by S. R. Witt
It was the only chance he had.
A yellow bar flashed in the upper corner of Osmark’s vision. The thing was almost empty, which meant Osmark was running out of Stamina. He’d exerted himself to the edge of his low-level capabilities, and if he didn’t stop running soon, he’d end up exhausted. And if that happened … Well, he’d be even more helpless than he was now. Unable to run or fight. Unable to so much as stand. He’d be an easy target.
He was only feet from the wagon when a sharp pain ripped across his shoulder.
Between the crash, the wolf’s bite, and the Risi’s sword stroke, Osmark had lost close to half his hit points. He wasn’t out of the fight, but another hit like the last one might be the end of him.
Pushing through the pain, Osmark scrambled up onto the wagon’s driving bench. His hands and boots slipped on the wet blood coating the wood, and he fell hard onto his back on the floorboards. Sparklers of pain erupted through his spine and burst behind his eyes, his teeth bit down hard on his tongue, and Osmark tasted blood in his mouth. He groaned, clutching at his shoulder, which burned like a red-hot poker. Maybe installing a one hundred percent pain threshold had been a mistake. The pain was meant to be a deterrent to reckless play, but this? This was too much.
He shoved the thought away as the Risi clambered up onto the bench and raised both blades overhead. The barbarian grinned and angled his weapons until they were aimed straight at Osmark’s chest, then howled in victory and plunged the blades down. Without a thought, Osmark tucked his knees up to his chin and drove them forward in an explosive kick. His ragged boots slammed into the Risi’s fat belly and pushed the ogre off balance. The Risi tottered uncertainly, his arms windmilling in a valiant effort to keep from falling, but the swords were throwing him off balance. After a long beat, he let the weapon in his left hand clatter to the ground as he grasped for the edge of the bench to stay upright.
Osmark didn’t wait to see if the Risi would fall. The moment he landed his kick, he twisted and scrambled across the floor of the wagon. The dead guard stared down at him, his torso littered with arrows.
“Rest easy,” Osmark said as he ripped the crossbow from the loop on the man’s belt. He also snatched a steel-tipped bolt from the quiver on the bench next to the corpse. Osmark held the bolt between his teeth to free both of his hands for the crossbow.
Osmark glanced right, muttering under his breath as he worked. Unfortunately, the Risi had regained his balance, and worse, he seemed to recognize the danger Osmark now posed. He lunged with a roar, his heavy fur boot slamming down on the wood between Osmark’s legs. The Risi switched to a two-handed grip on his remaining sword and cocked it over his shoulder like a major leaguer readying for a home run blast.
Osmark braced the crossbow against his knees and seized the string with both hands. He knew he’d need a tool to cock the weapon properly, but there was no time to search the wagon for it. So, with a shout, he yanked back, manually cocking the crossbow and leaving skin and blood along the coarse string for his reward. The injury was just the price he had to pay for his haste.
It was a hell of a lot better than taking a sword to the face.
The Risi’s blade fell like a streaking meteor aimed at Osmark’s skull. The massive creature’s wide eyes glowed with a ferocity Osmark had never seen before. He was amazed the ogre hadn’t fallen on him with tooth and claw instead of a weapon.
Time slowed to a crawl as Osmark dropped the bolt into the crossbow’s channel. There was no time to aim—no time to think. He hefted the weapon with quivering hands and squeezed the firing lever. Twang.
The crossbow’s string hummed as it hurled the bolt through the air, moving so fast Osmark wasn’t sure it had even fired.
A heartbeat later, the Risi’s sword smashed into the wood next to Osmark’s head and sprayed his face with bloodstained splinters. Then, like a felled tree, the bandit collapsed on top of Osmark, and his blood splattered across his chest in a hot, red stain. A message flashed across Osmark’s vision, momentarily blinding him.
<<<>>>
Skill: Engineered Weapons
Engineered weapons, such as crossbows, ballistae, muskets, and flintlocks, require a great deal of skill to use to best effect. Though the simpler versions of these tools of destruction can be found in the hands of common soldiers, the more advanced weapons are suitable only for experts trained in their use and maintenance.
Skill Type/Level: Passive/Level 1
Cost: None
Effect: Increases engineered weapon damage by 5%.
<<<>>>
Osmark dismissed the new notification as he struggled to breathe. The impact of the creature’s body slamming into him had driven the air from his lungs, and he suddenly had a terrifying vision of dying under the Risi’s filthy bulk.
Not like this, he thought, panicked.
With an effort that drained almost all of his remaining Stamina, Osmark shoved against the enormous body with his arms and legs, his muscles straining against the immense weight. Slowly, the Risi’s body tipped to the side but hung up on the wagon’s front and started to sink back down onto Osmark. With a pained shout, he shoved the barbarian’s corpse up again, wedging it against the front of the driver’s bench, allowing him just enough space to slither free.
Osmark used the wagon’s seat to haul himself to his feet, then wheeled around, stealing a look toward Horan to see if the old man was all right. His NPC was battling a Wode wielding a burning flail. The spiked weapon shrieked through the air like a comet with a flaming tail.
“Dammit, Horan, can you stop finding fights every five seconds?” Osmark gasped.
Horan fended the blazing weapon off as best he could, but its flexible chain bent around his sword, ripping it from Horan’s hands as its burning head slammed into his chest like a wrecking ball.
Osmark watched in horror as his NPC stumbled and then fell onto his back, his sword now lying in the dirt to his right. The Wode spun his weapon in a blurring circle overhead, preparing to crush Horan’s skull into the mud and end him for good. Though players could respawn, NPCs only had one life to live. And this was it for Horan—unless Osmark could do something.
Osmark grabbed another bolt and shed yet more skin from his fingers to cock the crossbow. The pain was intense, but he had no other option. He lifted the crossbow, pressing the rough buttstock to his shoulder, and rested his cheek against its wooden length. He needed to act fast, but he also only had one chance to get this right. Osmark sighted down the bolt and did a rough mental calculation to account for the distance between the crossbow and his target. After careful consideration, he raised the end of the crossbow just a hair.
A new message floated into view:
<<<>>>
Ability: Engineered Weapon Precision
You understand the proper use of Engineered Weapons. Whenever you make an attack, you may use your Intelligence bonus in place of your Dexterity bonus for both to-hit and damage.
Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level I
Cost: None
Effect: Substitute your Intelligence bonus for your Dexterity bonus whenever using an Engineered Weapon.
<<<>>>
“Not today,” he whispered, squeezing the crossbow’s lever.
The string twanged for a second time and the bolt shot free. Osmark held his breath and prayed the Wode would fall.
But instead, he fell.
Strong hands grabbed his ankle and flipped him forward. He lost the crossbow and tumbled free of the wagon to land in the grass, face-first. The taste of green blades and blood-soaked earth flooded his lips as his open mouth scooped up a bite of the ground. Before he could catch his breath, Osmark’s attacker flipped him onto his back. The wounded Risi—with Osmark’s bolt still jutting from the left side of his chest—screamed into his face and threw a wild haymaker.
A keen survival instinct spurred Osmark to roll to one side, and the attack just missed his head as a fat fist sank deep into the loamy soil where his head had
been moments before. He was far from in the clear, though. The bandit grabbed Osmark by the throat with his other hand and dragged him up to his knees. “Die, Imperial!”
Osmark’s fingers scrambled through the grass looking for his crossbow, but the Risi’s meaty fingers kept him from turning his head to search for the weapon. All Osmark could see was the man’s fat gut and the belt that held the barbarian’s loincloth in place.
A warning flashed across his vision.
<<<>>>
WARNING: You are suffocating. You will suffer 10 points of Stamina damage each second until you can breathe once more.
If your Stamina reaches 0, you will die.
Current estimated time of death: 25 seconds.
<<<>>>
Osmark’s fingers clawed at the thug; his nails raked at sweat-slicked skin in a desperate attempt to free himself from the man’s deadly grip. Osmark drew blood, but his opponent was relentless, driven on by blind fury and consuming hate. His thick fingers were like iron bands clamped around Osmark’s throat, pinching off his air and the flow of blood to his brain. He only had seconds to live.
And then Osmark’s fingers brushed against something at the Risi’s belt. A handle.
A dagger’s handle.
With the last of his Stamina flickering away, Osmark drew the creature’s knife from his belt and put it to use. The bandit was so focused on choking his prey, there was no chance for defense. Zero. Osmark stabbed the creature, again and again, punching the blade into the Risi’s belly in a rapid flurry of wild strikes. Blood soaked through Osmark’s clothes and turned the dagger’s handle into a slippery rod. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. A fifth strike and a sixth followed.
Osmark’s Stamina bar was down to the slenderest of slivers, flashing a neon yellow in warning.
The Risi stumbled, but he wasn’t letting go of Osmark’s throat.
Just die, Osmark thought as he desperately thrust the dagger up under the Risi’s heaving ribs one more time.
Finally, the Risi’s fingers went slack, and he collapsed backward, blood gushing from his many wounds.
Osmark drew a great, whooping breath into his lungs, and his Stamina bar began to refill. With a strangled shout, he rose to his feet, raised the stolen dagger high over his head, and fell on the Risi’s body, driving the knife into its chest.
Rough hands landed on Osmark’s shoulder and dragged him off the dead bandit a moment later.
Osmark spun with the bloodied weapon in his hand and glared at whoever had dared to touch him.
Horan stepped back, a worried frown on his face, his hands raised in defense. “That’s enough. That un’s good and dead, I’d wager.”
Yes. Right. Of course. Perhaps he’d overdone it a bit there in the end. The black rage of battle slipped away from him in fits and starts, leaving him shaking and weary. “You’re all right?” Osmark asked.
“Thanks to your shot.” Horan clasped Osmark’s shoulders. “These rebel hooligans are retreating with their spoils, lad. We need to be on our way as well. Best to get as far from here as we can before they decide to come back and finish off the survivors.”
Osmark shook his head, wiping the bloody blade on his trousers. He had another plan.
SIX:
Loot
Osmark watched the outlaws march north, their backs bowed under the burden of their ill-gotten booty. The dwindling purple of late twilight painted their shadows in long black strokes across the waves of emerald grass. The towering Wodes and hulking Risi roared with laughter as their captives—ropes and chains scavenged from the caravan wrapped around their ankles and wrists—struggled to keep up with their captors’ loping strides. He counted eight prisoners total, a mix of elite guards and velvet-robed merchants, including the tattooed woman from his wagon.
Osmark turned his intense gaze away from the bloodthirsty mob ahead of him to the burning caravan at his back, giving it another look. He frowned and shook his head in disgust. They’d decapitated the horses and stacked the heads in a pile in the center of the carnage like a grisly monument to their victory. The monstrous wolves had ripped open the horses’ guts and strewn their innards across the road like kittens playing with bloody balls of gory yarn. The few horses that had broken free from their harnesses had bolted a long time ago.
Only a fool would remain behind, and horses were no fools.
Smoke rose in thick, choking clouds from the burning wagons to join the dark gray clouds gathering in the sky overhead. Bodies marked by horrific wounds lay scattered around the wagons like discarded dolls. In the matter of a few minutes, the attackers had transformed the peaceful caravan into burning piles of kindling and scattered meat.
Osmark put the awful scene from mind and took a moment to review his stolen weapons, which were every bit as shoddy as he’d feared.
<<<>>>
Heavy Crossbow
Weapon Type: Missile
Class: Uncommon, Engineered
Base Damage: 15
Base Range: 20 yards
<<<>>>
The crossbow was a bulky contraption of rough wood, blackened steel, and coarse rope, which had seen better days. The crossbow wasn’t imbued with any magical abilities—not that he expected a find like that so early in the game—but it carried one unique trait that made it worth its weight in gold to Osmark: It wasn’t just a conventional missile weapon. It was engineered.
That classification would earn Osmark hidden affinity points, boosting his chances of gaining the Master Artificer class later on. Most players had no idea those affinity points even existed. Every time he fired the weapon, he would earn more of those precious affinity points, leveling up the skill little by little. And he’d be an excellent shot with it, thanks to his Engineered Weapon Precision skill.
The crude steel dagger with its yellow bone handle was even less impressive than the crossbow, though it held a certain grisly appeal to Osmark. Its slightly curved black blade bore no ornamentation. It was a tool built to perform one function to the best of its ability.
<<<>>>
Risi Gutting Blade
Weapon Type: Dagger
Class: Common, Light
Base Damage: 5
<<<>>>
As a light weapon, the gutting blade used Osmark’s Dexterity bonus to determine his odds of landing a blow in combat. Master Artificers needed decent Dexterity to boost their chances of successfully crafting the intricate items that were their stock in trade. Using the gutting blade would earn him affinity points, which his hoped-for trainer would find irresistible. Assuming everything else went according to plan, of course. The weapons were a good start, but Osmark needed a lot more gear before he was ready for the next part of his plan.
Hopefully, the caravan’s wreckage would provide most of what he needed.
Osmark glanced at the sun, now almost below the horizon. He didn’t have much time to lose if he wanted to do this.
“Horan,” he said to the stern and bloodied figure standing next to him, “we need to gather supplies before heading out.”
The NPC grunted as he continuously surveyed the landscape, but he didn’t object to Osmark’s command. “Lead on,” he said with a nod.
Osmark beelined toward the wagon where he’d fought the Risi. It was at the head of the caravan, and would likely have some of what he needed. First, he scampered up onto the driver’s bench and took the belt from the same dead guard who’d provided his crossbow and cinched it around his waist. After hanging the crossbow from the belt’s hook, Osmark slipped the dagger into a sheath dangling from his hip. The worn leather holster was a bit large for the blade, but it would have to do for the moment.
Osmark would worry about finding a proper set of gear during his visit to Tomestide.
There was enough undamaged gear among the dead guards to put together a decent suit of leather armor, but that wasn’t what Osmark needed. Master Artificers were scholars as well as tinkerers, which meant he needed light armor, which was more for sho
w than protection. Still, he was nearly penniless at the moment, and the gear would bring some extra change once he got to town, so he gathered everything he could while continuing his search.
What he really needed was a nice set of robes.
What he eventually found was a scratchy woolen dressing gown made from some material that seemed purposefully designed to scrape Osmark’s skin raw. Despite the gown’s irritating construction, it was perfectly suited for the profession he’d chosen.
<<<>>>
Neophyte Scholar’s Robes
Armor Type: Medium; Cloth
Class: Rare
Base Defense: 5
Primary Effects:
+5 to Intelligence
+6 to Reputation with all Friendly Factions
<<<>>>
“What do you think, Horan?” Osmark asked, cocking one eyebrow as he fastened the scavenged belt around his waist then raised his arms to model his new gear.
“I think it’ll show blood right well,” the mercenary said with a wry grin.
Osmark waved off Horan’s smartass comment and headed for the next wagon in line that wasn’t burning. His keen blue eyes scanned the bloody mire of the road for what he needed. “Grab some rope, Horan. As much as you can find. We’re going to need it for what I have in mind.”
“I’m not that kind of mercenary, you know,” Horan said with a gruff snort that made Osmark laugh.
“Who were those bastards anyway?” Robert asked Horan.
The mercenary paused in his assessment of a pair of fur-lined brass greaves he’d lifted from a dead Wode. “They looked like the Wolf’s Fangs. Got some loose ties to the Òrdugh an Garda Anam—the Order of the Soulbound—which is part of the rebel front. In reality, though?” He paused, hooking his thumbs into his belt. “A bunch of brutal monsters is what they are. The whole lot of ’em. They use the war as an excuse to murder and pillage.” He leaned over and spit into the dirt. “They’ve harassed the Empire’s caravans for months now. Nobody’s been able to stop ’em, and now I see why. They appear like ghosts, slaughter the guards and take the rest prisoner, loot the wagons, and then disappear as if they were never here.”
