by S. R. Witt
Robert frowned and his spine stiffened. He didn’t have time to negotiate. He had a plan, and it needed to be executed. “Not asking, telling. Head south, I’m going north.”
Without waiting for a reply, he sprinted away, not even glancing back to see if Horan would follow orders. Osmark needed time to prepare for a fight, and he wasn’t going to get that time standing around, twiddling his thumbs while he waited for his enemies to attack. Arrows and crossbow bolts whistled through the air around him, but Osmark’s gamble paid off. The bolts struck wood, not flesh, or threaded through the forest’s canopy only to crash harmlessly into the ground, kicking up swirls of dirt on impact.
The inviting forest turned hostile as Robert sprinted through its depths. Walking at a leisurely pace made the trees easy to navigate around and the obstacles simple to avoid. Running, however, turned every rock into a potential trap and every tree root into a snare waiting to bring Robert to his knees. He focused like a laser, putting everything else from mind as he ran. If his attention wavered from the path ahead of him, even for a moment, Robert was a dead man.
His enemies slipped through the canopy above like wraiths, the sound of their footfalls pursuing him through the woods. Every time he glanced over his shoulder, they seemed closer. One black-clad figure darted through the brush, while two more vaulted from one tree limb to the next, agile as monkeys and relentless as bloodhounds, quickly eating up the distance between them. Even though there were only three on his trail, that was still more than he was willing to face in a straight fight.
If he wanted to survive, he had to even the odds. Fortunately, he had a plan.
He always had a plan, though pulling this one off would be a tricky thing.
A crooked elm with a drooping branch caught Osmark’s eye, and he veered toward it, ducking beneath the low-hanging bough and dodging a jutting snarl of bushes. His feet found a rutted game trail, and he followed its twisting course deeper into the forest, hooking left, then swerving right.
A crossbow bolt buried its barbed head in a nearby tree, and a moment later, a bright flare of pain exploded in Robert’s left shoulder as his HP bar dropped by a fifth. He cursed softly under his breath as he noted the black steel head of a crossbow bolt peeking out from his armor, covered in deep crimson. He blocked the pain from mind, though, and continued his course despite the sliver of fear worming its way through his guts.
Changing his plan now invited disaster.
In the distance—but drawing closer with every passing moment—the Fungaloids hooted, the eerie noise reverberating in the air. It was a sound filled with rage and despair as if they knew their kin were lying dead in pools of their blood and they desperately wanted vengeance.
An arrow hissed past Robert’s left ear like an enraged serpent, and vanished into the forest, leaving behind a trail of clipped leaves and snapped twigs. Robert was still hurting from his battle with the mushroom men, and with the arrow protruding from his shoulder, he couldn’t afford to take much more damage. A critical hit from one of those bolts might be enough to kill him. And something told him the archers were more likely than not to land a critical strike—these guys were pros.
Robert didn’t know who the well-trained killers on his trail were, but he didn’t have to know them to know who’d sent the assassins. Sizemore.
You’ll pay for this, Robert thought as he continued his madcap sprint.
Osmark’s mind raced along with his feet as he mentally reviewed the contents of his backpack, searching for something he could use. He had ore, rope, a hatchet, and a few other useful scraps, but there wasn’t any time to dig a pitfall or even the ankle breakers he’d used against the bandits. He needed something faster and more effective. Like the new Caltrops he’d just unlocked. He wasn’t sure how well the traps would function against the thugs leaping through the canopy, but it would most definitely work against the one dogging his heels on the ground.
He fished one of the orbs from his inventory and hurled the ball over his shoulder at the encroaching assassin. The ball landed harmlessly on the ground with a thunk, but a heartbeat later it exploded in violent fury as the hooded thug drew into range, releasing a plume of cloying gray smoke and a hail of small black spikes, each one no bigger than a quarter. The spikes didn’t do all that much damage, but the man faltered, skidding to a near standstill as the barbed prongs dug into his legs and feet, drawing tiny pinpricks of bright blood.
Osmark grinned despite the awful situation and turned back toward the game trail. He put on a renewed burst of speed and jumped over a rotting log, rounding a sharp bend. His grin widened as his eyes landed on the thing that might save him. Robert just hoped he had enough strength and endurance left to pull off the dirty trick he had in mind.
Osmark kept his eyes glued to his target. If he misjudged, even by an inch, he’d be dead before he knew it.
More arrows streaked toward him. At the last possible second, Robert hooked right and dashed toward an ancient elm with a rope trailing down from an overhead bough. One of the hunter’s traps. He bolted around the tree’s gnarled trunk and latched onto the line with both hands, kicking the trigger loose from the peg holding it in place. Robert’s shoulders screamed in protest as the trap released and the rope dragged him high into the air. He clung to the line and ignored the fiery pain.
There’d be time to hurt later. Now it was time to fight.
As Osmark rose up, the heavy bundle of rocks on the other end of the trap crashed down through the treetops. A hundred pounds of stone slammed into the lead assassin and knocked the man from the branches like a freight train.
The killer hit the forest floor with a meaty thud, and the rocks landed on him with savage power a moment later, forcing a scream out of him as blood spurted from his broken body.
One down, Robert thought. He caught a nearby branch with the toe of his boot and pulled himself onto it.
“Bastard!” another assassin shouted. The dark-garbed man rushed toward Osmark with uncanny agility, his feet finding tree limbs unerringly as he leaped from one elm to the next with simian grace.
Still holding onto the rope with his left hand, Osmark drew his repeater with his right. He leveled the hand cannon, fixed a bead on the charging assassin, and squeezed the trigger.
The weapon’s firing mechanism clicked, and a pitiful wisp of steam escaped from the firing chamber. Osmark had forgotten to reload the repeater after his battle with the Fungaloids. “Unfortunate,” he muttered under his breath.
He reached for the rounds in his bag, but it was too late—the assassin was already on him. There was no elegance in the killer’s attack. He kicked off from a tree limb, somersaulted, and landed on Robert’s branch. The instant the assassin’s soft boots made contact with the limb, he launched a flurry of jabs with the gleaming short swords in his hands.
Robert had no reliable melee weapon, which left him with only one option to defend himself. He leaped away from the tree limb—holstering his weapon midair—wrapped both hands on the rope, and swung toward the elm tree’s twisted trunk, silently praying he could get away in time.
The assassin lunged forward, thrusting both of his weapons at Osmark’s momentarily exposed back.
Robert had anticipated this attack, however, and used his momentum to spin around the tree, which shielded him from the deadly assault. In an instant, Osmark landed on a stout branch and braced his feet, leaning back against the rope so he could see on either side of the elm. Then he waited patiently for the assassin to expose himself, knowing it would only be a matter of time. As soon as the masked face appeared on the tree’s right side, Osmark leaped to the left.
His maneuver sent him sailing around the elm once more; he swung like a pendulum, and his orbit carried him behind the assassin. Before the killer could turn, Robert twisted on the end of the rope and drove both feet into the man’s back.
In theory, the attack should’ve knocked the assassin off balance and sent him plummeting to the forest floor below.
But the man was more agile than Robert had anticipated, and his reaction speed was terrifying.
The second Osmark’s feet landed, the killer threw the weapon in his left hand away and twisted on his right heel, hooking an arm around Osmark’s leg. Before Robert could react—before he could even think—the assassin used his momentum and body weight to whip Osmark around in a tight arc. Robert’s back slammed into the tree, shaving off another chunk of his Health.
It wasn’t a killing blow, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Pinned against the tree with his feet on the branch, Robert couldn’t dodge the assassin’s follow-up attack. The hired murderer’s short sword plunged into Osmark’s side, just below his floating rib, and a wave of cold agony ripped through him.
The Fungaloids howled again, the sound a fierce wail so close it raised Osmark’s skin into goosebumps.
“Robert!” Horan shouted. No, no, no. His call was too close, much too close. The idiot had ignored Osmark’s orders.
There goes your bonus, Osmark thought, wriggling in a futile attempt to free himself from the sword.
The assassin released the weapon pinning Robert to the tree and drew a black stiletto from a sheath on his left hip. A startlingly blue fluid dripped from the weapon’s tip, and Robert knew he was dead. One scratch would no doubt send poison coursing through his veins, and as wounded as he was, Robert had no illusions about his chances of survival.
But that didn’t mean he would go down easily.
The assassin prepared for a thrust, but Osmark was ready. Unable to dodge, he used what little strength he had left to sling the rope around the killer’s head with his left hand, catching it with his right.
Confused, the assassin hesitated.
Robert didn’t.
With a roar, Osmark drove his boot heel into the killer’s midsection, clinging desperately to the rope with both hands, and bracing himself against the branch with his other foot as best he was able.
The assassin slipped from the tree, his eyes wide above the black cloth of his mask as he fell.
Robert shouted in pain when the assassin’s full weight landed on the rope. It almost yanked him off the bough, too, but the sword jammed through his side actually saved him from going over.
The killer struggled like a landed fish, bucking and jerking against the noose around his neck, unable to get his fingers beneath the tightened rope.
Horan darted into view and skidded to a halt on the game trail Robert had raced down a few minutes before. “Robert!” he shouted again, panicked, eyes sweeping the treeline.
“Run!” Osmark hollered, drawing the man’s gaze. “Get the hell out of here, you idiot.” Another black-clad assassin dropped from a tree, landing on the path just ahead of Horan.
The NPC feinted at the killer, then juked to the right and sprinted toward Osmark’s tree. “I’m coming,” he hollered at the top of his lungs. “Just hold on a little longer, blast you!”
Robert watched as Horan drew closer, pursued by four assassins.
The other assassin, dangling below Osmark from the rope, gasped and flailed wildly, fighting to dislodge Robert from his perch. Worse, it was working. Holding onto the dying man drove the sword’s cutting edge deeper into Osmark’s body, and further ate away at his Stamina and Health. A stream of blood ran from the wound and soaked into the wood between his feet. “Just die already,” Robert hissed, glowering at the man below.
One of the assassins on the ground shouted and reeled away from Horan, his face bloody, one eye swaying on a string of glistening sinew.
A second assassin lunged toward Horan, but the older man sidestepped the attack, parrying the stroke with practiced ease, before driving the pommel of his blade into the thug’s face. The assassin fell back, lost his balance, and landed on his back.
Horan raised his blade for the killing blow, but the attack never landed.
Yet another assassin darted in from his blind side, moving like the wind. A precise slash parted Horan’s armor and opened the NPC’s side. Horan grunted, groping at his ribs with one hand while he lashed out at his attacker with the other. Unfortunately, his blade went wide, and a third assassin took advantage by coming in low and slicing across the back of Horan’s left leg, damn near hobbling the man.
The rope Robert was holding onto suddenly went slack.
Alarmed, he tore his eyes away from Horan and glanced over the edge of the tree limb; somehow, the assassin had twisted around and grabbed the elm’s trunk.
The man was no longer hanging.
He was climbing.
Robert’s heart sank as he stole another look at his friend on the ground. Clearly, Horan’s wounds were sapping his strength, making it impossible for him to fight back against the assassins. All four of them were on their feet, and they circled the NPC like a pack of wolves. Their blades flashed and darted, too many, from too many different directions, for Horan to defend himself.
They were going to kill Horan. And when they finished with him, they would come for Robert.
He couldn’t allow that. He had too much to do. Too much to accomplish.
There was only one way left, and Osmark already hated himself a little for thinking of it. But there was no other way—and he would always do the hard things, the awful things, if that’s what it took to win. Reluctantly, Osmark reached into his belt pouch and pulled out the fleshy organ he’d carved from the Fungaloid’s chest. He hesitated for a beat, feeling sick to his stomach. Then, without a word, he threw it into the fray below.
The sac plunged through the trees and hit the ground with a sharp pop, releasing a cloud of dancing spores into the air.
Seconds later, the howling pack of Fungaloids crashed through the trees like a gray avalanche.
NINETEEN:
Dark Day
The Fungaloids exploded through the forest with a bone-rattling roar, their malformed feet pounding at the earth, their nubby fingers clawing at the air. Their infested bodies swarmed over the assassins in a flailing, gnashing wave. The killers struck back at the new threat, but their agility and skill were no match for the sheer number of bloated bodies bearing down on them. Osmark forced himself to watch as the black-clad killers vanished beneath the pale assault. His stomach churned as blood spurted and the Fungaloids tossed hunks of quivering meat down their maws.
Robert’s heart ached as Horan glanced up at him one final time, his eyes wide in terror and disbelief, before likewise disappearing beneath the press of bodies. Thankfully the man didn’t scream as the Fungaloids shredded him, showering in his blood and stuffing their greedy faces with bits of his flesh. In moments, Horan was gone. Dead. And unlike Travelers, NPCs didn’t respawn, which meant Robert’s closest ally was well and truly no more.
That hurt more than anything else—more than the wound in his side or the arrow jabbed through his shoulder.
Osmark pushed his pain away, instead focusing on what he needed to do next. After all, grieving for Horan now would accomplish nothing except his own death, and that would serve no one. He steeled himself and glanced down at the assassin inching his way up the tree trunk. The man was still some distance below Osmark’s branch, but it wouldn’t take him long to make the climb.
Robert closed his hands over the hilt of the short sword buried in his guts and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and pulled.
Nothing happened. For a long moment, Osmark feared he’d grown too weak to do the deed, that the loss of blood had dangerously depleted his Strength and Stamina. Then, millimeter by millimeter, the sword wiggled free. With a final shout, Robert tore the weapon loose from the tree and out of his body. Blood spattered his face, hot and sticky, and his Health dropped dangerously low, but he was still alive.
<<<>>>
Debuff Added
Bleeding: Your wound is bleeding excessively. You suffer 5 points of Health damage and 1 point of Stamina damage every 5 seconds; duration, 3 minutes or until the wound is treated.
; <<<>>>
Robert was a tech genius, not an expert in first aid, but he knew if he didn’t plug the hole in his side he was a dead man. He had 50 Health remaining, which gave him less than a minute to stop the blood loss. If he died, he’d just respawn back in Tomestide, but that would cost him two things he couldn’t afford:
First, he’d lose time, eight hours worth of it. And after this debacle of a trip, he didn’t have any of that to spare. Robert still needed to talk to Rozak and hunt down his Faction Seal, located in a restricted zone only he had the coordinates for. That dungeon dive would account for every minute remaining in his day.
Second, Robert would lose his chance to talk to the assassin clinging to the tree below him, and there was no way he was going to pass up the opportunity to have a nice chat with that piece of garbage. He needed to know what Sizemore was planning.
Osmark tore a strip of cloth from his shirt, hastily packed it into the hole in his side, and held it in place with a clenched fist, fighting back the onslaught of dizziness skipping through his head. He closed his eyes and listened to the slobbery sounds of the Fungaloids eating.
He’d be hearing those sounds in his nightmares for the rest of his life.
<<<>>>
Debuff Removed
Bleeding: Your wound has been treated.
<<<>>>
Satisfied he wasn’t going to bleed to death, Osmark opened his eyes and stole another look down at the sole surviving assassin. He grabbed the dangling rope and slapped it against the climbing assassin’s back. He did it again and again, until the killer glared up at him with narrowed eyes. “Knock it off, dead man.”
“Grab it,” Robert snarled. “Grab the rope or you’re dead.”
The assassin didn’t respond, instead continuing his steady ascent up the face of the tree. Osmark rammed the tip of the short sword back into the tree’s trunk. Then he drew his repeater and started reloading, feeding in rounds until the firing cylinder was at max capacity. When he’d finished, the assassin was less than five feet below the limb Osmark was loitering on.
