by S. R. Witt
That hardly mattered, though, given the circumstances. Robert drew a bead on the tree just above the man’s head and squeezed the repeater’s trigger.
Thunder rolled and echoed through the forest, startling a flock of ravens waiting to feast on the dead. Even the Fungaloids momentarily halted their gruesome meal to glower dumbly at the shocking roar of the repeater’s discharge. The assassin’s eyes went wide.
“Grab the rope,” Osmark said, voice flat and cold as the arctic tundra.
The assassin hesitated for a beat, then nodded, wrapped his hands around the rope, and pushed away from the tree. He swung like a pendulum for a few seconds before his momentum died, and he was left hanging. Far from the trunk and directly above the Fungaloids, he was helpless to do anything but cling to the rope and pray.
Pray for mercy, which he certainly wouldn’t receive.
Osmark pulled the short sword free from the trunk with his left hand. He drew its razor-sharp edge across the taut rope; strands of hemp parted and twisted into frayed curls.
The assassin shouted, “Don’t!” panic flashing across his face.
“Who sent you?” Osmark asked, as though this were simply another day in the boardroom.
The assassin said nothing. He stared into Robert’s eyes, and for the first time Osmark wondered if he’d met someone with a will to match his own.
Robert shrugged and sliced through a few more strands of the rope. “Who. Sent. You.”
The killer glanced down at the Fungaloids, then back at Robert. “You know who.”
“Sizemore?”
The assassin nodded, nervously eyeing the thin slice in the line above. “There’ll be more,” the killer said. “He hired the Coldskulls directly, but we aren’t the only ones hunting you. He’s got an open contract out. Anyone can claim the bounty on your head. You’re screwed, my Imperial friend.”
If the man was telling the truth, Robert’s problems were only going to get worse until he dealt with Sizemore. An open contract would attract every would-be Boba Fett in V.G.O. Osmark wouldn’t be able to trust anyone as long as he had a price on his head. He’d be constantly worried someone he worked with was going to betray him for a quick payday.
Dammit, Sizemore, Osmark thought.
Robert cursed himself for ever letting the senator into the fold. True, he’d needed the man’s help to get things operational before the asteroid hit, but in hindsight he should’ve come up with another plan. Some other way to get the resources Sizemore brought to the table. If he’d worked harder, none of this would be happening. Horan would still be alive. Well, no more. Maybe he couldn’t change the past, but he could certainly fix this problem moving forward and put an end to Sizemore’s interference before any more of his plans were disrupted, or any more of his people wound up dead.
But to do that, he needed information.
Osmark held the short sword’s blade against the rope. “The Coldskulls, you said. And where can I find the rest of your little social club?”
The man’s forehead creased and his jaw tightened—the look of determined resolution. This man might drop Sizemore’s name, but even at a glance Osmark knew he wouldn’t roll on his brothers. “That’s all you’ll get from me,” the assassin offered in confirmation.
Osmark sliced halfway through the rope. The remaining strands creaked ominously as they bore the weight of the dangling thug. “Last chance,” Osmark said, not that he expected anything.
True to form, the assassin said nothing.
Silently, Osmark slashed the rope.
Down, down, down the assassin fell, landing in the midst of the Fungaloids with bone-crunching force. He held his tongue until the Fungaloids went to work. Then he screamed, a high, piercing sound that echoed through the forest like the cry of a hunting hawk.
Osmark sagged against the elm’s trunk and closed his eyes as he waited for the Fungaloids to fill their bellies. By the time the last of them had wandered back into the forest, Osmark had almost half of his Health and all of his Stamina restored. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for him to feel confident clambering down from the tree.
The Fungaloids had eaten the softest bits from the assassins’ bodies. They’d scooped out the guts and eyes, gnawed away the meat on biceps and thighs, and left the rest scattered about the forest along with bits and pieces of equipment. Osmark carefully extracted Horan’s corpse from the mess, neatly laying the remains on the ground away from the dead assassins.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, not wanting to look at the brutalized remains of his friend. “It shouldn’t have been like this.”
There wasn’t much to salvage, but Osmark did a thorough job of searching the dead. He collected their weapons, knowing they’d turn a pretty penny back in town, and also scooped up a smattering of coins—ten gold pieces, a few hundred silver pieces, and some loose copper—which he stuffed into his belt pouch. Next, he stripped the armor from the assassins, but none of it was salvageable, not even the gloves, which were torn and tattered from the Fungaloids’ grinding teeth.
Robert did find something interesting under those gloves, though. Each of the assassins—the Coldskulls, the last one had called them—had a small black skull tattooed on the webbing between the thumb and index finger on their left hand. A little bigger than the tip of Osmark’s index finger, it would be almost invisible if they had their hands closed, and gloves would easily hide the markings. Osmark stared at the black tattoos until the image burned itself into his memory. If he ever saw anyone bearing that mark again, he would kill them. No matter the cost.
“When I’m through with you,” Osmark vowed, “the Coldskulls will be a cautionary example for any other assassins who think they can come after me with impunity.”
One of the killers had a small backpack still strapped to the remnants of his torso. Robert flipped the body over with the toe of one boot and opened the pack’s bloody flap, searching the inventory. The waterproof waxed leather had kept the blood off the pack’s meager contents. Osmark pulled a folded square of parchment, three small steel vials, several Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regen potions, and ten individually wrapped packets of rations from the container.
With a sigh of relief, Osmark popped the top on one of the Health Regen potions and slammed it back, then chased it with a Stamina Regen potion for good measure. The first tasted faintly of cinnamon and cherries while the second was light and vaguely citric. In a flash the potions kicked in, and a flood of energy suffused his limbs as skin and tissue knit themselves back together—even forcing out the bolt lodged in his shoulder. He was as good as new in no time and felt like a million bucks, despite the dirt, grime, and blood covering his body.
From here on out, he’d have a ready supply of the potions on hand at any given moment.
Next, he examined the steel vials, but got little information from his cursory scan. He needed more skills, or different skills, before he could figure out what they contained. Given the assassins’ occupation, however, he assumed it was poison. He tucked them into his belt pouch and unfolded the parchment last. Two lines of impeccably neat handwriting were the only markings on the page.
Bring Osmark to Ravenswood Hall. Do not kill him. The vials of Illakri Venom will paralyze him once he’s below 25% Health. One prick of a stiletto should be enough to do the trick. I’ll deal with him when I get back. For now, make him comfortable in a cell beneath the Hall.
There was no signature, but Osmark didn’t need to see the man’s name to know Sizemore was responsible for the orders. The thought of being captured by his rival made Osmark’s blood run cold and sent goosebumps racing over his arms and back.
Death was problematic in V.G.O., but it wasn’t the end of the road for a player. Getting killed would cost Osmark all his current experience, set him back eight hours, and slam him with some nasty debuffs, but he would always come back from the grave. No matter how badly Robert was injured—no matter if they disemboweled him and scattered his limbs to the four winds�
�he, like every other V.G.O. player, would respawn. Always.
If Sizemore captured Robert and hauled him off to a prison, however, that was significantly more concerning. A properly designed jail inside V.G.O. could hold Osmark for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe forever. And an experienced torturer could keep him in agony for every second of his incarceration. Robert had known Sizemore would be a problem, but he’d had no idea the senator would go to these lengths. He was going have to come up with a more ingenious and permanent solution to deal with the bothersome senator.
He gathered up the rest of the loot, loaded it into his inventory, then turned his attention to what he’d been dreading the most.
Horan.
Putting the man to rest was a long and painful process.
Robert wished he’d brought the proper tools, but all he had were the weapons dropped by the assassins. The short swords and daggers they carried were better than nothing, but only barely. After an hour, Osmark had removed enough underbrush to form a clearing and ringed it with rough stones gathered from the surrounding forest. He didn’t have time to spend doing this, but he did it anyway.
Horan deserved it.
Robert chopped up a fallen log and stacked the wood inside the hasty clearing, then laid Horan’s corpse atop the makeshift pyre. He sat next to his friend for a few minutes, chin on his knees, arms hugging his legs into his chest. Honestly, he was surprised at the depth of his grief. The NPC wasn’t real, he reminded himself. Just a procedurally generated bit of code, floating in a server deep in a salt mine in Independence, Missouri. Yet, despite that—and in a remarkably short time to boot—the NPC had burrowed his way into Robert’s confidence and become one of his most trusted allies.
An actual friend.
Robert was going to miss the older man’s sarcastic jibes and sound advice.
Osmark dug in his belt pouch for the gold coins he’d taken from the assassins. “Here’s your bonus,” he said, choking on the words as he stacked the coins in a neat pile on Horan’s chest. With a bit of flint from his new Artificer Toolkit, he set the wood and brush on fire, then stoically watched as it burned. The smoke stung his eyes, and he brushed tears away with the back of his bloodied hand as his friend’s body blackened and spat sparks into the sky.
Just like that, gone forever.
For the first time he could remember, Robert didn’t want to be alone. Cold isolation settled around his shoulders like a cloak of thorns, and the bitter acid of sadness eroded his spirit and left him numb. He stared into the blaze, unable to muster the strength to stand.
This isn’t what Horan would want, he thought after a time. He’d want me to put a knife in the bastards who did this to him.
Slowly, bit by bit, Osmark’s sorrow transformed in the forge of his thoughts. Cold grief gave way to the heat of rage, and the raw ore of his anger became a sharp and deadly blade.
A muscle in Osmark’s jaw twitched as he ground his teeth. “You’ll regret this, Sizemore. For a very, very long time.”
TWENTY:
The Brand-Forged
Robert limped into Rozak’s shop still woozy from his port-stone return trip to Tomestide. His stomach churned, and his head ached, but aside from that, he felt surprisingly good considering everything he’d been through. He must’ve looked much worse than he felt, though, because Rozak turned from his work to stare in wide-mouthed alarm as Robert crossed the threshold.
Rozak slammed the forge’s door, dropped his tongs into the bucket of water next to it, and peeled out of his protective gauntlets before stomping across the floor to greet Robert.
“You look like you’ve been wrestling with wildcats and come up short,” the dwarf barked, shoving his goggles up onto his bald head with the back of his soot-stained hand. “Don’t bleed on my floors.”
Osmark grunted a noncommittal reply and dropped the quest items on Rozak’s desk next to the front door. At this point, he wasn’t interested in friendly banter or small talk—he just wanted to complete this quest and put its memory far behind him. “Here are your leaves, fungus, and rocks,” Robert said, sorting through the items on the desk as he named them.
The dwarf raked his stubby fingers through the thick tangles of his black beard. His hands emerged from the wild locks covered in gritty black ash and even more soot. Rozak clapped his fingers clean before picking through the items Robert had deposited on his desk.
“I’ll be damned,” the dwarf muttered with grudging admiration, “you actually completed the task.”
<<<>>>
Quest Alert: A Dwarf’s Dogsbody, Part 2
You have completed the apprenticeship task assigned to you by Rozak, the Artificer. In return for your diligent work and clever solutions, your reputation with Rozak has increased to Honored, your reputation with all Artificers is now Friendly, and Rozak will reward you with ten rare crafting materials of your choice. You’ve also received 10,000 EXP.
<<<>>>
x2 Level up!
You have (10) unassigned stat points! Stat points can be allocated at any time.
You have (3) unassigned proficiency point! Proficiency points can be allocated at any time.
<<<>>>
Though it hardly made up for the loss of Horan, Osmark was pleased with both the potential rewards and the amount of experience he’d earned for the quest. He still had a ton of work to do before the day ended, and those extra levels would certainly help.
Rozak collected the quest items from his desk and shuffled off to deposit them in the storage bins at the rear of his shop. Osmark wanted to chase after him, demanding his next quest, but he didn’t dare. The dwarf was cantankerous, and Robert was leery of doing anything that might jeopardize his hard-won reputation with the artificer. So instead, he stood patiently next to the desk, hands clasped loosely behind his back, and waited for Rozak to return.
While the dwarf puttered around and organized his new crafting materials, Robert spent the time mentally reviewing Tomestide’s layout and working out how best to protect the small town from his enemies. It wouldn’t be long before all of V.G.O.’s honored guests were gathered here for the first big meeting to discuss how they would proceed toward their goals. Knowing that Sizemore was actively working against him, Robert wanted to prepare for any eventuality. The first draft of a plan formed in the back of his mind, but it was missing too many pieces. Osmark didn’t have enough time to put it into action, nor enough skill for its trickier elements.
He was so lost in thought as he chewed over possible solutions to these problems that he didn’t hear Rozak addressing him until the dwarf cleared his throat.
“Might want to listen when your boss is talking,” Rozak said with a gruff harrumph. “Here I am complimenting you, and you’re off gathering wool from the clouds like a moon-starved gnome.”
Robert bit off an angry retort before it crossed his lips. It had been years since anyone had been foolish enough to disrupt his deep thinking, and Osmark didn’t like it. Not one bit. It took a great effort of will for Robert to remind himself he wasn’t the boss here. Here, he was an apprentice, and if he didn’t want to have his whole plan blow up in his face, he needed to act like one.
No matter how much it grated on his pride.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, offering the dwarf a flat professional smile, “I’m still a little dazed from everything that happened while I was gone.”
“I’m not here to talk about your personal problems.” The dwarf snorted and flicked a cinder from his tangled beard. “What I was saying was, you got a knack for this. Not many folks have the natural skill I see in you.” He paused, eyes narrowed, hands planted on his hips. “Don’t let it go to your head, but I think you could do great things.”
A surprising rush of pride flooded through Robert’s chest. It’d been a long time since there’d been anyone in his life whose compliment meant very much to him. And hearing the dwarf praise his skill made Robert remember what it was like to be a student, to still be learning, instead of
being a master at his craft. At every craft he’d ever set his mind to. “Thank you, sir,” he said, surprised at the depth of gratitude in his voice.
“But if you’re going to go any further,” the dwarf admonished as he dragged himself up into the chair behind the desk, “then you’re going to need to find something much rarer and more precious than Starfall ore.”
Robert found himself hanging on the dwarf’s every word. There was a solemnity and gravity to what Rozak said that captured Osmark’s attention and held it as fast as a bear trap’s implacable jaws. “What do I need to do?”
Rozak leaned back in his chair and dug his oversized pipe out of the desk drawer. He fished a plug of tobacco from a pouch on his hip and tamped it into the pipe’s bowl with a calloused thumb. The dwarf’s eyes never left Osmark’s, but he seemed in no hurry to continue their conversation. He clenched the pipe’s stem between his teeth and raised a small steel rod from a thick gold chain around his neck. With a wink, Rozak pressed the end of the rod into the tobacco packed into his pipe’s bowl. A moment later, thick plumes of disgusting black smoke rose from the pipe.
The dwarf took a deep drag on the stem and then blew a stinking cloud toward Osmark’s face. After another puff, and then another, the dwarf pulled the stem from between his lips and pointed it at Robert. “Long, long ago, there were far more artificers than there are today. They constructed great machines, enormous factories, and weapons that make even the Empire’s arsenal look like a toddler’s toys.”
Osmark was well aware of the basic structure of Eldgard’s past because he’d helped write it, but still he found himself fascinated. He hunched forward, listening to the details, trying to glean new information that the AI had inserted after the Devs had finished laying down the framework of Eldgard’s expansive histories.
The dwarf blew a series of concentric smoke rings toward the ceiling. As the first one expanded, Rozak shot another through its center, then another through that one’s expanding middle. Soon a dozen rings were drifting toward the high ceiling, spreading out like the pattern of a bull’s-eye target.
