by S. R. Witt
Osmark held his breath while he dug away the earth between the privy holes. It was hard work, made even harder by the foul reek rising from the primitive toilets, but he managed to transform the six holes in the ground into a wide trench. Though he was winded, he’d finished it much faster than he would’ve been able to IRL. V.G.O. prided itself on reality, but it made concessions in certain areas. Crafting was one of those concessions.
You’re all dead, he thought. You just don’t know it yet.
With a spring in his step, Robert headed off the path. He used his shovel to clear a path through the undergrowth, and it only took a few minutes to find the exact pine trees he needed. They were young and had branches a little thicker than his thumb.
Robert switched his shovel for the handaxe in his backpack and set to work. A few strokes of his axe earned him a bundle of sturdy but flexible branches, which he dragged back to the hole he’d widened.
He cut the sticks into foot-long rods and used the hatchet to shave their tips into barbed points. Satisfied with his handiwork, he pushed the blunted ends into the earth a few inches below the lip of the pit. He smeared the white tips with moist earth to hide them from a casual observer. A new window appeared the moment he finished his task:
<<<>>>
Skill: Trapper
This skill enables you to build a wide variety of traps used to capture everything from small animals to large predators.
Including men.
Experimenting with this skill may unlock Plans, which can be upgraded to build traps that cause more damage or have other effects. Characters with the appropriate skills can upgrade Plans to Blueprints, which are more powerful constructs.
Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 1
Cost: None
Effect: One or more of the following
20% build time reduction
10% increased damage
25% increase in area of effect
15% increase in duration
Note: Attempts to add more than one effect to a trap may increase build time, materials consumed, difficulty, or all three.
<<<>>>
Plan Discovered: Spiked Pit Trap
Build Time: 10 minutes
Difficulty: Easy
Materials: Shovel, 20 wooden sticks (consumed)
Area of Effect: 125 cubic feet
Effect: Target immobilized for 1 to 5 minutes
Base Damage: 15
<<<>>>
Osmark surveyed his handiwork. He’d opted to keep the pit trap fairly shallow between the privy holes so he could make it longer and wider. The finished trap was a rough trench about four yards long, one wide, and a few feet deep. Perfect.
“One down,” Robert muttered, circling behind the palisade to the road heading north.
Horan hooted like an owl and waved at Osmark as they passed one another. With a start, Osmark realized he would never have seen the older man if he hadn’t made a noise. He wondered what other tricks the mercenary had up his sleeve.
Angry voices rose through the night air, and Osmark ducked off the path to hide, pressing himself up against a scrubby wayward pine and hesitantly peeking his face out, hyperconscious of the starlight filtering through the leafy canopy. A few moments later, he realized the bandits inside the camp were squabbling over ale or women. Maybe both. He was safe for the time being.
Morons, Osmark thought, unable to suppress an eyeroll as he stole back into the night. Silently, he headed over to the northern path and diligently set about his work, stringing up another vicious surprise.
The next half hour flew by in a flurry of hammering, digging, sharpening, tying knots, securing traps, and tightening trip lines. By the time Osmark returned to Horan, he regretted not picking up something to drink before they’d left the caravan. Quickly, Osmark pulled up his character screen, navigating the menu until he found the section listing all of his active effects and debuffs. He had a few active buffs, courtesy of his scratchy robes, but he also had a small list of status debuffs:
<<<>>>
Current Debuffs
Tired (Level 2): Skills improve 10% slower; Carry Capacity -20lbs; Attack Damage -17%; Spell Strength reduced by 20%
Thirsty (Level 2): Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%
Hungry (Level 2): Carry Capacity -30lbs; Health and Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; Stealth 25% more difficult
Unwashed (Level 1): Goods and services cost 5% more; Merchant-Craft skills reduced by (1) level
<<<>>>
The list of debuffs was a not-so-subtle reminder that this wasn’t IRL. He couldn’t afford to make simple mistakes like that anymore. He dismissed the window with a nod and turned his attention on Horan. “All done with the oil?”
The mercenary sketched a lazy bow. “As Your Highness commanded.”
“Don’t,” Osmark said in a voice so harsh it even surprised him. That title would be his soon enough. He wanted it to be respected, not mocked. “Not yet.”
The two men stared at one another for a moment, and Osmark realized Horan was afraid.
And not of the bandits.
He was afraid of Robert.
“All right, then,” Osmark said, trying to lighten the mood. He took a seat on the oak tree’s knuckled root and patted a spot next to him. “Take a load off. We’ve got some time to kill before it’s time to kill.”
Horan grinned at the turn of phrase and Osmark returned it with a wink. “Here’s how we’re going to fill the tomb I’ve been building.”
EIGHT:
Burn it Down
The fire’s acrid tang loitered in the air as its burning talons clawed their way up through plumes of black smoke and across the wooden palisade walls. Robert had expected a hearty blaze, but he hadn’t been prepared for its size or sheer intensity. In moments, hungry flames engulfed the stockade, unleashing a hellish roar and the pop-crackle of snapping wood as they devoured the outer defenses. With his crossbow cocked and raised, Robert watched the stockade burn from a safe distance, tucked away in a thicket of pines near the southwestern corner.
These thugs had dared to interfere with his plans, and now they’d become an object lesson to anyone else foolish enough to get in his way.
The bandits—passed out cold after an evening of fighting, gambling, and drinking—scrambled from sleeping rolls, howling in outrage and panic. Robert could only imagine their fear and confusion: one moment they were safe, sound, and victorious, the next, their comfortable home had become a pyre. A cold glimmer of satisfaction flickered deep in his heart. He wasn’t a violent man, never had been—he was an innovator, a tech-genius, a business man—but he believed in fighting fire with fire.
In this case, literally.
Wolves howled as the flames danced along lines of spilled booze and reached their kennels; Wodes answered those plaintive squeals with anguished cries of their own, but there was nothing they could do. Not now. It was too late for that. The flames had transformed the night into a chaotic storm of raised voices and staggering men searching for their allies.
Osmark watched the murderous scum stagger through their burning gate on drunken feet, hands shielding eyes from the blaze or covering mouths against the harsh smoke. Soot stained golden hair, and the terrible heat left blisters in its wake. The Risi fared no better, though they bore their crisped and blackened skin in stoic silence. Robert tried to count the survivors, but the swirling smoke and capricious light from the fires made it hard to get an accurate number. At a rough glance, less than half of the bandits made it out onto the path before the fire gnawed through the base of the stockade and the towering walls fell inward, leaning against one another like a crude flaming pyramid in the center of the Blackwillow Woods.
The Risi, Wodes, and wolves trapped within the burning walls shrieked in panic, their voices rising to a choking crescendo as the flames strained ever higher.
And then the walls suddenly fell in on one another with a series of brutal crashes that rang through the
forest like the voice of early morning thunder. The wails of the trapped bandits died with the last crash, leaving the night strangely quiet, save for the crackling hunger of the fire.
<<<>>>
x2 Level up!
You have (10) unassigned stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.
You have (2) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.
<<<>>>
Nice, Osmark thought as his experience bar filled, filled again, and once more, stopping just short of another level. It wasn’t as much experience as he’d hoped, but he knew V.G.O. wasn’t giving him full credit for every bandit who died in the fire. If the game gave every player the full ration of experience points when a trap killed an enemy, the whole world would be littered with tripwires and spiked pits.
The bandits were so stunned by the chaos and fire they could do nothing but watch in wide-eyed terror as their camp burned. The survivors moved like car-crash victims, lurching and swaying, hands hanging listlessly at their sides as they finally gathered on the road and stared into the flames consuming their comrades. They watched silently, mournfully, as sparks leaped into the air and caught in the thick boughs of the towering oaks near the collapsed palisade’s perimeter.
“How does it feel?” Osmark whispered and unleashed a crossbow bolt. A Risi with a heavy scar encircling his neck jerked up onto his tiptoes as the missile smashed into an unarmored temple. Critical Hit. With a strangled cry, he collapsed against a Wode, groping uselessly at his head as he died. Surprised, the blond warrior shouted and shoved the Risi away without even sparing a glance; he flopped onto the dirt path, eyes glazed over, blood leaking down his cheek like a tear.
No one noticed.
Osmark wrenched the goat’s foot lever into place, cocking and loading his crossbow again. He fired into the mass of bandits, not bothering to aim. A second thug swatted at his chest and staggered toward the perimeter of the group with a splash of dark crimson running down his lips and into his sandy beard.
That got their attention.
A frightened shout rose through the night, carried by a multitude of voices, as the remaining bandits gathered around their fallen brother and eased him to the ground. A few of the smarter—or maybe soberer—thugs eyed the woods, but none of them spotted Osmark.
Useless, Osmark thought. They can’t even find me when I’m trying to get their attention. Obviously, subtlety wasn’t the way forward.
“How does it feel to be on the wrong side of an ambush?” Osmark shouted, stepping out from between the trees and firing into the crowd again. His bolt flew true, punching into the throat of a leather-clad Wode thirty yards away. Critical Hit. The blond giant tore at the injury, eyes wide with shock, and collapsed a moment later, his HP bar plunging to zero. The attack put him over the top, and a new notification appeared:
<<<>>>
x1 Level up!
You have (15) unassigned stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.
You have (3) unassigned proficiency points! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.
<<<>>>
“Deactivate notifications during combat,” Osmark muttered, dismissing the popup.
“Alert,” came a male, British voice inside his head, “notifications have been deactivated during combat.” The default AI assistant.
Osmark put all of that from mind as a small group of bandits finally spotted him. Those who’d had the presence of mind to grab their weapons before fleeing their home-turned-tomb raised them in Robert’s direction, rattling them at the night air in defiance. Others grasped burning sticks from the rubble to light their way, and soon the survivors were headed Osmark’s way, legs pumping, arms swinging, eating up the distance as quickly as their tired feet would carry them.
Osmark fired a final shot, then turned and darted into the tree cover, not bothering to see if the bolt found its mark. The time for playing Robin Hood was over. The bandits were furious and wouldn’t think twice about chasing him down and sticking whatever weapons they still had into his guts. Any mistake—even the slightest miscalculation—would be the end of Osmark. With the bandits howling for his blood, Osmark fled north along the path. The choking smoke billowed around him, and blazing embers tumbled into the sky.
Carried on swirling columns of heat rising from the stockade’s burning wreckage, the flames churned upward and engulfed the crowns of the nearest trees.
Eventually, the smoke grew so thick Osmark wasn’t sure he was still headed in the right direction. Tiny flashes of panic and doubt clawed their way into his mind, but he shoved them away—now was not the time for second thoughts. That way lay fear and indecision, which was the worst possible thing in a situation like this. He took a deep, calming breath and pulled up his map, double-checking his position, before minutely readjusting his course. With that done, he closed the interface and coaxed his legs into motion once more.
Everything is fine, he reassured himself.
When he believed he’d reached the right spot, Osmark ducked away from the path and curved off to the northwest. He picked up the pace to a slow jog, but almost immediately rammed his toe into a buckled root that snatched his left foot out from under him. Robert windmilled his arms and caught his balance at the last second, the fingers of his left hand grazing the undergrowth before he righted himself. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, he thought, replaying one of Sandra’s favorite refrains. Once he regained his balance, he reloaded the crossbow and beelined for his next point of attack.
A bit more cautiously this time.
The looping course took him behind the line of privies, and as he stepped out from between the wooden huts, he caught a glimpse of the pursuing outlaws. They were on the path straight ahead of him, scanning the forest with their crude torches. Perfect.
“Over here, you ugly bastards,” he hollered, cupping one hand around his mouth to amplify the noise. A host of angry gazes landed on him, and almost as one, they charged, driven by rage and bloodlust.
Robert raised his weapon and fired another bolt, catching a Wode square in the chest. No quick, clean kill, but it sure amped their anger to new heights. Infuriated, the bandits screamed and rushed him, spreading out as they charged down the path, forming a line that left Osmark no room to escape. He held his ground and rested his hand on the pommel of his gutting knife. There was no time to reload. The line of warriors burst through a windblown veil of smoke and put on a final burst of speed, desperate to reach Osmark. Their weapons glowed red in the firelight, and the soot painted across their cheeks and foreheads gave them demonic snarls.
Osmark waited stoically, a smug grin on his face—the picture of self-assurance.
The front-line bandits came to an abrupt stop and dropped three feet into the earth, screaming as sharpened pine stakes plunged into their bodies, piercing their thighs, guts, and groins.
Those in the second rank had no time to stop before stumbling into the pit themselves, colliding with their fallen allies, driving the spikes deeper into the pinned first rank.
Those in the third rank almost managed to stop, but the headlong charge of bandits behind them threw them forward even as their heels dug into the earth. Down they went, right into the brutal spiked pit trap.
In confusion, those in the rear trampled those in the lead, snapping bones like damp wood. “Halt! Halt, burn you all! Pull yourselves together, you drunken louts!” their chieftain barked from the rear of the hasty formation. Finally, slowly, the troop obeyed, grinding to a reluctant stop while those in the front moaned and groaned in pain.
Osmark faded like a ghost back between the privies, circling the tangled crowd of injured bandits; a grim smile split his face as he imagined the fates of those who’d fallen prey to his trap. The first rank was almost certainly dead, and maybe the second rank with them. Likely the third and fourth would survive, but the stakes would cripple them temporarily, and even more would be too injured to keep up the pursuit. Left untreated, t
he puncture wounds would fester from infection. Long term, that could be deadly in its own right.
Most of you won’t be around to worry about that slow death, Osmark thought as he made his way through the forest and onto the path well ahead of the injured and befuddled bandits.
NINE:
Loose Ends
When he’d reached what he considered a safe distance, Osmark ducked behind a thick shrub and cocked his crossbow again. He waited as his Stamina regenerated. The smoke ripping at his lungs slowed his recovery, but he was all right with that. Everything was going as expected, other than the forest fire spreading around him. The stockade had gone up much faster than expected, and the fire had spread with a ferocity he hadn’t anticipated. Before he could puzzle out why the forest fire had taken off like a spark tossed in a fireworks factory, bandits strode through the smoke.
Osmark raised his crossbow, drew a bead on the chieftain’s leading leg, exhaled slowly, and fired.
The bolt streaked through the swirling smoke and licking flames, disappearing from Osmark’s view. The chieftain screamed a moment later, the sound echoing through the night as Osmark emerged from his hiding place like a vengeful apparition. An opportune gust of wind parted the smoke and fire, revealing Osmark’s soot-stained visage to the band of outlaws.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Osmark crowed. “Shame about your camp. And your friends. Fire can be such a dangerous and unpredictable thing.”
“Bring him to me!” the bandit leader shouted, his face contorted with pain, the bolt protruding from his thigh like an accusing finger. “I want to kill this one myself.”
Osmark laughed. It was a haughty, taunting sound that rang through the forest like the braying of a hunter’s horn. His pit trap had been even more effective than he’d hoped. A quick count told him there were fewer than twenty-five of the rebel thieves left. Between the fire and his trap, he’d killed or incapacitated three-quarters of their numbers.
