Istoria Online: Square One: A LitRPG Adventure

by Vic Connor

  Blood gushes out from between her milk-white fingers.

  “No…” I whisper.

  She falls to the ground.

  It’s like time stops still for a moment.

  More blood gushes from her wound as her lifeless hand falls.

  A low, guttural, monster-like growl rumbles through the jungle. Like a geyser building up pressure, or a Leviathan raising from the deepest abyss—a fury, a rage that would rival a thousand storms brews inside Abe as he sees our little sister lying motionless on the ground.

  The pirate seems to have completely forgotten about the Moor, whose whirling axe and scimitar are locked in a dance of steel with Miyu’s naginata. Abe, eyes alight with homicidal wrath, focuses instead on Pardo and his still-smoking musket.

  The storm explodes. Roaring like a hurricane, with the rage of a bear protecting its cubs, Abe charges toward the musketeers.

  “Stop!” I shout. “Don’t—”

  “I will kill ya! I’ll kill ya all!” he yells, and I know with utter certainty that he will. He looks blind and deaf with rage, charging like a mad bull against Pardo and Somoza who, faces pale with fear, seem to realize their end is near.

  Closer than they think, in fact, as Juanita…

  Snake Form

  …now as a coral snake, bites deeply into Pardo’s ankle.

  Deep breath…

  Unflinching Calm

  …more Spaniards and their dogs are approaching; I can hear them although they’re still far away…

  …Uitzli is dying at my feet…

  …the Moor shouts and gestures like he’s about to hurl his axe at Miyu…

  Djinn’s Fury!

  …a whirlwind of sand speeds at Miyu, but the samurai has already seen that trick and has been waiting for it. With a swirl that is closer to tango dancing than melee fighting, she spins herself into the tornado, silks and sand almost kissing. The dance helps her dodge the attack, and her naginata draws a wide arc that slashes the Moor on the inner side of his thigh.

  I sit down as best I can and focus on Uitzli. Her strabic eyes seek mine, and a dim smile curls her lips.

  “Hold on tight, little sister,” I plead quietly. I press my hands over the horrible wound in her throat, unsure of how to do so without strangling her.

  She coughs, then whispers, “Tiachkautli…”

  Abe slams himself into the musketeers, unleashing a fury the likes of which not even hell could contain.

  A familiar memory comes to my mind:

  White Magic

  Blood gushes from a horrible slit from across the left side of my belly. I press my hands as tightly as I can against the wound, but blood and life are seeping out through my fingers.

  I’m dying.

  “I can do this,” I tell her, or perhaps I tell myself. “I can do this.”

  I focus not on applying pressure, but on absorbing the pain…

  Tepatiki:

  Tetsoliui

  …accepting, inviting…

  …a hot knife buries itself in my neck; burning, ice-cold pain sends me reeling back.

  I shout in agony, hands clutching at my own throat.

  I look down at my palms—they are covered in blood.

  Am I…?

  No, the pain goes away as soon as my concentration breaks. I’m not hurt, but Uitzli isn’t healed, either. Her life trickles away, her eyes closed, her limbs limp.

  Bones break with a sickening crunch: Abe is literally pounding one of the Spaniards to dust. “I’ll kill ya!!!” he yells, as if his foe was still alive. “Ya killed my lil’ angel!”

  Again, I place my hands over Uitzli’s neck. Tiny, smoky tendrils rise from the wounds to my hands…

  Tepatiki:

  Tetsoliui

  …unbearable, lava-hot pain sears my throat. “Damn it!” I shout, reeling back again.

  It’s too much. I can’t absorb this much, I can’t…

  A cry of triumph comes from the Moor. Glancing quickly in his direction, I see Miyu bleeding from her shoulder—her left arm seems severely injured. The Moor tries to circle her from the left, taking advantage of the fact that the samurai needs both hands to wield her naginata properly. He leaps forward, as Miyu retreats to try and keep her foe at bay.

  This seems to be what Inktmeester—who has apparently not abandoned us, after all—has been waiting for. With the Moor focused on Miyu, the thief materializes behind him as a ghost popping up through a wall and buries a blade in the Moor’s kidneys.

  Reflexively, the Moor spins around and swings wildly with both his scimitar and axe. Inktmeester somersaults backward, safe and out of reach.

  The turning tide lifts Miyu’s spirit. She roars and hurls herself forward…

  Savage Tsuki:

  Hit!

  …and although her injured left arm can’t provide a solid grip, her naginata bites deeply into the Moor’s belly.

  Pushed backward, overrun with pain, our foe crosses sword and axe over his chest.

  “Finish him!” I yell. “He’s about to—”

  “¡Habúb!” he shouts.

  Blasting Sandstorm!

  Just as he did when we ran into him on our way back from Tepetlacotli, the Moor unleashes a stream of cold air that hits the ground from above his head. A wall of dust rises to shield him from Miyu’s onslaught, and I know with full certainty he has escaped.

  Abe yells, enraged, but his fury sounds human-sized now. The bodies of Pardo and Somoza lie at his feet.

  Uitzli closes her eyes.

  “No,” I beg. “No, no, no.”

  I caress the wound on her throat…

  Tepatiki:

  Tetsoliui

  …I prepare myself for the unbearable, piercing-hot pain…

  …nothing happens.

  Nothing.

  No smoky tendrils.

  No piercing pain.

  No life.

  Nothing.

  I rubbed my eyes with clenched fists.

  They itched, badly.

  I slammed the wooden desk. “Damn it,” I growled. I pounded my fists again against the smooth, dark surface. “I mean, damn it!”

  Extending my fingers, I rested my palms flat on the table. Despite my deep breath, my Unflinching Calm skill did not work in the Lobby.

  “That was a rough one, boss…”

  “Yeah, tell me about it.” I groaned. “And I’m not even sure it’s over. We’re not out of this swamp yet. More dogs and Spaniards are coming, I could hear them in the distance.”

  The picture from the bird’s-eye view wasn’t encouraging. Abe, howling by the crushed Spaniards’ bodies like a frenzied wolf, looked to have suffered several deep cuts inflicted by the Moor’s axe and scimitar. Miyu didn’t seem in much better shape. Inktmeester stood tying a handkerchief over her arm, attempting to stop the bleeding from her left shoulder.

  And Uitzli’s body lay on the ground, eyes closed, with a faint smile still playing on her pale lips.

  “Is she dead?” Svetlana asked.

  I nodded grimly.

  “That was some lucky shot,” she said.

  “Was it?”

  “Well,” she offered, “they missed you, so—”

  “I don’t think they did,” I interrupted her. “I think they were doing the smart thing. Targeting our healer first, so the Moor could dispatch Abe and Miyu quicker. No.” I shook my head. “It was lucky the shot became a critical hit, but they were trying to shoot her. Damn it, I should have told her to stay back…”

  “Back where, Jake?” She tapped the bird’s-eye view. “You got caught between the Moorish sand-demon and the musketeers. There was nowhere else she could be.”

  “I know, but…” I closed my hands into fists, squeezed them tight for a few seconds, then slowly opened them. “Damn it. I really didn’t see that coming, the Moor being able to cut our escape like that. I didn’t expect having to fight on two fronts.”

  Time stood still in the paused game, me and my party frozen while seconds ticked aw
ay in the Lobby.

  Svetlana broke the silence. “What now, boss?”

  “I don’t know. We need to move. Fast. More trackers and dogs are coming, and who knows how much time we have before the Moor recovers.” I looked back down at Uitzli’s body. “But I don’t know what to do with her.”

  Juanita places a calloused hand on my shoulder. “We must leave her behind, young Jake,” she advises. “Time is of the essence.” The howls and barks are sounding closer as if to stress her point.

  “Are ya mad, ya bloody witch!?” howls Abe. “Ya wants fer us t’ leave her t’ these filthy dogs!?”

  “We must move quickly,” she insists.

  “We ain’t leavin’ her, ya heartless witch!” Bleeding, he pulls out his bottle of Rokovoko rum and takes a sip, grimacing with pain.

  The Noh mask and the gnomish thief watch the exchange in tense silence.

  My throat beats with piercing pain, my arms feel weak, and my head spins. My failed attempts to heal Uitzli have taken a huge toll on me. I feel feeble.

  Howls and barks getting closer…

  …closer…

  “Ol’ Abe be carrin’ ‘er,” mutters the pirate, “ya’ll see.” He kneels on the ground, lifts Uitzli in his arms, attempts to stand up ... but his legs shake. He loses his balance and drops to one knee.

  “You’re badly injured,” Juanita tells him. There’s a tenderness in her voice I haven’t heard before. “And we almost bled you dry three nights ago.” She rests her hand on his arm. “We must move quickly.”

  “Ya better quit tellin’ Ol’ Abe whats t’ do, witch!” he shouts, struggling to stand with Uitzli’s body in his arms.

  But again, he can’t: His gaping wounds have sapped his colossal strength, and I find I struggle to get on my own bound feet.

  Juanita looks at me with large, pained eyes. “Young Jake … if we escape with her, we may bring her back, like we did with you. But if the enemies catch us, all hope is lost. What shall we do, my child?”

  Abe’s right. We leave no one behind. Miyu, Inktmeester: you two, carry Uitzli’s body. Now, let’s move.

  Juanita’s right. She’s dead, and we’re of no use to anyone if we die ourselves. Abe, put her down. Let’s move.

  Dogs can’t be more than a couple of minutes away.

  Screw this game, damn it…

  But you don’t win by dying.

  “Juanita’s right,” I announce, staring at Abe. “We’re of no—"

  “Be ya mad too, lad!?”

  I feel a cold sharpness, like a sword made of ice, pierce my voice, my tone, my face. “Put. Her. Down,” I command.

  He looks at me like I’m speaking a language he has never heard before.

  “Do it,” I repeat.

  His eyes are a mixture of anger and shocked stupor.

  Three Alanos—Gray, White, and Stripes—emerge from the jungle trail, all growls and bared fangs. Gray and White bark at us; Stripes sniffs the bloodied bodies of Pardo and Somoza, crushed to death by Abe’s savage blows, and seems to hesitate.

  “Now, Abe!” I shout. “Before we’re all doomed!” I Quick Draw Hendricks’ pistol and shoot at the dogs. I miss, but the bullets and bloodied bodies are enough to make them jump back a few steps.

  But more are coming. Lots more, judging by the loud barking and howling, with several Spaniards in tow.

  “Now, damn it!” I order again. “Now!”

  Like a drunken man, he puts Uitzli down on the ground. Juanita places her hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off.

  I swing around in my crutches and stride toward Duurstad. “Move!”

  They do as I say, as quickly as they can.

  The three dogs bark aggressively, but don’t dare to pursue us.

  For now.

  36

  The Deep Divide

  We stumble along the Southern Road toward Duurstad. With every swing of my crutches, I half expect to feel a bullet piercing my back, or razor-sharp fangs burying themselves in my calf to drag me down to the ground. Or that the hot, dry wind overtakes us again, cutting our escape.

  Abe staggers forward, his wounds leaving a trail of blood. Juanita tries again to offer him a hand of support, but the pirate snarls and pushes her aside.

  I hear the Alanos barking behind us, but their howls sound farther and farther away.

  Did the gruesome spectacle of Pardo and Somoza in the middle of the road, beaten to death by Abe’s murderous blows, change the minds of our pursuers?

  Or perhaps Miyu’s blade and Inktmeester’s dagger succeeded in mortally wounding the Moor? Perhaps, even though he escaped from us, he has failed to flee from Death, and losing the Lieutenant has struck fear in Barboza’s minions?

  I grit my teeth. “Keep moving, folks,” I grunt, hobbling forward.

  “Ya lefts ‘er behind,” Abe mutters.

  A few steps ahead of me, Miyu has to use her naginata as a staff to steady her stumbling steps. Inktmeester, by her side, lends his arm for support.

  Juanita touches my hand. “You have to stop their bleeding, my child.”

  “Ol’ Abe needs nothin’ from the likes of ya.” He drops to his knees, panting. “Ol’ Abe swore,” he whispers and rummages in his rucksack. His eyes darken with a heavy mist as he pulls out the Rokovoko bottle. “If there be blood in Ol’ Abe’s veins…” He drinks and closes his eyes.

  I halt by his side and extend my palm over his head, as if I were a Bishop offering my blessing to a kneeling man begging for forgiveness…

  Tepatiki:

  Tetsoliui

  …burning daggers slash across my shoulders and forearms as smoke-like tendrils stretch from Abe’s wounds into my hand…

  “Ol’ Abe sweared t’ always do what Jake says,” he mutters in despair. “An’ Jake said t’ leave her behind…”

  …lava-hot tears well up in my eyes as a sorrow too heavy to bear takes hold of my heart…

  “Ol’ Abe’s sorry, lil’ angel… Ol’ Abe be sorry…”

  …and a soft, heavy numbness, the dozy dizziness of the Rokovoko rum seeps into my veins…

  Skill Upgraded!

  Tepatiki: Tetsoliui

  Promising Apprentice

  Abe stands up. There’s a calm firmness in his step, the set of his jaw, the glint of his eyes. “Devil be me witness now,” he says, and his tone is determined, “there shall be hell t’ pay fer this, by old Nick’s twisted tail.”

  He resumes marching toward Duurstad, without looking back at Juanita or me. When he catches up with Miyu, he wraps his thick arm around the samurai’s back and helps her move at a quicker pace.

  The witch and I follow suit.

  Only a single, lonesome dog howls, miles away.

  We pause briefly halfway to Duurstad. Inktmeester’s makeshift bandages can no longer staunch the bleeding from Miyu’s arm, so I do my best to put my upgraded healing skills to good use while Juanita sends back a handful of bees to make sure we haven’t been followed.

  Abe remains at the front of our group, staring straight ahead. He doesn’t turn back to glance in my direction, not even once.

  The sun is about to set, and shadows loom large on the eastern side of Isla Hermosa. My arms burn, and my shoulders feel like they’ll soon fall off their sockets—but we’ve made it back to Duurstad, and stumbled our weary way to Van der Kaart’s workshop.

  The mood reigning among us resembles nothing like victory or triumph. Juanita slumps in one of the chairs by the mapmaker’s table while Abe, a brooding look in his eyes, stands in a corner of the room. Miyu is immobile by the door, leaning gently on her naginata for support.

  “What went wrong?” I ask, my exhausted butt planted firmly on the ground and my aching back pressed against the wall with the lantern clock.

  “Ze kwamen erachter,” mutters Inktmeester. He has become once again an impish bald gnome, perched upon his stool behind the paper-covered table. His usual grin is gone, though.

  “No heist goes unnoticed, Mister Russel,” Van der K
aart tells me.

  “They most certainly had not raised alarm by the time we left,” says Juanita, her head low. “Something must have tipped them off…”

  “Nee,” says Inktmeester, slowly shaking his head. “Luck bad.”

  “Be jus’ bad luck, aye?” growls Abe. His fury and pain has cooled, but has clearly not been extinguished.

  “He means it was bad luck our thieving act was discovered so soon,” Van der Kaart clarifies. “What happened later was nothing less than a tragedy.”

  Abe’s eyes burn like coals from hell as he scowls at Juanita. “Be closer to treason than tragedy, methinks.” The burning coals shift to fix on me. “Orderin’ us to leave a mate behind, like an ol’ pair o’ shoes.”

  For once, I can’t hold his gaze.

  “At least you recovered what you went in there for, yes?” confirms Van der Kaart, walking over to our loot on display on the table: a thick, worn-out book with weird glyphs on its black cover and a few rolled pieces of paper.

  Abe takes one, two, three ominous steps toward the mapmaker. “What ya means by ‘at least,’ eh? Ya thinks ‘em pieces o’ paper be worth at least our lil’ angel’s life, ya thinks?”

  Silks rustle as Miyu, onyx beads drilling the pirate, moves into position, looking about to spring into action should Abe turn violent.

  Van der Kaart rises both hands to stop the samurai. “I’ve been rude beyond measure, Mister Blackwell.” The mapmaker bows to Abe. “I’m no stranger to losing a loved one, and a piece of paper—no matter how rare and precious—is worthless when the lives of those dear to us are concerned. I beg your forgiveness.”

  Her words have the unlikely effect of soothing Abe. His eyes still burn, but his anger seems to come under control.

  Van der Kaart turns toward me. “Should I fetch Meneer Bakker and the Aztec fellow, so you can give them your report? Or would you rather rest and recover first?”