“A cynosure,” he announced, “works for a player as well as it might for a spirit. It may even be preferable that they attempt suicide. It would save us the trouble of providing mounts. Bind them to it!” he commanded, holding the rod out toward Hen’Darl.
Hen’Darl groused to herself loudly as we followed her orders, the captain riding slowly down the line until all six of us were bound.
“Now, release them and return to your hovel," he demanded of the orc.
“I will not!” Hen’Darl insisted. “I must still see the heart to King Leonald, with Hearthstead’s regards.”
“Hearthstead should worry more about how Leonald regards it," the soldier mocked in return.
“The orcs of Hearthstead are subjects as loyal as any!” Hen’Darl declared. “And as the heart was born in Hearthstead, it is my duty to see it safely to the king!”
“You don’t trust me?” The captain smiled cruelly. “It would be a shame for Hearthstead if something were to happen to the heart, wouldn’t it?” His grin widened as he came to a decision. “Very well. Come along! Dismiss your guards. We will see you safe to Kalsip and onward. You will want to ride closely with the prisoners, I’m sure—to ensure the safety of the heart, of course.”
With that, the troops began the long, slow process of turning a hundred horses around. Shouted orders saw the seven of us surrounded on all sides by a score of troops an unknowable number of levels above us, whose first order of business was to search us thoroughly. It was clear that Hen’Darl’s place with us was not a place of honor.
Chapter 31
Even in the blackest part of the night, players still trickled into Kalsip, excited to start their adventures. Each one stopped to stare as the procession passed them, but it was too dark to see the troop’s captive players. Hen’Darl had seen to that, wrapping the six of us in a deeper darkness than even the night could manage. It wouldn’t do for the newly arrived players to get suspicious upon seeing us held captive, Garinold had pointed out.
The city hall was still operational too, allowing players to complete The Mayor’s Request and enter the portals. You don’t close a gold mine just because it’s night, after all, and it was starting to become clear to me just how valuable we as players were considered to be. Our regiment co-opted the entire room of portals as half the troops rode through before us, and the other half behind.
The experience of passing through the rippling membrane and instantly arriving somewhere else was incredible, but I wished I were able to take a freer look around as it happened. Still, even with my gaze fixed listlessly on Slynx’s back, what the transition did to my other senses was fascinating.
As the surface of the portal parted, heat bloomed around me, racing up my arms to envelope me. The hot, dry heat made my hair stand on end. My ears throbbed for a moment, and then popped at a magnitude I had never felt before. The sudden glare of daylight made me grateful my autonomous functions were free from Hen’Darl’s control, and my eyes were still able to squint and blink against the shift.
The most impactful change, though, was the sound. After the relative quiet of the city hall, it was nearly deafening. Hoofbeats, the clash of metal on metal, the bray of military command. We had moved from the slow, silent streets of early morning into the clash and clamor of a midday military camp!
Hen’Darl had maintained her Control spell on us under the pretext of preventing our escape, but truly it helped that we weren’t required to act during that last leg to Kalsip. Garinold had simply laughed at the woman and welcomed her to waste her mana. It had made for a trip that was both long and excruciatingly boring. Dwarven backsides are only so entertaining, after all.
What ground I could see was dirt, crusted now only where traffic was impossible. The dry air must have been a constant, because nowhere could I find a piece of green. All there was to be seen in the periphery of my view were flashes of bleak sandstone.
We rode straight, never deviating, for a quarter of an hour, until the sounds of military life had largely faded. At that point, Garinold barked out a dismissal to his troops. I could only hear hoofbeats and see flashes of movement, and so it startled me when he spoke again nearby.
“Well, Orc, let’s get your gifts to the king settled.”
“Very well," Hen’Darl grumbled. “It will please me to be rid of them.”
I continued to watch Slynx’s back as we turned off the path and made our way down a dirt track, stopping short of a small, walled-in alcove at which we were commanded to dismount. I could sense that we weren’t alone.
“Bind them to the cynosure," Garinold commanded Hen’Darl, who complied. One by one we marched into the room and bound ourselves, not to another of the small spears, but to a monolith. Its smooth stone matched Me’Almah in height, and was encrusted with tens of the small black gems we’d seen affixed to other cynosures singly. It was obviously not a temporary structure.
“Line up!” he barked, and Hen’Darl made us obey.
“Welcome to the glorious armies of Cogneid!” the captain announced, spreading his arms wide. “We always welcome new recruits! Here, at Impresium, you and players like you will be trained. You will grow strong and capable in defense of our great country!”
Still jovial, he continued, “Do not think that your status as players will garner you special treatment. You are prisoners, well and truly caught. If you disobey, you will be punished. If you attempt to escape, you will be punished. If you kill yourselves, you will be punished.”
He grinned and gestured at the cynosure. “Having bound yourselves here means that death holds no escape. No matter if you die of thirst in the channels, in battle, or by your own hand, you will always return to us. Do not spend your time dreaming of escape—spend it dreaming of greatness!
“After all, should you prove yourselves loyal, strong, and clever, glory may await you. Already, elite players have begun to show themselves capable of acting for the good of the kingdom and have found themselves handsomely rewarded.”
I wondered what “for the good of the kingdom” meant. Surely they didn’t have enough players to field an army. More likely these “elite” players were being used for suicide missions of one type or another. Judging by what I’d seen, the regular troops were much higher level than any player should be, and so the only benefit a player would be able to provide would be their immortality. That meant raids, assassinations, or even capturing other players.
“Now, Orc," he waved a hand at Hen’Darl. “Release them.”
Hen’Darl did so, and we immediately attacked.
The captain didn’t seem surprised, and casually backhanded Me’Almah as she came into range. Hen’Darl stumbled backward and immediately wrapped herself in a shroud of darkness to obscure her presence. I launched myself at her as the others occupied Garinold.
“Fools," Captain Garinold said with an exaggerated boredom. He swatted Slynx and Katz away with as much ease as he had Me’Almah, and burst into laughter as Mac and Varba both finished casting spells they had no mana for and staggered to the ground.
Meanwhile, Hen’Darl had cleared the shroud from around her and held a stiletto under my chin, close enough that I could feel the tip. I held my hands up and stood very still, until rough hands grabbed me from behind. There were indeed others in the room. Five guards tasked with guarding the cynosure had jumped to their feet as we attacked, but they were too late to join the scuffle. The fight had been over before it started. Instead, they dragged us back to the middle of the room and forced us to our knees in front of the captain.
“I did warn you," he chortled. Then, taking a long, thin rod offered by one of the guards, he stepped to each of us and lightly tapped us on the head with it.
I had expected pain. I wasn’t yet aware of how creative magic could be.
Cold gripped me as sweat broke from my body and my chest contracted. I had expected pain, but he was going to kill us! My lungs seized as I gasped for air, but my diaphragm was locked tight. I was going to die—and even though I
would respawn, I would only die again, and again, and again. It would never stop. Oh, god, what if it never stopped? I wanted to scream, but my throat was too tight to do more than moan.
“Alright, everybody on your feet!” the captain announced cheerfully. As quickly as it had started, whatever had me in its grip eased. Hands pulled me upright. The others were in a similar state, chests heaving and eyes wild.
Garinold slapped the rod against his palm and began to stroll back and forth in front of us as we struggled to regain our composure. “To be clear, friends, that was an intermediate effect," he explained. “I spared you not out of pity, but out of lack of desire to watch you empty your bowels. Next time I will put down a tarp.” He grinned, all teeth. “Plus, we’re on a schedule. Follow me!”
Turning on a heel, he marched out of the alcove, leaving the six of us to stagger after him. None of us were interested in replicating the experience.
Hen’Darl moved to follow as well, but Garinold cut her off from doing so without even turning.
“You can have your players,” she retorted, “but I am not letting the dungeon heart out of my sight until it gets to Leonald!”
“You aren’t in any position to argue, orc,” Garinold responded coldly, turning to face her. “I will ensure the heart reaches the king.”
“But if the child should drop it! Or hide it! It could be as dangerous to Impresium as it was to Hearthstead!”
Unsure of how to act as they discussed my fate, I simply kept my head down, at least until Garinold’s boots stopped in front of me. Pushing my chin up with the same stick he’d use to “discipline” us just minutes earlier, he gazed imperiously at my face.
“If he were to drop it for whatever reason, he would spend the rest of his immortality screaming. There are so many body parts he could do without, and if we should slip... So,” he said, giving a purposeful twist of his torture stick, “he’s going to be very careful with it, isn’t he?”
I nodded carefully, unsure of how the stick activated and not wanting to do so on accident. I didn’t have to fake the fear in my eyes as they met Garinold’s. Until that point, I had been sure of the plan, but fear invited doubt. What if it all fell through and we remained under Garinold’s control? Had we condemned ourselves to immortal slavery and a lifetime of torture?
“You plan to use the dungeons? Then I will wait as near the entrance as I am allowed," Hen’Darl declared, unphased by the threats. “I will see the heart to Leonald.”
“And you may consider yourself under guard as you do so," the captain snapped, then gestured for her to precede him. “Better that we have eyes on you regardless.”
As Hen’Darl took the lead I noticed for the first time how haggard she appeared. She had maintained her Control spell on us the entire day and well into the night, an enormous expenditure of mana and effort. On top of that, even though it was midday wherever we had ended up, it had been nearing 5 A.M. when we entered the portal, and Hen’Darl was no spring chicken. I feared for her too, then, and the full weight of what she was risking for our sake and for Hearthstead suddenly became very real.
Garinold led us on, and I did my best to take in our surroundings, now that I could independently direct my gaze. Our captor saw us looking and grinned.
“Go ahead and check your maps," he encouraged us. “Impresium is warded against scrying, teleportation, mapping, divination—even the stars can’t tell you where you are," he announced smugly. “What I can tell you is that Impresium is surrounded by more desert than you can imagine. Nothing gets in, and nothing gets out, except through the portals. You’ll see why shortly.”
I didn’t see anything to contradict his assessment. Walls of stone rose up hundreds of feet on either side, and nowhere was there so much as a fleck of green. We marched on the floor of a slot canyon maybe only thirty feet wide but unnaturally flat and clear. This was a well-used road. Buildings fronted the street on both sides, enormous structures carved directly into the sandstone and clearly occupied, as bedding was visible on upper levels that were little more than exposed shelves arranged in tiers up the side of the canyon walls.
“It’s like Petra," Varba voiced behind me. “The temple in Jordan. Carved straight into the cliff face.”
I’d seen pictures, but even the real thing would have paled in comparison to the buildings we marched past. After all, I doubted the Jordanians had access to magical assistance.
Signs of occupation faded as we progressed, until we passed several of the buildings that were clearly not in use. Idly, I estimated just how many people each building must accommodate, and in doing so stumbled onto their purpose. These were dorms—or, to be more accurate, slave quarters—and by my count they currently housed nearly 2,000 players. 2,000 players including my dad, but where were they? Not a single soul was in sight, aside from the seven of us.
My question was answered as we approached a branch in the canyon, fronted by a truly paranoid amount of fortification. Row after row of crenelated walls rose in tiers, mounted at intervals with ballistae and a type of long-barreled cannon. The sandstone was inlaid with such a complex interweaving of runes it was truly dizzying. Whatever these were here to defend must be valuable. I ached to see it all with Ether active, but refused to dwell on regret. Maybe I could smash the stone once we were ready to make our escape.
Between the bristling sections of wall stood an enormous metal door, set directly into the sides of the canyon. The door had been cast with the same emblem Garinold and his troops bore on their chests: a kite-shaped crest boasting crossed bundles of grain and a sword, all encircled by a crown. The circlet had been designed to look like waves and bore the image of a ship on the brow.
Captain Garinold left Hen’Darl with the guards garrisoned across from the gate with explicit instructions that she not be allowed to leave, or to interact with any players, until he returned for her.
“Fine by me,” she grumbled, and stalked into the building, settling on a bench with the obvious intention to sleep. I could have sworn I heard her snoring even before we left the building, but I didn’t begrudge her the luxury. I was simply glad she was able to rest, with everything on the line the way it was.
Once through the gate, Garinold finally left, turning us over to a severe woman named Talda who would have nearly matched Huth'Ga in height. She addressed us efficiently, but in a tone that suggested she had said the same to countless others.
“As I’m sure Captain Garinold has told you, you players are here to be trained in service of the kingdom of Cogneid. My task is to oversee your progress. To that effect, you will report to my clerks to have your level and attributes recorded at the beginning of each day. If you fail to make sufficient progress, you will be punished. If you die, you will be punished. That said, you are encouraged to take risks that will allow you to grow faster. If you die taking such a risk, I will be the judge as to whether it was warranted. We lose 8 hours every time you die, so keep that in mind. Other kingdoms are training players as well, and you wouldn’t like being pitted against opponents of higher level.
“Each morning you will eat, and then you will report for either magic or weapon training, again on my judgement. Being that morning training is over, you will run your first dungeon immediately. At the entrance to each dungeon is a guard with a bracelet allowing them to restore your stats.” She held up one of her own as an example—as if the image wouldn’t have already been burned into each captured player’s mind. “As you are Level 9, we will start you in Burgat’s Hollow. It is good that you have yet to choose Class Skills. You will be directed on how to assign those each morning, if applicable. Should you assign your own Class or Attribute Points, you will be punished.”
“Now, visit the clerks and report your attributes," she concluded. “Once you are done, you will be equipped with suitable armor and weaponry. You have each had experience with weapons, if you were able to steal a dungeon heart, so for now simply select the weapon with which you are most familiar. Our weapons master w
ill make any necessary changes she sees fit to on the morrow.”
That was how we ended up standing in front of our second dungeon, changed out of our standard newbie brown into standard military leathers.
“This dungeon is ranked Level 5," Talda announced. “You should be able to finish it in time to join the others as they finish theirs. Depending on your speed, you will advance to the next dungeon. I am loath to split a team that has experience fighting together, but if your progress falters, I will make the necessary adjustments.”
“As for you,” she addressed me directly, “if you should take another dungeon heart, I will give you back to Garinold. He does so enjoy teaching obedience, though his pupils rarely have a similar experience.”
I stumbled over myself assuring her that I would leave any future dungeon hearts untouched.
“Very well," she declared, face grim. “Make me proud!”
Chapter 32
The entrance to Burgat’s Hollow wasn’t much more than a square doorway carved into the canyon wall, though next to the hole was a stone plaque that detailed the dungeon’s name and level, and listed the enemies found within. We had passed several other plaques on the way there, but none higher than Level 5. Just how many dungeons could they fit in this canyon?
Stepping through the hole, I got my answer. My foot squelched down into nearly a foot of water and just as much mud.
“Oh, why did I have to be short?” Katz complained.
“You’re telling me,” Varba groused. Both of them were chest-deep in water that came to just above my knees. “How did this water get here?
“How did any of this get here?” Mac agreed. “Look up! Stars!”
“And trees!” I added. “How are there trees underground?”
“Who cares about trees?” Katz griped. “Almah, could I get a lift?”
“How would I tank?” the orc responded.
“Who cares about trees, who cares about tanks! Just get me out of this water!” Katz bawled, and Me’Almah complied, placing the gnome on her shoulder. Mud from his feet oozed down her breastplate, but he didn’t seem to mind.
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