by Dmitry Bilik
We walked the rest of the way in silence. I’d already wholeheartedly regretted rejecting her offer of clogs. At this point I would have been happy with any kind of footwear. My feet were bleeding, and my right sole had been cut against a sharp rock. So it goes without saying that I was ecstatic to spot the little city or fortress or whatever it was on top of the mountain.
I was ecstatic indeed — until I glimpsed a tiny dot in the sky. It stayed suspended there for some time, then rushed toward us. I could already make out the powerful white wings, the closed helmet ablaze in the sun, and the shining breastplate. The creature’s arms and legs were unprotected.
The female Archalus landed about twenty paces away from us. She conjured up a huge two-handed sword and held it in front of her.
“Stop right there, you dark bitch.”
She clearly wasn’t talking to me. At least, what was it the message had said? Didn’t I “gravitate to the Light Side?”
This particular Archalus seemed to know Arts. And apparently that wasn’t an advantage.
Chapter 19
THE ABILITY TO BEHAVE properly in a tricky situation is the most valuable thing a person can learn. We’re not born with this: this skill comes with time, and most important, with experience. As far as I could tell, Arts clearly had it.
“I’m no darker than you, Ilia,” she said confidently. “Did you guys lose the city again?”
“Those damned Kabirids came down on us like ashes from the Black Mountain. Urful’s legion attacked at dawn. They brought a pack of Cerberi with them. You know what those creatures are like under the Red Moon. But never mind that. Wefeil has already gone to get the griffins. Speaking of the moon, what are you,” she looked at me hesitantly but added anyway, “what are you two doing prowling around the valley?”
Arts began to speak in a strange language, twittering like a bird. I couldn’t understand a single word of what she said. But the Archalus was listening intently. As Arts continued her story, the winged woman’s face changed expression. First it betrayed scorn and contempt which was soon replaced by surprise and finally, complete disbelief.
Your fame has increased to 1.
Your reputation has changed to Nutcase.
What the hell was that? While the girls twittered sweetly — this was the only way to describe their conversation — I opened my interface. I poked around until I found some messages under my characteristics.
Fame influences the character’s recognition across all worlds. It is required for controlling settlements and armies.
Reputation subconsciously influences the other Players’ opinion of you, triggering either goodwill or, alternatively, rejection. Seekers with similar reputations may come to an agreement more quickly.
This was all fine and dandy, but why on earth was I a Nutcase?
The female warrior smirked. “So you’re the newb who decided to take the mission in the Wild Lands during the Red Moon?”
Ilia
???
???
Paladin
Gravitates to the Dark Side
???
???
“It’s just that I didn’t have time to study your astronomy.”
“And you’re the one who wounded the Alpha?”
Actually, I’d also killed two other rachnaids. But I thought it best not to overemphasize that. “Yes, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
The Archalus stepped forward, almost looming over me. “How did you do it?”
Arts’ words came back to me: Players don’t talk about things like that.
The Archalus swung her two-handed sword as though it were but a feather. The blade stopped less than half an inch from my neck. “Fancy a bit of tough love?”
Was she threatening me? Well, we’d see who’d win that battle.
[ ∞ ]
I parried the sword with my spear which then carried on through with the momentum. I took a step forward, but Ilia proved faster. She let go of her sword and elbowed me nice and hard. The bitch!
[ ∞ ]
I parried the sword and promptly let go of my spear. Crouching to dodge another blow, I drew my knife, straightened up and pressed the blade against the Archalus’ throat.
Your fame has increased to 2.
The Archalus’ eyes widened in surprise. “How did you do that?”
“I thought we agreed to each have our own secrets.”
“All right, human. Enough playing around!”
Her tone was so firm there was no room for objection. I put my knife away. The Archalus picked up her sword.
“You only have a few hours, Arts. After that, I won’t bother to differentiate between who’s in the city. Either get out or take shelter in the local community.”
“We’ll only need an hour,” Arts answered.
The sword Ilia was holding disappeared. She crouched down, then soared into the air. Only now did I notice a few silhouettes hovering high above — probably her escorts.
“Are they going to attack the city again?” I asked.
“Of course. You heard her. They’re waiting for the griffins now, then they’re going to seize the city. A little later the Kabirids will retake it again.”
“Why are they at war?”
My question seemed to have puzzled her. She thought for a bit and then shrugged. “They’ve always been at war. Their feud is probably older than that of cats and dogs.”
“Another question. You said that she was darker than you. I saw that myself, too. But how is it possible?”
“Why not? Didn’t you learn anything from the Archalus who gave you the mission?”
“Him I can understand. But she’s in the Elysium army, isn’t she?”
Arts nodded. “She’s captain of the second company of the fifth legion.”
“So how is it possible that a Dark Player can join the angel army?”
“I told you before that things aren’t so clear-cut here. It’s hard to be a commander. Sometimes you have to issue very cruel orders. You can’t do that and remain all so lily white. Her Karma doesn’t get in her way, at least not in Purgator. On the contrary: the dark Archali often create diversions in Firoll using Disguise. Just like the Light Kabirids do in Elysium. If she’s urgently summoned back home, Ilia can raise her karma pretty quickly. It’s not hard although it’s quite burdensome.”
Yeah yeah. Cute and cuddly creatures riding marshmallow unicorns. On the other hand, what did I want? This was a war between angels and demons. It would have been strange if things were simple here.
“Come on, let’s go. We don’t have much time.”
So the two feeble Players set off for the mountain.
As we walked, something odd had happened. The spear I’d been leaning on as I walked suddenly disappeared — or rather, crumbled to the finest ashes. Apparently, its summon time had run out.
We stepped out onto a well-trodden dirt road that led to the city. Now we could get a good look at its tall spires. In some places they were intact, in others destroyed. A few poor shacks outside the city wall were smoldering.
A pair of demons were standing by the gates: tall, monstrous, fascinating winged creatures.
They were a spitting image of that Fibst (or Fibbian) guy we’d met earlier. If all demons looked alike to me, did that make me a racist? In any case, these boys were striking. They wore huge, bony, spiked pauldrons, knee guards with skulls on them, wrought steel boots and imposing breastplates decorated with the image of some strange beast which must have been the symbol of the legion the Kabirids belonged to.
“Halt! Where are you from?” one of them asked.
???
Summoner
???
???
“We’re from the Cesspit. We got here two hours ago. We’ll be leaving in an hour.”
“You look a lot like Archalus snoops.”
“We look like someone who will tell Urful that his worthless lackeys aren’t letting Players into the community.”
“You may pass,” the Kabirid grumbled.
“Urful is not a bad demon — compared to the others, obviously,” Arts explained. “He never hassles Players. He understands that it can backfire. But their squabbles with the Archali are theirs alone.”
Hm. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out that this Urful gravitated to Light. Everything was so mixed up here.
As I pondered life’s ironies, I tried to examine the city. Either it was the most sparsely populated place ever or everyone had gone into battle. We came across lots of Kabirid patrols but few orange-skinned city residents who looked at us with open animosity.
“There aren’t a lot of people here,” I commented.
“Most Purgs went to hide in the surrounding villages. The ones who are still here had nowhere to go. Or they’re working for the demons. It’s a strange war here. They’ll spend a month or so fighting for this little city, then they’ll abandon it and switch their attention to another one. Then the Purgs will come back.”
“The Purgs — you mean, the locals?”
“Yes, but no one ever calls them ‘Purgatorians’. Just Purgs.”
“They’re exactly like humans. It’s just that they’re orange.”
“That’s the sun that’s here,” Arts said, pointing to the sky. “It looks just like ours. But that’s what it does to your skin.”
Aha. So Donald Trump must have been a Purgatorian too. “Hold on, I’m just starting to get this. Do they realize we’re Players?”
“Of course. There are no protective pillars here.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “What are protective pillars?”
“They sort of accumulate magic energy. In some of the worlds the pillars do mass distractions of commoners. But the pillars in Purgator were destroyed a long time ago. It was a price to pay for the permanent war.”
Curiouser and curiouser. I peered at the city that seemed to be still stuck in the Dark Ages. A lot of us idly fantasize about how we would have lived in the era of chivalry: we would have indulged in jousting tournaments, praised the king’s virtues and entertained the fair ladies of his court. And there I was, walking barefoot on the filthy cobblestones which stank of urine, and the only thing I wanted more than everything now was to go home.
“That way,” Arts said, pulling me after her.
“That way” turned out to be the mountain. Literally. The road stopped at a small gate cut into a cliff and then forked, leading toward a castle to our right.
But Arts forged right ahead, under the mountain. That’s where the local community was apparently set up. I could see Players of different races, a few houses and a couple of Korls at the entrance who nodded to me cheerfully as though I were an old friend.
Light penetrated through an opening in the top of the mountain, so neatly cut it appeared to have been sawn off with an angle grinder. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Whenever shit hits the fan, the community just shuts the gates and that’s it. They’re enchanted, so no one can break through them. No one even tries. The Kabirids and Archali are one thing and the Players are quite another. Come on. Over there,” she motioned to one of the little houses.
The wrought iron sign with a picture of a test tube indicated that this was where the alchemist lived. The door was hard to open, as though it didn’t want us there. It was dark inside.
“Hello? Anybody alive here?”
“That’s how you enter a crypt, not a shop,” a voice said inside.
Darkness parted, revealing a short man shuffling toward to us. He was either a dwarf or a gnome — I couldn’t tell which. The man was illuminating his way with a lamp — but instead of oil, the lamp held a tiny winged creature. Whenever it started to flutter against the glass, the light would beam brighter.
“Arts,” he said, cheering up. “What brings you to our hole?”
“Ask him,” Arts said, sitting carefully on a chair next to the counter. “Tartr, I need the Healing essence.”
“Where am I supposed to get that?” Tartr asked, raising his arms. “Let me take a look at you.”
Arts shed her clothing until she was just down to her top. Since I’d put the bandages on her, they’d become soaked in blood and now were a dirty crimson. She didn’t look good.
“Ouch,” Tartr said, gingerly unraveling the bandages. “Who did this to you?”
“An Alpha. In the Valley of Silence.”
“I’m not surprised. Why would you go there when this moon is out? Oh boy. Did you cast a spell on yourself? Good. It’s not really that bad. I have an ointment that just might.... Bretta!” he screamed, his voice suddenly hideous and shrill.
I flinched. A voice answered him in the same manner from the depths of the shop, making me jump,
“What do you want?”
“Bring me the Elufrian ointment!”
“There’s none left.”
“What about in the stockroom?
A brief pause. “No!”
“What about in the lab?”
There was a barely audible shuffling of feet. “No!”
“What about in the basement with all the chemicals?”
There was a sound of a heavy lid dropping, followed by the creaking of stairs. “No!”
“Go look in the cabinet.”
I suppressed a smile. They reminded me of an elderly married couple who stockpiled several years’ worth of supplies. It could be anything: toilet paper, soap, canned food, salt.
I must have guessed right about the old married couple thing. It turned out that Bretta was of the same race as Tartr: she an Herbalist and he an Alchemist Experimenter. A family shop.
“Hi, Arts,” she said flatly.
She didn’t give me so much as a glance. She put down a vial containing a dense, acrid substance and turned to leave.
“What’s with your friend?” Tartr asked Arts, pointing at me.
“He cut his foot. There was also a small wound on his hand, but it’s not serious.”
“Bretta, you need to clean his wounds too.”
“He’s a Player. He can do very well without.”
Only then did it dawn on me that there was no glowing aura around her. She was a commoner!
“Bretta, just fetch me some water, will you?”
Bretta muttered something but left and soon returned with a jug of water and a basin. She indicated where I should sit down and began to wash my feet.
I felt uncomfortable to say the least. I’d spent my whole life taking care of myself. But the time in which to protest had already been lost. And you couldn’t solve this kind of problem in four seconds.
In the meantime, Tartr had smeared the ointment on Arts’ wound, waited a few minutes, then wiped it off with a cloth.
Holy cow! The wound had already closed. Without any spectacular show of sparks, flashes of light, or other special effects. The most powerful magic turned out to be perfectly mundane.
“Come here,” Tartr turned down toward me. “Pfff, that’s nothing. Take off your trench coat.”
The ointment felt cold when he rubbed it on me. Even worse, it stank. That’s the lack of justice in the universe for you. If you want to be cured, you need to drink something bitter and repulsive. If you want to lose weight, you need to eat tasteless things by the clock. It sucks.
“That’s it. What are you doing roaming around barefoot, young man?”
“It just happened.”
“Bretta! Bring me the Boots of Solophon.”
“Why are you yelling? I can hear you. I’m standing right here,” Bretta echoed, shuffling away.
At this point, I realized that although I didn’t have any particular feelings for Bretta, I sincerely sympathized with the old man. And I noticed that this impression had formed almost instantly, as soon as I entered the shop, and not after he helped me. Was it because he was an alchemist — a nutcase scientist in his own way? I could only speculate.
Bretta came back, hurling a massive pair of leather boots on the floo
r in front of me, at least three sizes bigger than my 11.
The Boots of Solophon
+4 to Medium Armor
+10% to an attempt to successfully create or modify a spell.
-1 from Athletics
The latter deduction must have been due to the item’s weight. Bretta could barely lift them. But on the whole, they were even kind of cute. They almost looked like they came from the latest Paris Fashion Week.
