But that was nothing compared to what Crusher called “the Hearth” in front of him. It was a geometric type of structure, with about five or six high sides that made it look like a little like a pyramid – only it wasn’t entirely solid. There were large vaulted windows – each larger than trees, and giving a grand appearance like a hall or a cathedral. Its top tapered into brass-colored towers, not round, but again hexagonal. It was from these vaulted windows that the smoke rose high into the air above.
“Well, I suppose if you are going to live above ground, then the closest you can get to below ground is going to be that.” Winters managed a smile.
“Us dwarfs like feeling safe.” Crusher shrugged. “Come on. We haven’t got all day.”
And our brains might fry at any moment… Winters tried not to think as they started to jog down the road.
*
Nearer to the front gates, Winters saw that these exact dwarf roads extended out from the many sides of the structure like a spider’s web, with this strange ziggurat sitting in its center. The main gates were just – tall iron-work gates easily a couple hundred feet high, with a design of curling and elaborate black iron dancing across the space.
“Everything is so … big,” Winters gasped.
“I told you the Near Realms weren’t the only civilized places, huh?” Crusher raised a head to nod at the guards at the bottom of the walls of iron. Two heavily-clad dwarfs, each holding heavy crossbows, stood in front of a row of much smaller gates inside the larger one.
“Hail, brethren.” Crusher nodded, reaching into his shirt to draw out an amulet with the stylized design of the Duma – the dwarfish government – emblazoned across it. Winters watched the enervating effect it had on the guards, who immediately snapped to attention.
“Sir,” they saluted.
“Since when are you so important?” Winters whispered at him.
“Ah, all benefits of my occupation,” said the dwarfish spy.
The guards raced to be the first to open the doors for them, creaking open the smaller gates inside the larger, and the mage and the spy stepped through.
Inside, they were met by an instant hiss of noise, as if from giant nearby trains. Shafts of light from the windows above speared down to give the impression of an amphitheater. Winters found himself turning on the spot, his boots clicking on the smooth marble floor as he marveled at what lay before him.
“This is a train station!” he shouted out loud. Each of the six radiating gates around the perimeter led onto long platforms, with ironwork spiral stairs leading up to higher galleries where dwarfs were seated and eating, talking, or just waiting for their journey.
On each of the platforms there were also carriages. Or carts, Winters thought. They were like boxcars, but they had smaller wheels on a singular track system. Each cart had windows and a small folding ladder, and at both the rear and the front were strange engines seemingly made out of large brass cogwheels and burning furnaces.
“Yeah, I knew an Artificer like you would lap this up,” Crusher laughed, choosing the closest stairs to take them to the gallery above.
Winters noticed that all around the outside and up here in the galleries were smaller establishments: restaurants and inns, outfitters selling every conceivable type of armor, weaponry, equipment, or rare item.
“Think what sort of trade you could get by selling your things here!” Crusher nodded across the gallery, past the stool-sitting dwarves to the next stairs down.
“Where are you taking us?”
“The south-western platform. That’s the one that runs the closest route straight to the King’s City,” Crusher said, his heavy boots clattering on the spiral stairs once more.
PHEEET! A whistle and a hiss of steam billowed in front of them as they arrived on the marble platform to see the small dwarfish guards with red hats and red paddle flags were already hurrying passengers up the folding steps.
“Wait – don’t we need tickets?” Winters said quickly.
“Not with this.” Crusher tapped the amulet-medallion, now hidden safely under his jerkin.
Within just a few moments, the pair had climbed up into the carriage, and were stumbling through the narrow corridors to try and find a carriage room that was currently unoccupied. Eventually, after locating one near the rear of the “train” (Dean couldn’t think of this strange contraption in any other way), they collapsed into leather-upholstered seats, and looked out of the window at the smoke-filled platform.
Finally, Winters thought. Something’s going right for us.
PHEEET! Another brash whistle from the steam engine – or clockwork engine, or whatever it was that was powering this contraption — and Winters felt a lurch as they started to chug forwards. He felt like a kid again, gazing out of the window at the platform and the waving dwarfish families and friends as the cart started to accelerate. Flashes of light and dark coming from behind them as their vehicle swept under the high windows, and then-
THOOOM! Light shone into their cabin from the outside. Winters could see the blur of green, tan, and brown from the Outer wilds. Another short, optimistic call from the train’s whistle and they were accelerating, the surroundings starting to meld together, and to blur into swathes of color.
“This is just fantastic…” Winters said, feeling the seat he was resting against vibrating with the nearness of the engine. That might have annoyed him in real life, but in here, he took it as another sign they were finally getting closer to their goal.
“It’s not shabby, alright,” Crusher said, as the door to their cabin banged open, and a red-faced, irate looking ticket inspector in a blue and black uniform eyed them.
“Tickets,” the small man barked.
“We’re on important Duma business.” Crusher showed the man the medallion of office, and the ticket inspector immediately blushed, backing out.
“Terribly sorry, sir, I wish you the best of luck…” A slam of the door and he was gone.
“Crusher… Exactly what does that medallion do?” Winters frowned.
“It’s a Medallion of Office for the Senior Councilors of the Duma,” Crusher said proudly. “I stole it.”
“Oh my God!” Winters laughed.
*
As they waited on the train, Winters noticed his Health and Mana bars slowly creeping back up to full, and realized that the train must have the same function as spending time at an inn or at your particular hide-out or sanctuary. With little else to do, he checked his stats to see what defeating a baby Gargant had done for him.
He was shocked and surprised to see he was already up to Level 11, and almost halfway on his way to Level 12.
I only started this game a couple of weeks ago! Dean thought in shock. In fact, how long has it been? He tried to count back the sessions he had been in here, and only came up with two weeks, max.
It was an incredible ascent, and even he knew as much.
Current Level: 11
Current XP: 525 (1200 for LvL 12)
Going through his spell lists, he read up on the descriptions of his Path of the Sorcerer, and then decided to see what he could do with some of the leftover XP.
What was it Ramesh – Red – said I needed to do next? He thought for a moment. Work on the Ouroborax crystal in Grum’s workshop. That would surely require Specialisms and Skills, wouldn’t it?
His current Artificer was at +15 if he was inside the workshop with all of the right bonuses for materials and tools – and that was a mighty fine score.
But I am trying to hack a game, and interfere with some god-level items in the game… He checked the rules manual one more time. Apparently, there seemed to be no maximum limit to be had on skills. You could have a warrior with a Fencing +30 or more if you wanted (although at that level of epic skill there was almost no point in fighting, as you would win every initiative, always strike first, and always inflict maximum damage to anything).
Specialism +1: 10 XP
>
Spell not from your Path: 15 XP
“Screw it. This is important.” Winters sunk another 150 XP on his Artificer.
Congratulations! You have exceeded +20 in a skill – you can Design a sub-specialty! Every time you work with your sub-specialty, you get a further +3 to your chance of success!
The game controls flared up in fiery lettering along the bottom of his vision.
Artificer +30
Artificer (sub-skill):
Suggestions: Armor. Weapons. Iron. Medallions. Rings.
“Well, this is an easy choice to make,” Dean thought, and typed into the roll-out keypad: Crystals.
Artificer: +30 (Crystals) +3
“Winters – are you about done?” the voice of the dwarf on the other side of the cabin broke him from his character sheet.
“Huh? Yeah,” Winters said, feeling even a bit of relief. He told the dwarf that he was done. “So, I am about as prepared as I can be, I suppose,” he said tentatively.
“Yeah,” Crusher said, grinning. “You know that you’re now no longer a smith, right?” the dwarf mused. “I wonder what that means you are… You’re not a weapon-smith, or an armor-smith…”
“A gemsmith,” Dean said, and it felt right.
It was right about then that the vibrating thrum of the engines made a different noise. One Dean wasn’t expecting at all. An ugly, heavy clunking sort of sound. Their carriage suddenly shook, as if something was shaking the train.
“Uh – Crusher? Is it supposed to make that kind of sound?” Winters frowned deeply.
“Not, uhr, usually,” the dwarf said, looking out of the carriage window.
They were still surrounded by the wilds of the Outer Realm, but they were fast approaching a wall of high grays and whites, still indistinct as yet, but from the way clouds clustered to their tops, Winters figured it must be the dividing feature between the Near and the Outer Realms; the Wyvern Mountains.
But then, a shadow flashed across their vision, something rising high into the air and falling out into the plains far beyond them. They watched it hit the ground in an explosion of dirt.
Winter felt a sudden flood of unease rush through him. “Crusher – do the Gargants ever attack the trains?”
“No way. The Gargant plains extend to the woods, and the Hearths of the Duma are on the other side, on higher ground. The Gargants can’t make it up to this part of the Outer Realm,” Crusher said.
“Or couldn’t,” Winters muttered.
“What are you talking about?” Crusher looked at him, unaware that another huge clod of rock and earth was thrown across their vision to impact against a stand of trees on the far side.
“What was it Jay and Ramesh talked about? The Control Mods. Sudden changes in the game that can only be brought about by reprogramming it at the top level…” Winters frowned, moving from one side to another to peer into the skies forward and back from them.
“But that would be insane. Literally, insane.” Crusher shook his head. “To rewrite the game geography like that – no player in Aldaron would ever think this game wasn’t faked, ever again.”
“Well, the entire game isn’t safe – we know that for sure,” the mage muttered, his character gesturing to his head as if the mage wore the VRM-Alpha machine.
“Right.” Crusher glowered. “Let’s get out to the other side of the train, see if there’s something we can see…”
They stumbled quickly from their cabin to the narrow corridor with its long avenue of porthole-style windows on the far side.
“Woah!” Another wobble as the train suddenly rocked on its treads.
WHOOMPH! Another crash, and this time when they peered out of the porthole they saw what was causing the devastation.
There was something approaching over the wilds, flying towards them like a great, dark bat.
“Oh, dear sweet heavens…” Crusher crossed himself.
“What is it, Crusher? What is it?” the mage was saying. His friend’s panic at spotting this new beast only made him panic, too.
“It’s… It’s…”
The great bat-creature was flapping immense wings, and it had the wingspan of a small plane, Dean thought. It looked something like a stereotypical vampire or demon - or both horribly combined into one. As the pair watched it swerved down to the ground to seize with its claws at a tree, before powering with its wings back into the air, tearing the tree from its roots and spilling earth and rocks behind it. With a shriek that was high-pitched and fierce, they watched as it flung the tree overhand towards them, pausing in its flight to do so – and the great projectile spun lazily in the air, foliage over roots-
“No!” Crusher shouted as the tree started to arc down towards them, but, with a roar of wind and air it passed by close over the carriage; so close that Winters could swear he heard the sudden scrape and splintering of branches as it scratched the dwarf-cart.
“Crusher, tell me what that thing is. Now!” Winters seized his friend and shook him.
“That… That is something you and I and everyone else in this entire goddamned game would never hope to meet,” the dwarf said. “That is what an Archon looks like.”
*
“It’s a what?” Winters shook his head. “But Ramesh – the Red Hand – he faced them, didn’t he? He’s only a man.”
“He’s a Controller!” Crusher said in alarm. “Or was, anyway.” The dwarf shook his head. “You don’t understand, Winters. You haven’t been playing Aldaron as long as I have. You have no idea how powerful those things are.”
“Then tell me!”
“Look at your compendium while I grab our things!” Crusher growled, rushing back to the cabin to retrieve their weapons.
*
Archon
Level: Hero/Epic
Type: Darkling Lord (monster)
Very little is known about the fell creatures known as the Archons, otherwise known as the Darkling Lords, or the Guardians of the Gates. What is known, however, is that they were not always in this world, nor are they made for it. The appearance of the creatures known as the Archons was first rumored after the Realm of Aldaron was split into three, and the creatures known as the Darklings started to manifest into the realm.
It is said, at first, the Darklings were mindless servants of chaos. Marauders with no other will than to cleave, hunt, and destroy. They emerged from the cracked holes leading to another, much darker realm of eternal chaos and strange laws –the Darkling Gates.
Many heroes have tried to close these Gates at various times throughout Aldaron’s history, the most successful being the Company of Mage Galan, who successfully managed to close one Darkling Gate – although no one quite knows how. It was during these noble (and often stupid) missions to the dangerous Far Realms that rumors of mighty beings started to be heard. Great bat-winged devils that were the Lords of the Darkling hordes, and that could even command them.
These Archons were encountered seldom, and every time they were, all who sought to oppose them died. The only small fact that gives the Grand Viziers, the Archmages, and Councilors of the Aeturnum solace at night is that the Archons are known to not exist long in the realms of Aldaron before they are automatically banished. They can only partially materialize, and for a limited amount of time, before whatever natural magic of this world drives them back to their own hellish realm, to plot their return…
*
“Outstanding.” Winters gritted his teeth. But Ramesh found a way to fight it – or at least survive it, he thought, looking out of the window. There must be a way.
There was no doubt in his mind that the creature out there, even now swooping for another tree, was coming for them. For me, he corrected, feeling the weight of the Green Ouroborax in his jacket. It was a Control Mod, an object which should not be there, and yet was.
“But what can I do against it?” he whispered to his own reflection in the porthole.
I’m just Dean Win
ters. I’m an artist. A jewelry designer. What good can I do against such a powerful being as that thing out there!?
“Mage! Winters – come on, we have to go!” Crusher was at his side, shoving Winters’ quarterstaff into his hands as he turned to run up the train towards the front.
“But where can we go?” Winters muttered, picking up his feet to follow the dwarf anyway. Neither of them had any answers. Neither of them knew where they could go, or even what they could do in order to stop such a beast. “Ramesh himself used to be a Controller – and even he couldn’t defeat it…” Winters was muttering.
He could feel his heart starting its staccato rhythm of panic – his real heart, not the virtual one inside his breast. Was he going to have a panic attack right there, lying on his crappy bed in some crummy apartment? There was no one around his physical body. What if he ended up having a heart attack? What if the VRM-Alpha machine fried him, somehow?
Dean remembered the feeling he had when Ramesh had first activated the Green Ouroborax and the game rebooted. As if his entire life had ended in a black field, and he was going to be stuck there, in blackness, forever. Was that going to happen to him now?
“No,” the man said, his steps slowing as the train suddenly lurched to one side. Whatever the approaching Archon had thrown this time had been so large or close as to rock the dwarfish causeway they travelled on.
“Winters! What are you doing?” Crusher turned to say. “We have to get off this train. Run. Hide. Do whatever we can…”
“Do whatever we can,” Winters said, frowning. That was precisely what he thought, too. But it didn’t mean running away to him. “We can’t run away, Crusher,” he said seriously to his friend. “That Archon will just track us down. It’s just like what Marcy has been trying to tell me. You have to face your fears. You have to do the only thing left on the table: fight.”
Tales of the Gemsmith Page 28
