A Song of Shadow (The Bard from Barliona Book #2) LitRPG series

by Vasily Mahanenko

  “Your name is Roach,” I told the black horse.

  She snorted and shook her head, which I interpreted as consent. Done and done. I will deal with the accusations of plagiarism later.

  Having decided on the name of my horse, I climbed up into the saddle with some caution. Sloe had told me that horsemanship was a special skill in Barliona that players had to learn. And it wasn’t just a matter of pushing a button—you really needed a few days’ training with an NPC instructor. Otherwise, the horse would buck, bite and kick her rider. The exception was several easymode breeds like my Roach. Calm, ponderous and plodding, they obeyed even unskilled riders, provided that they have some riding skills from meatspace. Or, as in my case—experience from other games and VR trainers.

  In real life, I had had a chance to ride twice around the park on a quiet pony intended for tourists, but I had logged about a week in the equestrian VR simulator. Now, in theory, not only did I know how to ride a little, but I also knew how to take care of the animal. The simulator was realistic, so you had to do everything, up to cleaning the stall. I might not win a race against some cavalry, but neither will I go flying from the saddle of my trotting filly.

  The horse moved slowly across rough terrain and through the ubiquitous thorns of the blighted ground, snorting time to time and twirling her ears at the sight of blighted predators. But they simply ignored her, deceived by my shadow ward. Meanwhile, I smiled blissfully, feeling like a fabulous minstrel, driven by the search for adventure.

  And soon enough adventure found me. A fireball flew straight into my face, immediately taking out a fifth of my now-ample Shadow Shield.

  “There she is!” yelled a biota mage coming out of camo and already kindling his next spell in his hand.

  I didn’t get a chance to look at his name, occupied as I was with my exciting flight out of the saddle: Frightened by the fire, Roach kicked and reared. As I sank into the grass, I watched gnarled roots emerge from the ground and slip off my body helplessly. Geranika’s buff once again had saved my life. Meanwhile, there were about a dozen hostile players already running in my direction, with two pirqs in their midst. Those couldn’t care less about my stats—with their magic immunity they would frag me as soon as they reached me.

  My marathon for survival began with a low start and some slipping. In the process, several more bardic-scalp seekers joined the pursuers, but there was no time to count thoroughly. I ran ahead of my own squealing, helplessly watching as fire and ice spells, arrows and throwing axes swiftly devoured another materia shade. Shadow Shield had already cooled down, but given the dps I was taking, casting it again would only buy me a few minutes at best. The only chance of salvation was to reach my goal in time. I didn’t bother shooting back with my impact shades—all it would take is one slip and I wouldn’t have a chance to get up again.

  I let go of the flask of water in my hand just long enough to jangle another Shadow Shield on my eid. I wouldn’t live to see its cooldown. Heck, I wouldn’t have lived this long if it weren’t for the Indefatigable buff which gave me enough stamina to stay ahead of the melee fighters chasing my priceless hide.

  “Snegov!” I hollered into the amulet of communication. “Where are you?”

  “Not far. We’ve just taken care of the sentries,” sounded Bogart’s worried voice. “Where are you? What happened?”

  “Street goons,” I blurted the two words that would explain the entire situation to Snegov.

  “Head a few clicks to the...damn. To the east, to the east,” he ordered and disconnected.

  To the east, so to the east. I don’t care where I die. And I had no doubt that I was about to do just that. The materia shades were dissolving one after another and my HP wasn’t much even with the new gear.

  My defeatist mood had not yet had time to take root when something large and hard swept past me at a frenzied speed and a dark-blue barrier flickered to life around me.

  I slowed down long enough to see Bogart and Merlin come tearing in the wake of the unidentified object at my pursuers, hollering “Vaaagh!” as he did so. And it seems, this time he really was angry...Strange, he’s a hunter, why would he run into melee range?

  As if he’d read my mind, Bogart cut away to the side, removing the crossbow from his back. He raised it, took a knee, gestured for the cat to go gnaw some poor sap’s face, and began to focus down the ugliest (in his eyes) of my pursuers.

  “Lipo will deal with your buddy shortly,” a zombie priest named Qupip said implacably, riding up to me.

  His horse was well-suited to its rider: Beneath the sumptuous horsecloth, I could make out the skeleton of a dead nag, its eyes burning with a magical lilac fire.

  Lipo turned out to be a Level 264 orc warrior. Along with Merlin, he was hooting cheerfully and chasing after the four surviving players of the first attack, obviously amused at their attempts to escape their fate. Still, they were fairly agile and quick, so Bogart summoned his mount and began galloping after them, furiously shooting his crossbow as he rode and yelling something like “Stop dodging so much and let me aim properly, you bastards!” In turn, I picked up the eid and began to play the theme of the chase from the remake of the popular comic show, shooting impact shades at the runners. A guitar is no yakety sax of course but the melody was clear enough to Qupip who began to laugh cheerfully and contagiously.

  “Good one,” he flashed me a thumbs up. “Only, this is no place for you any longer.”

  “Why is that?” I asked surprised. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the kill count record the fifth victim. “The forest is big, let them look long and hard when they respawn.”

  “Because these kids are from the Dark Legion—the Seconds, we call them in honor of their eternal second place behind Ehkiller’s guild. The Seconds went over to Kartoss with a positive reputation with the Dark Lord, so they are the leading candidates to escort the embassy. In a few days there will be a mob of high-level players here legally, so to speak. The local sentries won’t slow them down and they’ll comb this forest every which way and leave no pebble unturned. And your camo at this level means absolutely zilch. Their trackers will locate you quickly, so you have to get out of here. We won’t be much help—we’ll be occupied with keeping our own skins alive.”

  “Well crap,” I summarized.

  “Yah,” the priest agreed. “So wrap up your business here and start thinking about your next move.”

  Why where would I go? I have hatred status with both empires, the monsters beyond the Arras won’t let me take a step out there, and at my level there’s nothing for me in the Free Lands. It looks like my only way forward lies with Geranika. And this means that I need to start upping my biota kill count as quickly as possible.

  Lipo and Bogart, meanwhile, completed their sweep of the battlefield and approached us.

  “Clear,” Bogart reported. “How are you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m alive, so everything’s fine,” I said and pulled out Roach’s bridle.

  Activating the item did nothing.

  Simple Steppe Horse Bridle. Durability: 0 / 200.

  Uh-huh. So they killed my Roach after all. The upside is that it isn’t forever. All I have to do is find a stable master, pay him some gold and he’ll fix my bridle, resurrecting my horsey. The downside is basically that I have no idea where to find a stable master. The Tree is off limits to me and there are no other options. Although...I could give the bridle to Chip and have him take it to the stables.

  “They killed my Roach,” I complained to Bogart.

  “That’s what you get for stealing him from Geralt. And anyway,” he nodded in the direction of the battlefield, “who are those goons? Your fan club? Why don’t they ask Pasha and me for permission to interact with you privately? A young lady from a decent Southern family shouldn’t be out gallivanting without her governess, coquetting with random Yankees—they are not bona fide!”

  “Well those guys never asked me anything,” I sighed. “They’re buddi
es of our old friend Otolaryngologist. Pasha and I told you about him. And, it seems, they’re all from the Dark Legion.”

  “So Yankees all the same...” Bogart grunted and grinned unkindly.

  He had his own reasons to dislike the Dark Legion and these reasons struck me as odd. So they bet on his dying in game against a high-level PKer...and so what? Didn’t it just help even the playing field in the process? But no, their wagering had annoyed Sasha enough that now he was jumping at the chance to spoil things for them even a little.

  “Where are they going to start their search from?” Bogart confirmed my suspicions, looking around the area with an unpleasant squint.

  “I do not know about them, but the Forest Sentries will kill you as soon as you stray from the raid party,” I reminded. “You’re an illegal alien in these parts. The locals will all aggro you and your Level 45 won’t scare them away.”

  “You’re like my grandmother, Kiera,” Bogart replied. “Next thing I know, you’ll be swatting at me with a towel and yelling at me to come inside to eat. You think this is my first disco? That I don’t have a head of my own? I only wanted to leave a couple surprises lying around. It’d be rude not to. Just show up, slay some stuff and not even say goodbye...Let me just dig this little hole and set up some spikes down in its bottom—like a bona fide Southern gentleman. Then we can move on.”

  “Ten minutes, no more,” Qupip declared with finality. “Long enough for the scouts to look around and my mana to regenerate.”

  “In ten minutes, we’ll be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border,” Bogart reassured him.

  “I can help,” Lipo offered. “I’m curious!”

  “In that case, start breaking the branches from that bush over there,” said Bogart and whistling a cheerful tune, began digging the earth as briskly as a mole.

  I didn’t feel like poking around in others’ business. If Bogart wants to dig holes, let him dig them himself. Everyone plays however he likes. Especially since they won’t get in the way. I need to get 25 more frags to make Geranika happy and take me on as his court minstrel.

  “Listen up, prickle pear,” Qupip interrupted my thoughts. “Sloe said that you are a cartographer. How much would you sell your map for? I’d rather not poke around here blind.”

  “Oh, you can have a copy for free,” I said, shrugging and unfurling my map. “You’ve helped me out a great deal as it is.”

  There was just a small problem—in a lapse of judgment, I had marked the dungeon on the map. Although, why am I so worried? I can always erase it too...It took me a second to change the name of the dungeon—labeled automatically by the system to ‘Renegade HQ.’ I glanced over at the orcs, already up to their ears in the ground and quickly sketched in my recent path, skipping Pasha’s beloved details like altitude and keeping only what the players needed most.

  “Here,” I handed the copied map to the priest. “Just stay away from the renegades. I really want to see how the scenario plays out.”

  “We won’t go there without good reason,” Qupip assured me. “The debuff from the blight is bad enough.”

  “Eh, it’s too bad there’s no good manure heap around here,” I heard Bogart say in a voice full of sincere regret. He was in the process of driving sharpened stakes into the bottom of the pit, taking them from his partner.

  “Otherwise, I’d be happy to fertilize this a bit...” Bogart went on muttering. “It’d grow and flower better that way.”

  I looked at him askance with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was a good person but at the same time—what a nutcase. After all, it’s not like he’d invented this in game—he had brought these tricks here from meatspace. There sure were some sinister screws loose in his head—I don’t even want to guess exactly what they were all about. As long as he didn’t lose the plot out in real life.

  “Let’s head out!” Dirk ordered and the raiders saddled their mounts.

  “Kiera—make sure to stay out of trouble, okay?” Bogart said in an unexpectedly serious tone as he mounted his shaggy wolf. “Because, who knows...what if we don’t make it?”

  “Relax, Sasha,” I replied. “It’s just a game.”

  “Yeah, sure, a game,” he spat. “A gentle, happy, game. You know, Kiera Khan, I’d better stick around. For the sake of peace of mind and propriety. Who knows if one of these psycho fans decides to go to one of your concerts.”

  “Are you like her husband?” asked Qupip.

  “Give me a bit more credit,” Bogart replied with dignity. “I’m her impresario!”

  “If there is anything I value about you, my green friend,” Pops clapped him on the shoulder, “it’s your knack for buzzing so pretty. You weren’t an English major by any chance? You sure do know a lot of words.”

  “Nah—what happened was, there was this hefty tome that fell on my head when I was a kid,” Bogart dug at the ground with a toe bashfully as the other raiders giggled. “I didn’t know how to read back then, but I assume it must have been a dictionary because I’ve been suffering from all these words in my head ever since that day.”

  “All right, you poor thing you,” Qupip laughed. “Until we meet again.”

  “Adios, amigo,” Bogart replied.

  The raiding party moved on to conquer the Hidden Forest, while the green phenomenon and I stayed behind to guard the thorns. To make sure they weren’t stolen, Bogart explained.

  “By the way, I’m a veritable Monstrichello now,” I bragged, sharing my character’s properties with Bogart.

  Despite all the grumbling about the stupid game mechanics, Bogart was so carried away by the hunt for the players that he himself did not notice how he acquired a thorough knowledge of the mechanics of Barliona. And now, at the sight of my stats, he—as he liked to say—‘twisted his face in amazement’ and whistled:

  “You’re a real Hit-Girl...Listen, Bride of Frankenstein, at this rate you’ll become the chief baobab in this place. The shamans will be conjuring all around you, making bloody sacrifices. Will you become the head honcho? With your droit du seigneur and all?”

  I pretended that I was thinking:

  “Does the sight of plants excite you so much? Or are you more of a hefty and furry pirq kind of orc? What are pirq females called anyway? ‘Pirquettes?’”

  “The hussars were a sullen lot and they banged everything that moved. Things that didn’t move, they’d kick and if they moved then, they’d bang them on the spot,” the orc recited an ancient joke. “The court jester knows what the pirqs call their females. But we should find out just in case...Should we whip up a bonfire? We’re sitting here like two shepherds in a pastoral painting. All we’re missing are some sheep and cows...” and, without waiting for an answer, Bogart set off to gather kindling.

  “Listen! Maybe that’s why the biota corpses don’t disappear?” I shared my hunch. “They just dry up and become brushwood? You haven’t encountered a wooden skull anywhere, have you?”

  “Nah. I was just about to show you something else though, maybe you’ll recognize it?”

  The orc dumped the collected brushwood on the spot chosen for the fire. Shaking off his hands—an empty gesture in the game because there was no dirt here—Bogart untied his bag and pulled out of it...a ukulele.

  “Here you go.”

  In the huge green paw, the funny little guitar looked like a toy.

  “Thanks. Where did you dig it up?” I asked with surprise, looking at the properties of the instrument.

  A type Rare, with the standard +25% to casting time and a bonus to earning Attractiveness with NPCs.

  “I took it off a corpse. I am an orc, after all,” Bogart winked.

  “Mmm...” I smiled bloodthirstily and wiped the non-existent blood stain from the ukulele. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “A girl after my own heart,” smiled Bogart, stacking the firewood. “Play something to lighten up the mood.”

  The eid resumed its place in my satchel and my fingers slid along the uku
lele, getting used to the unusual size of the little fretboard. I bet I look pretty funny holding this thing in my gloomy and edgy getup of thorns and veins.

  A simple motif cheerfully fluttered through the forest, causing the bald orc to break into a broad grin. He lit the fire and hummed along to the simple cartoon song. I had already observed that both vets for some reason preferred cartoons to movies.

  As soon as the flames flared up, Bogart pulled out his battle axe, which he had nicknamed ‘Croaker’ and galloped off, like an epileptic, imitating the dances of Native Americans in ancient Hollywood Westerns. Although, in his version, it looked like the dancer was suffering a series of electric shocks.

  “Listen! This is a rare instrument!”

  “Yeah, it belonged to none other than Israel Kamakawiwoʻole himself,” nodded the orc without interrupting his frenetic dance. “He used it to record the soundtrack to the old Bourne movie. And so what?”

  “I can summon his soul! Want to try? Because otherwise, I’ve only seen Eid.”

  “All right!” Bogart immediately sat down beside me. “Commence the ritual.”

  To my surprise, instead of a clump of fog and a prompt offering me to choose the role of my new companion, I was confronted with a notification warning me that I could be exposed to ‘adult content’...Well, I must say, the warning intrigued me more than the summons.

  As soon as I confirmed that I had read the notification and was okay with the consequences of my actions, a ghostly fop with a sleek face, a sly grin and an insolent glance appeared before me.

  You have summoned the soul of the ukulele (Level 20 Rogue).

  “Mmm...” he crooned, looking me over from head to toe. “Well this is something new...I’ve never been touched by someone like you before...”

  I almost choked—I had thought that this kind of thing was impossible in Barliona.

  “What, are you accustomed to—big, hairy, man-hands?” The orc asked sympathetically. “You poor darling.” He blew a fanfare with his nose for comic effect.

  The ukulele’s spirit measured him with a contemptuous glance and, it seems, decided simply to ignore him. Instead, he sat boldly down beside me, embraced me around the waist and whispered suggestively: