instructions, we are writing to notify you that you will become eligible to apply for the emergency housing register only AFTER you have become homeless, and the dispute with your landlord has been settled. As such, we cannot offer you emergency housing at this time.
Thank you.
“Just great,” Dean groaned, thumping back down on the pillow once more. “Ow.”
Part 3: The Red Hand
Interlude: Somewhere Very Far Away
The robed figure halted, unsure of itself. Dirty, drab gray cloak that had seen better years, already spattered with mud and dirt. A glimpse at riding leathers; quilted with iron studs underneath, a wide weapons belt with the pommel of a white-handled sword attached, but little else could be seen of the shrouded figure. He moved awkwardly and ungainly, as if hurt. Which way is it? Forward or back? Either way looked pretty uninviting in the gloom, the figure thought.
On his left, the rocks of the mountains stretched up to their dark, lightning-scarred peaks. A strong, bitter wind pressed down. Legend had it that the Storm Giants lived up there, but the man had never seen them. On his right, the mountainside broke into cliffs, plunging into deep forests. Nightmares lived in those forests—this he knew all too well.
The sky above was stormy and tinged with the bruise of purple and green – the sky of the Far Realms, where even the elements and the geography became strange, feral. No self-respecting adventurer travelled out here on their own - not unless you were operating at god-level, and even then, there were beasties and forces out here that could swat you like a fly.
The Far Realms were designed for just that; a self-generating, never-ending reminder that the game can always beat you. The game always won.
“Well, I can’t go back…” His voice was husky from misuse, barely audible over the wail of the wind. Or was it a shriek? For a moment, the adventurer thought he must have heard something over the rise and fall of the howling: the sound of voices? Laughter? Screams?
“I guess that just leaves forward then,” the man muttered, taking a sip from the flask.
1 Health.
It still wasn’t enough, of course. He was down to his last dregs of health levels, and he was nowhere near any sort of sanctuary at all.
But still, he had to keep going. Retreat wasn’t an option. The path ahead of him was little more than a slightly flatter bit of scree that wound around the edge of the boulders and near the edge of the cliffs. Don’t let me fall. Don’t let me fall! he begged whatever gods of the game might be listening.
None. He grinned cynically.
He hunched over the rocks, half-scrambling as his feet slipped and his legs tried to disobey him.
“Raaaaamesh…”
The wind definitely had a voice, and the figure flinched.
I’m just imagining it. It’s all in my head… The figure coughed, wishing he had more health, more constitution, that he could force his avatar’s injured form to go faster and further.
But he couldn’t.
“Ramesh!” The voice again, behind him, and with it came the crack and sigh of giant wings.
“NO!” The figure turned, seeing the beast that had been hunting him clutching onto to the side of the mountain like a child playing in an adventure playground. It was large, it was dark, and its skin was the color of gray-white death.
They had found him.
*
Quit? Y/N.
Y.
“Dammit!” The figure coughed and spluttered in his bed, weak hands flailing at the VRM-Alpha visor he wore feebly. It wasn’t one of the new, sleek black and chrome units. This one was bulky and made him look a little like a robot from a seventies’ sci-fi show; all bulbous head and with panels broken open, wires spilling out or added in. Open circuitry was visible where he had patched new processors and graphics boards into the visor, glowing dimly with green and blue LEDs.
“Dear gods…” the figure said when he had finally achieved his goal, lying back flat on the bed. He was a man in his thirties, perhaps, but he looked older with tight, worry-lined skin around his eyes and pepper-spray gray hairs at his temples. His face was thin, dark-skinned, and his eyes were bloodshot as he wiped a hand over his forehead.
What am I going to do? Ramesh thought to himself, blink
ing to clear the visions of the Darkling Archon that had tracked him to the side of the mountain. The game would reboot back to the place where he had last left it, unless, of course…
Pushing himself from the disheveled bed, Ramesh Naipur swung stick-thin legs over the side to wobble to his feet. He wore cargo shorts in the heat of the California night, and a simple black shirt. There was a time when the man had been famed for his casual and relaxed style; slightly bohemian perhaps, with corduroys and tight sweater jumpers, when he didn’t have to wear a crisp linen shirt and tie. He would keep his black hair oiled and brushed to perfection and was always fresh-shaven.
But that was before the accident, and before he had lost his home, and his job, and everything he had ever cared about in the world.
Ramesh staggered to the small en suite bathroom that came with this cheap hotel room, switching on the light only to wince at the sudden glare of the sodium. He looked pale, and he looked tired. How long would it be before he collapsed entirely, and needed medical help?
Not yet. He splashed water over his face, through his ragged and thinning hair, before returning to the small bedside cabinet to take out his tools. Here he had wire cutters, soldering irons, patchers, voltmeters, and microcomputers. He booted up his personal tablet, connected it to the array of instruments and then, finally, back to the ancient VRM-Alpha itself. It didn’t take him long to short-circuit the continuity arc he was on, and to run a local-area patch. It would only work on this headset, and only for a short while until the constant updates the Aldaron servers ran all the time in the background found it and killed it.
“But it’ll get me off that damn hillside,” he muttered, as another jag of pain swept through his system.
Ugh the man thought. I need to eat. I need to sleep. I need new clothes.
But he couldn’t. Not while the quest was still unfinished. Not while there were so many lives at stake.
Taking a deep breath, Ramesh Naipur sat back down on the bed, put his trusty visor on over his head, and switched it on.
*
“Ooof!” The gray-robed figure fell out of a doorway into a busy courtyard. The sky was blue, the clouds were high, and the sun was shining.
Near Kingdom. I’m in the Near Kingdom, he thought gratefully, drooping to his knees on the cobblestones. His digital senses could smell fresh bread baking somewhere, hear the clang of the smithy hard at work across from him, and even smell the faint odor of horse dung.
“Hey!” a voice said. “You can’t sit there – we’ve got work to do!” Looking up, he saw that hurrying towards him was a busty female gnome wearing an apron and flouncy skirts, with her flyaway hair tied into a bun on the top of her head. She looked annoyed as she waved her hands at him.
“Don’t you recognize me, Elspeth?” Ramesh said as he stood up, slowly, leaning against the stone wall of the tower he had so recently fallen out of – kinda. His surroundings were simple: a narrow circular tower several stories high, with a surrounding wall and a small courtyard.
Lord Alpin’s Tower, Ramesh thought gladly. He had done it. He had jumped his character here, all the way from the Far Realms.
“Oh my…” the small gnomish woman said, her face a picture of alarm. “It’s really you, isn’t it, Red?” She looked over her shoulders, back at the smith (a large, burly fellow with a black beard who was paying them no mind at all anyway). “Get inside, quickly now!” She ushered him back to the door, and the cool hallway on the inside.
“Is Lord Alpin here…?” Ramesh croaked. “I need his help…”
“I can see that, Red,” Elpseth said. “But no, he’s not. There’s been some kerfuffle at King’s City, and he’s been asked to attend the court.”
Oh, great. Ramesh thumped the wall weakly. Why can’t anything go right, just for once!
“But he should be on his way back now, it will only take a little while...” Elspeth said, showing him to one of the doors that led into a small study room, its walls filled with books, and a cheery fire smoldering in the hearth.
“I might not have much time, Elspeth…” the traveler said uneasily. How long did it take before that Darkling Archon found me? How long before the game resets itself?
“Well, you’re welcome to wait, I’m sure.” Elspeth led him to a chair by the fire and gestured for him to sit. “I’ll even get some food brought up from the kitchens, how does that sound?”
“Perfect,” Ramesh said. I need the health, badly.
“Well, it’s not often we have Aldaron’s most notorious villain here, is it?” The gnome cackled.
“Elspeth…” Ramesh said warningly, but the gnome was clearly on a roll.
“You know, I saw another wanted poster for you just the other day? ‘Wanted: The Red Hand! Reward: 1000 gold bits!’” Elspeth laughed. “Maybe I’ll sell you down the river myself, retire to the country…”
Ramesh shook his head at her teasing. He knew she didn’t mean it. She just had the same caustic humor of all gnomes. “But Elspeth, you already live in the country.”
“Oh yes, I suppose I do, don’t I?” She gave a theatrical sigh. “No point in snitching on you then, you’re secret is safe with me, Mr. Red.”
If only Ramesh thought, managing a smile as Elspeth hummed to herself, bustling out of the room and leaving him to it.
“Don’t be long Alpin, don’t be long…” the Red Hand begged.
Chapter 14: The Jails of the Iron Halls
This time as the logo faded and the flare of the VRM light was replaced, Dean found his character was still inside the cell where he had been left.
“What, really!?” he almost shouted, intensely annoyed with this game. He could see why Marcy raved about it, of course – it had the best graphics rendering Dean had ever seen before, even in the big, blockbuster superhero movies – but it was also getting disturbingly close to real life. He had logged in this morning after his physical therapy session (another waste of time, he thought) to find his character in the cell underneath the Iron Halls of King’s City, with nothing but a rat running between the bars to keep him company. Idly, he had decided to leaf through the grayed-out list of spells he couldn’t cast because he didn’t know them yet.
*
Level 2 Spells: Choose Path!
Path of the Sorcerer
Enchant Item. Cost: 5 Mana. +5 STR to any weapon, +5 CON to any armor, special effects to mundane objects.
Fire-dart. Cost: 6 Mana. 15 damage.
Path of Pain
Cripple. Cost: 5 Mana. Deliver 10 damage to an opponent.
Bone armor. Cost: 6 Mana. +5 CON until end of day.
Path of the Healer
Heal. Cost: 1 for 1. You can trade your Mana for Health levels.
Cure. Cost: 4 Mana. You can completely cure any simple poison, illness, or disease (non-magical).
Path of the Forest Friend
Create familiar. Cost: 5 Mana. By selecting a nearby animal that can become your chosen familiar, capable of leveling up and storing your Mana.
Summon dryad. Cost: 6 Mana. Summon an elemental to do your bidding.
*
“Wow, so if I was a Level Two I could become a Forest Friend and use that rat, I suppose…” Dean said, rather unimpressed. He knew which one he wanted to go for, given his current mood. Sorcerer. It had to be the Path of the Sorcerer. “And then I would blast these cell bars until they melted!” he said savagely. At least his Mana and Health had returned to full, given his long period of enforced rest.
“It won’t do you any good,” said a familiar voice from the corridor beyond. There was someone walking towards his cell out of the darkness of the black marble walls and paving slabs. A shape he recognized.
“Crusher!?” Dean leapt to his feet, rushing forward to grip the bars. “What are you doing down here?”
Skullcrusher shook his beard quickly, as if warning him to silence. “These cells are magically enchanted, resistant to all magics below ab
out Level Eight,” the dwarf explained, before being interrupted by the sound of footsteps following behind.
“Crusher! Stand away from the suspect!” It was Augustus, the ambassadorial gnome.
“I didn’t do it,” Dean said hurriedly. “Whatever that little toad has been saying about me – I can promise you I didn’t kill Master Grum.” Even now, the words caught in his throat. “He was my friend, almost.”
“I know you didn’t,” Crusher’s bearded, youngish face said. “You couldn’t. He was a renowned character, Level Twenty-Eight. You’re a noob.”
Dean was about to take offence at that, until he realized that yes, that was exactly what he was.
“This isn’t about Grum!” Augustus said, appearing out of the darkness flanked by more of the metal-suited guard dwarfs in their snarling helmets. “Don’t be so melodramatic! We know Master Grum always intended to leave his workshop to a worthy apprentice.” The gnome paused as he scowled up at Dean. “We weren’t expecting a human mind you, but still – time’s change, I suppose….”
“Then what is this about?” Dean said angrily.
It was Crusher who answered him. “Something very serious, Winters. Something that shouldn’t have happened at all…”
“Crusher?” Dean looked appalled at the dwarf he thought was his friend, before his own dark thoughts needled at him. Almost your friend. Just like Grum was – almost – a friend.
Tales of the Gemsmith Page 11
