Alexa Drey- Hero Hunting

by Ember Lane

  Lincoln spun around and bowed low. Looking up, he beamed. “And that, Alexa, is how you grow your settlement by cheating.”

  “But you could have had your bones turned to dust.”

  He shook his head. “You must always have a bit of faith in yourself. I know I brew the best ale in any land. Just having the confidence to tell folk that, well, it makes them expect to drink it. I tell you, the morale of my village is sky-high.”

  I watched him as his face appeared to glow, and glow it did, and a light beamed out of his stomach, and then spread out like a fan. It grew both up and down, soon encapsulating him in a shining orb, and he floated just off the rocky ground.

  “That’s level 6,” he said, when it was all settled back down, and I realized that I hadn’t even checked out his stat board.

  Name: Lincoln Hart. Race: Human. Type: Builder.

  Age: 46. Alignment: Mandrake. XP: 7505.

  Level: 6. Profession: Lord. Un/Al pts: 6. Reputation: Somebody.

  Personal

  Health Points: 120/100 - Energy: 120/120

  Mana: 10/0

  HP Regen: 10/Min - EN Regen: 10/Min

  MA Regen: 1/Min

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Vitality: (10, 2), Stamina: (12, 0), Intelligence: (1, 0), Wisdom: (1, 0), Luck: (12, 0), Strength: (8, 0), Agility: (7, 0)

  Skills: (Level, % to next level, Boosts %, Level Cap)

  Divination: (4, 88, 0, 25), Stealth: (2, 56, 0, 8), Commerce: (4, 21, 0, 40), Pickpocketing: (1, 0, 0, 6), Brewing: (4, 21, 0, ∞), Perception: (2, 33, 0, 10), Blades: (7, 9, 0, 14), Close-Q-fighting: (6, 16, 0, 18), Staff fighting: (6, 88, 0, 26), Swordsmanship: (5, 2, 0, 10), Magic: (1, 0, 0, 3), Concealment: (2, 33, 0, 10), Night vision: (3, 1, 0, 12)

  Talents: None. Quests: None

  “What are you going to bump up?” I asked him.

  “Attribute-wise?” He sat back down. “Well, my levels are linked to Joan’s Creek. They must have just completed a building or two for me to gain enough XP to level. So, if I pump it into politics that increases my build speed, but if I pop it into culture, then that increases my research speed which enhances my productivity. It’s a pickle—that’s for sure—but I’ve been doing politics all the way at the minute to increase build, but given the progress the wizards are making, I think I’ll switch that around. Once Spillwhistle arrives, I’ll level up my academy, and I can start on research in earnest. I’ll show you the stats for Joan’s Creek.” He winked at me. “You can normally only get them through scouting the place.”

  A stat board flashed up in my mind’s eye.

  Settlement name: Joan’s Creek. Population: 360.

  Population capacity: 480

  Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)

  Politics: (20, 0), Culture: (0, 0), Defense: (0, 0)

  Build speed: +20%, Learning advancement: N/A, Defense bonus: N/A

  Buildings: Amount - levels

  Cottages: 14 – 4,4,4,4,4,4,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3, Warehouse 3 – 7,5,5, Inn 1 – 3, Town Hall 1 – 5, Academy 1 – 5, Feasting Hall 1 – 3, Marketplace 1 – 1, Barracks 1 – 5, Forge 1 – 7, Workshop 1 – 6, Rally Spot 1 - 4

  Production

  Farms: 14 – 3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3,3 # Sawmills: 3 – 4,4,4, Quarries: 6 – 5,5,5,5,5,5 , Mines: 5 –4,4,4,4,4

  Resources (Amount, Production rate, Current Consumption-food only)

  Food: (220,120, 8000/ph +40%, -3600p/h), Wood: (10,320, 3000/ph +40%), Stone: (205,050, 9000/ph +50%), Ore: (124,000, 5000/ph +40%)

  I glanced at Lincoln, my respect for him complete. He had it all figured out. I wished for just a sliver of his surety. Then I thought of ShadowDancer, and I thought of Petroo’s dire warning.

  “You must hurry,” I told him. “War is coming.” Lincoln nodded.

  “Yep, it was the talk under the breath of everyone in Brokenford. They don’t like their king.” He picked up a stone and threw it toward the distant lake. “That’s why I bet Spillwhistle in the first place—it gives me an edge. I mean, she’s no Shylan or Cronis, but a couple of well-placed charms should help—that and a few militia. Then again, they just might not find me.” He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “But it’s goats today, and it doesn’t much pay to concentrate on more than one thing at a time.”

  We spent the rest of the morning chasing goats. Lincoln taught me how to tie a lasso, how to throw it, and one by painstaking one, we rounded up some goats—it opened the skill of Rope Law, so that was a bonus. He was right about the goats too; there were hundreds of them, but they were flighty things and could climb up a mountainside like Grog could a castle turret. Once Lincoln found out that I could follow them like he could, it made things so much easier. I would climb up and trap them below; sandwiched between us, they didn’t stand a chance, or vice versa—though Lincoln had little confidence in his climbing skill.

  “It’s easier with two,” he shouted. “I tried this a few days ago, caught a few, but had to kill one. Stupid thing gone and got its leg stuck fast and broke it. Easier with two.”

  It was late in the afternoon when we led the goats back to Joan’s Creek, but my oh my, the wizards had been working hard. For some reason, though, I couldn’t stop glancing back at the mountain, like it was calling me—like that fleeting feeling I’d had earlier.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” said Lincoln, with a smile on his face.

  Bethe met us just by the side by a newly upgraded cottage. “They were eager to get the tavern to level 3,” she said, a tinge of exasperation in her voice. “I made them build the town hall up, and the workshop, two new cottages, and upgrade another four. The feasting hall is much bigger, but they only had eyes for the tavern, so I had to relent eventually.”

  “Our wood?”

  “Nearly exhausted, though they did build a couple of tree houses for the elves. It seems they have endless speed-ups and infinite gold. Though the elder one appears quite tired now. As instructed, I pretended to trade for every item to…how did you put it? Harvest their gold?”

  “The dwarves?” Lincoln asked.

  “Paid and quarrying away again, and they gave me the gold back. Please tell me that once we’re done with this folly of a tavern I can redirect the workers to the farms.”

  Lincoln flashed her a smile. “Farms, quarries, wood yards and iron mines—and a warehouse. Let’s build those stocks up. I think we’re in real business now,” Lincoln cried.

  Lincoln released the goats, and we both had a look around. The extra two cottages had drawn another forty workers, and it looked like near enough all of them had been requisitioned to finish building the tavern.

  Shylan and Cronis were sitting at a picnic bench just by its stoop, though a small fence now surrounded them. They were supping ale with Mezzerain, Flip, and Star.

  “Clever,” said Lincoln. “They popped a beer garden in so that they could drink while it upgraded.”

  “Is that how they can all drink there?” I inquired. “It is level 3 already?”

  Lincoln shrugged. “Must be,” he said, and we walked over.

  “Ah,” said Shylan, beaming from ear to ear. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think you’ve run me out of lumber just to get a drink of my best ale,” Lincoln replied.

  “You noticed that did you?” said Shylan, looking a little unsteady on his feet. “I’m sure you can replenish it in time.” And he sat, and he drank a long draft of ale.

  “We built you cottages and the other stuff,” Cronis muttered. “This is truly a fine ale.”

  “About that,” said Shylan. “We want to make a deal.”

  “A deal?” said Lincoln, sitting.

  “Indeed. I’ve been—”

  “We’ve,” Cronis corrected.

  “We’ve been thinking that we quite like this place.” Shylan flashed Cronis a look.

  “Quite like it,” Cronis concurred.

  “Go on,” Lincoln said.

  “Well, we’d like to make it a—”

  “Regular stopover,” Cronis
added.

  Shylan nodded. “Regular stopover, on our way to—”

  “Places,” Cronis said, nodding furiously.

  “Places,” Shylan agreed. “A regular stopover on our way to—”

  “And from.”

  “Places,” Shylan finished. “What do you think?”

  “So, you want to swear fealty to my little village?” Lincoln asked.

  Shylan squeezed his face into a ball. “Is that really necessary?”

  Lincoln shrugged. “I don’t suppose so—not if you’ve a better place to pledge to—some big city, some important castle.”

  Shaking his head, Shylan said, “No, nothing like that. It’s just that Cronis and I are free spirits.”

  “Free spirits,” agreed Cronis.

  “Humph.” Lincoln pushed himself up. He walked up to the hero-hunting script, took it down, folded it in half, then gave it to Shylan. “Well,” he said. “Do me a favor and give this back to Spillwhistle when you get to Brokenford.” Lincoln turned and ran up the stairs into the tavern.

  Cronis scratched his head. “Did he just turn off the script?”

  Shylan shook his head and ruffled his hair. “I don’t think he wants us to be his heroes—certainly doesn’t seem too bothered by us turning him down.”

  “Probably wants a proper hero,” Mezzerain said. “One with a bit of muscle, brawn, and bone. With Sakina dead, do you know what?” He made to stand up. “I think I might apply myself. I hear you get free ale for life.”

  Cronis was up like a shot, darting straight into the tavern. Shylan was soon hot on his heels.

  “Idiots,” said Mezzerain, a grin plastering his face. “They’ve just spent Poleyna-only-knows how much gold to drink his beer, and now they’ll swear allegiance to him to get it for free? Is this really the best Irydia has got?” His hearty laugh boomed around the village.

  “You know something,” Flip said. “I could think of worse places to swear to.”

  After that, we drank and ate the night away in Joan’s Creek, and I enjoyed every minute of it. But all nights must end, and with the moon sitting pretty on the eastern ridge once more, Lincoln and I soon found ourselves ambling along the lakeside path to his hut, and we sat on his stoop and rinsed a few more stolen seconds away from that moon.

  “So,” he said, “What’s next for you now?”

  “To Brokenford, to the Land of the Beggles, and to give Sakina her rest.” I sighed. “That’s the plan, but I have this quest, and for the life of me, I can’t fathom how to do it.”

  “And you have to?”

  I nodded. “Like this place is part of your game, that quest is mine.”

  “Aye,” he said. “I get that, but I’ll be sad to see you go.”

  I laughed. “You got what you wanted.”

  He wagged his finger. “What I needed—gold to research, and a pair of wizards thrown in. Like you said, war is coming to this land, and they are now duty bound to protect Joan’s Creek, even if I’m long gone, even if the ship reaches the end of its journey. Joan’s Creek will endure.”

  Reaching out, I squeezed his hand. “Joan’s Creek,” I whispered, and Lincoln went inside, leaving me on the stoop.

  I looked up at the mountain. I felt its draw. It was calling me. I understood what I needed to do.

  6

  Hell’s Chimney

  I can’t explain the draw I felt. I knew it was nothing like the hero-hunting script, that it was no magical compulsion. It was like the yearning for a loved one, or the need to get home, to be somewhere safe, familiar. Yet how could that be true? I had no history here to have those types of feelings. But my heart felt it. It was like I belonged inside that mountain. Sitting on Lincoln’s stoop, listening to his snores floating out over the lake, it was as real as any urge I’d ever felt.

  Something within the mountain was calling for me, something that had been sleeping for an age, something that had been awoken recently.

  I waited until I was certain that Lincoln was in the deepest of deep sleeps and tiptoed away. Silver ripples of moonlight reflected off the lake as I walked along its path. A slight breeze ruffled the bulrushes, and somewhere way off, a wolf bayed, an owl burst into flight; and nearby, a rodent scurried away. I took my staff out seeking its firm comfort and picked my way toward the foothills, trying to remember the route but not really needing to. I only had one destination in mind, and it didn't matter which path I took to get to it.

  What the hell was I doing? My companions were some of the most powerful people in the land, and yet I’d chosen to go alone. Why? Deep down I knew. I knew this was my battle. If battle it would be. I felt no hatred in the pull, no come or else, just a gentle coaxing, like the draw of a mother’s beckoning finger.

  Soon in the foothills—too soon—I rested up, trying to prepare for what would face me. Should I have my sword at the ready? Or would its mere presence signal a wrong intent. Would I need to fight? I laughed at that. One thing I felt from this thing was age. Somehow I knew that, and age and power went hand in hand in this land. How fast would I be defeated was the real question, and that led me to question my choice to go alone again. Why?

  Maybe it was about time I did something myself? Maybe Lincoln had inspired me? Or, maybe I knew it was my task, and mine alone? I decided on the latter, though it didn’t make it any easier, mostly because of the other feeling I had. Deep down, below the calling, a feeling of dread was lurking. That kind of deep-seated sick feeling you get when you know something bad is going to happen.

  Turmoil dominated my thoughts, differing questions rising, answers hiding in the shadows. There was no correct question, just as there was no correct answer, because I had no clue what I was about to face.

  I planted my staff and pushed myself up, looking up at the glowing moon, and I prayed Sakina was with me, that this was part of that plan that everyone thought she’d hatched. One by one, I climbed through the foothills. One dell after the other, I trod up until I was on the scree of the mountain itself. Looking around, and looking back down into Joan’s Creek, I saw the amber of a dozen or more windows, of a dozen or more hearths like fireflies on the black night’s air.

  After scrambling up a ridge, along a white-powdered road, past what looked like a quarry, I stared up at the mountain, looming large in the dark, and then I saw it—saw my destination. A red glow emanated from the mountainside itself, like a pair of lips, an open maw, but not lush lips; it was evil and twisted, a grimace rather than a grin.

  I took a breath and pulled my hood up.

  The scree was crisp underfoot, each of my steps making a grinding crunch. After five minutes, I saw the cave’s mouth was no nearer, and after ten I realized how much I’d misjudged its true distance. After twenty, I was descending into a ravine, picking out footholds, grateful that my night vision and climbing skills now worked hand in hand. Once I’d clambered far enough into it, I jumped over to the other side and began my assent there. Eventually, I pulled myself up and out and sat on the ravine’s edge. Looking along it, I realized that it was probably one of Lincoln’s mines, such were the regularity of its stone blocks. It vanished into the mountain too, and I briefly wondered if it wasn’t a quicker route to where I was going.

  Except I didn’t know where that was.

  I had to follow the pull, and that was taking me toward the glowing crimson. I supped from my water bottle, and chewed on some dried meat, letting my energy levels replenish, then I egged myself on, and carried on climbing. The glowing red became larger as I neared it, and I saw that it was a mere split in the mountain, a low cleft. Even closer, I judged it to be no more than three feet high, maybe eight wide. I tucked my chin into my cloak, pulled my hood as far over my head as possible, and climbed on.

  I climbed until I was standing before it.

  The red spilled no more than a couple of feet beyond the cave’s mouth, and I understood that it was there for me only, that nobody else could possibly see it, and yet that didn’t make sense. I laughed at th
at thought. Like glowspheres, or scripts, or magical quicksand made sense. Taking another gulp from my water bottle, I crouched down and then rolled into the crack, over and over until the cave opened up.

  I stood up, the cave tight, nothing more than a crack in the rock, and the red glow began to recede, drawing me farther in. I followed it, the cave eventually opening up into a small chamber with a milky pool in its middle. Bending down, I rubbed its soapy water between my thumb and forefinger.

  For a while, the pool glowed red, but the glow fled away to the other side of the chamber, and I edged my way around it, and I followed it as it slunk into another fissure. This one was tight, and I had to bend my body just to thread it along the crack, and I wondered if I would ever be able to get back out.

  “What the hell am I doing?” I whispered to myself, trying to grab hold of the crimson light, trying to stop it receding so fast.

  The crack widened to a tunnel, then lowered until I was crawling along on all fours, my knees and palms taking the punishment dished out by countless razor-sharp edges. The glow was no more than the end of the tunnel now, a rectangular bloom like a hot coal. It smelled of dust—that dry, powdery smell. Suddenly, it seemed to glow brighter, then faded back, and after I heard a sound like heavy rain.

  Between the red of the end, the pain in my knees and palms, and the smell of nothingness, all else in my life faded away. Somehow, this was all that mattered. Like the lips before, the red took a long while to catch. Either my progress was painfully slow, or the tunnel was longer than it seemed. But catch it I did, and when I did, I wished I hadn’t. The red light glowed. The red light faded. The rain sounded out. I crawled forward to that rhythm.