by Edwin McRae
The last cockroach looked rather pathetic, legs working frantically as it tried to extricate itself from its former pack-mate. Easy pickings, thought Mark, as he raised his sword to deliver the coup de grâce, and gain his final batch of experience points.
"Enough!" The voice echoed down the tunnel, bouncing off the rock so that the word was spoken a good four times before it died away.
Startled, Mark stared at the cockroach and its frantically working mandibles. Mark lowered his sword and peered down the tunnel, half expecting to see some shadowy figure in flowing robes. That had been the tone of the voice, that well-spoken BBC intonation and projection that only a Shakespearean actor-turned-wizard could produce.
Nope. No bearded Englishman, no oaken staff. Just glowing glyphs, stone and dust.
"Where are you?" Mark asked the empty tunnel.
"That is a complicated question to address," answered the voice, now a little quieter and, if Mark was reading it right, a little warmer.
To Mark's left, the giant cockroach managed to free itself from the carcass, find its feet, and give itself a good shake, like a dog might after a stressful encounter with another dog down at the beach. Mark raised his sword again, but the cockroach made no move to attack.
"Please refrain from destroying any more of my cleaning crew. They serve me well and I'd rather they didn't end their days on the point of some sword, just as I imagine you would rather avoid that particular fate yourself."
Mark nodded, took a moment to wipe the gore from his blade with the corner of his cloak, and sheathed his sword. "Well, if you can't tell me where you are, at least tell me who you are."
The disembodied voice chuckled. "Yes, a nice chat would be rather convivial, a pleasure I've not had for quite some time. If you would please follow the one insect you haven’t dismembered, she will lead you to where we may speak in more comfort."
"And I'm supposed to trust you, a ghostly voice who claims to command giant bugs capable of eating my face off?"
"Many more of those same bugs are about to descend on the mess you've left me, and I'd be surprised if your stomach could handle the show. So you can either follow your new companion or stay and witness something uniquely disturbing. Your choice."
The ghost voice had a point. He looked at the cockroach and pointed down the tunnel.
"Lead the way, m’lady."
The cockroach responded with a twitch of its antennae that suggested a "follow me" response with the possible suffix of "you murderous asshole who just butchered my friends". It then scuttled off down the tunnel. Mark followed close behind, taking in an encouraging barrage of notifications as he walked.
You have slain three Level 1 Giant Cockroaches!
XP reward = 30 XP
Congratulations!
You have reached Level 4 in the Warlock class!
Progress to Level 5 = 117/200
You have earned 2 Attribute Points.
Your Full HP has been restored.
Spell Selection
As a Level 4 Warlock you have 3 magical spells available for selection.
You may choose 2 out of the 3 spells on offer.
Doppelganger (Cast cost = 6 EP)
Cunning Linguist (Cast cost = 7 EP)
Forge Anew (Cast cost = 7 EP)
Alternatively, you may wish to save one or both spell slots for ‘found’ spells.
Your Arcane Edge spell has increased to Tier 2.
Tier 2: The recipient weapon’s baseline damage is increased by 100% for 10 minutes.
Your Swordplay ability has increased to Tier 3.
Tier 3: Receive a 30% increase in damage, accuracy and parrying.
Your Ethereal Flesh ability has increased
to Tier 2.
The caster can move in mist form at a Level 1 human walking speed for up to 20 minutes.
The Ethereal Flesh level-up was good news all by itself. No more reliance on a helpful breeze to shunt him through a tight space. In fact, now he could probably pour through keyholes, seep under doors, and generally do lots of ninja-style infiltration stuff.
And regarding his newly acquired attribute points, he figured he should wait until another big challenge loomed on the horizon. The same went for his spell selection. So far, it seemed wise to take a PvE approach to his character build, adapting it to the environment. If he made too many assumptions, he might build himself into a very uncomfortable corner, and it wasn’t like he could just start a new character.
They weren’t far from the rockfall when the tunnel branched off in four different directions, making Mark rather glad of his six-legged guide. Peering down one of the new tunnels, Mark could see that it ended in more branches, offering three options, one which bent sharply to the right while the other two descended steeply into in the earth. The cockroach let out a crackling, rasping sound that raised the hairs on the back of Mark’s neck. It was one of those sounds that was felt rather than heard, and the feeling involved a lot of tiny, clawed feet and his naked skin. The bug’s antennae flicked in the direction of the most leftward tunnel and Mark raised his hands, fending off a repeat of that wretched utterance.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.”
The insect scuttled off down the tunnel and Mark had to quicken his pace to keep up. Several junctions and branches later, Mark was completely lost and starting to wonder if his guide was going to lead him into some sort of bug banquet rather than to the source of the voice. Scenes from the Aliens franchise flashed uninvited through his mind. No, he didn’t fancy giving birth to a giant baby cockroach.
To his relief, Mark’s subterranean journey didn’t end in some sort of horrific insectoid cocooning and impregnation process, though he wasn’t sure it’d been struck off the menu just yet. This time, the room he stepped into was attractively gothic and comfortably human. It was a crypt, lined with sarcophagi. Solemn, stone faces stared at him from every angle, a hundred or more effigies in repose. Each man and woman was engraved with the types of symbols he was now beginning to recognize from the glowing walls of the catacombs behind him.
“Your ancestors, after a fashion.” The voice was all around him and Mark had to clamp his buttocks together hard so as to save himself from a self-soiling.
“Could you clear your throat or something before speaking? It’s a bit jump scary when your voice suddenly comes out of nowhere.”
“I don’t have a throat.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Ahem,” said the voice softly. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you. Saves me from potentially embarrassing accidents.”
That also reminded him that he hadn’t been to the toilet since his journey through the woods. The thought of asking his disembodied host where the privy was helped calm him down a little. No matter how strange your circumstances, Mark thought, there was nothing more normalizing than needing to go to the loo.
“I’d like to point out that we’ve had no new additions to this crypt for quite some time,” said the voice with a heavy note of sadness.
Mark scoured the chamber, searching for the source of the voice.
“No point in looking for me. I’m not here.” There was a long pause as the voice seemed to reconsider its choice of words. “Actually, I am with you right now but not in the way you think I am.”
“And I was hoping that following an over-sized bug through a maze might lead me to some sort of answer, or at least a minotaur to fight.”
“I’m currently out of minotaurs. Am expecting a fresh batch to arrive next week.”
“Is that a joke?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m still waiting for the punchline.”
“Alright then.” The voice sighed in a way that reminded Mark of the sound a chest freezer makes when it opens. “I’m all around you. I’m beneath your feet and over your head. I enclose you like a coffin and protect you like vault.”
It sounded like a riddle to Mark, yet the solution seemed to be staring him in the face.
>
“Wait...are you somehow part of the Citadel?”
“I am the Citadel.”
“Oh...shit.”
Laughter rumbled through the stones and caused dust to trickle down upon Mark’s dumbfounded head.
11
The chicken wasn't half as tough as Serik was expecting, and the seasoning made it almost palatable. It was nice to know that Cook Maritz actually took note of his feedback, at least more so than the last cook. In fact, the previous cook’s absence was the one silver lining in an otherwise troubling spat of losses. One scout slain in the village. Then he’d sent five soldiers to lie in wait for pursuers after his force had sacked the village. None had returned. And to top it all off, ‘fogman’ and his two lady friends went and killed five of his scouts. Likely as not, fogman and friends were responsible for all of his losses so far. It didn’t matter. The man was dead, his partners-in-crime were locked up in the courtyard, and Serik now needed every soldier under his command to hold this fortress.
He proffered the wooden bowl at the armored woman leaning against the door frame of his makeshift quarters. "Not eating, Sergeant?"
The soldier shook her head, her long, platinum hair gleaming in the lamplight. She wasn't the sort of delicate pretty that Serik preferred to keep company with when he was in Credence, but she had the right curves in the right places, and the scars on her forehead and cheeks added some unique flavor to her plump face.
She was going for a promotion, Serik knew, and the sergeant had been none too subtle about her ambitions. She was also very upfront about what she was prepared to do to achieve those ambitions. Serik shuddered at the memories of what he'd done in the name of advancement. A younger, fresh-faced Serik had been unfortunate enough to fall within the realm of Captain Korva's peculiar tastes. Serik had needed to invest early in his Vigorous Recovery ability to keep up with his rather brutal lover, and having achieved the rank of lieutenant and the respect of the garrison, he was happy to arrange the accident that broke the dirty bastard’s neck.
Serik pointed at his bunk and motioned for the sergeant to sit. She obliged with a smile, knowing full well where this meeting was going. Her teeth, Serik noted, were pleasantly straight, if not impeccably clean.
He finished the last of the chicken and set the bowl aside, just as the stones beneath his feet trembled, enough to rattle the lantern and jingle the chainmail links of the sergeant’s armor. Outside, the carousing went quiet, but only for a moment. No further tremors followed, and the soldiers down in the courtyard weren’t about to waste good drinking time while waiting for a full blown earthquake that might never arrive.
Earthquakes weren't new to Serik. His home province had been plagued by them, and he’d lost his birth home to a particularly vicious one. Still, this was the first one he'd experienced in Garland.
"You've been out here longer than I have, sergeant. Is that sort of thing normal?"
She shrugged. "First one I've felt, but as my father used to say, just because it's still don't mean it’s sleeping."
"A wise man, your father." Actually, it sounded like banal bollocks to Serik, a ready excuse for not straining the brain too hard, but he wasn't about to kick off this evening by insulting his potential bedmate's parentage.
The sergeant smiled and nodded. "Yeah, he knew what he was about, my dad."
"Well, he certainly knew how to raise a fine daughter." Serik almost cringed at his own line, and hoped it hadn't come across as creepy in her ears as it had in his.
"Thank you," she returned as she cocked her head in what she clearly thought was a coquettish manner. To Serik, it looked like she was suffering from a crick in the neck, but he caught her meaning.
As was the reiver after-dinner custom, the sergeant took two pipes from the pouch at her belt and offered him one. He waved it away and frowned his disapproval.
"I'd prefer if you didn't either. I can't abide the stink of it, not at these close quarters."
The sergeant looked a little nonplussed, but tucked the pipes away. The tension in her face told Serik that she was quietly dying for a smoke, the addictive herbs within the tobacco scratching at the back of her throat. But Serik had never fallen to that temptation and he wasn't about to start now, for addiction was the glue that held together the reiver military hierarchy. In fact, it was addiction that pretty much kept the entire reiver population under control. He was personally happy to milk that fact for all it was worth, but knew that with personal restraint came a certain level of freedom. Once you understood the tools of control, you could choose at which end of those tools you wished to be.
"Are we shipping the slaves out to Credence tomorrow, sir?" The sergeant’s voice was lighter than usual, more girlish than Serik had heard her use amongst the garrison. He supposed she was pitching her speaking voice a little higher just for him.
Serik nodded. The wooden chair creaked under his lean frame as he got a little more comfortable. He fixed the sergeant with what he thought to be his most charming smile, one that kept his crooked teeth tastefully sheathed. He'd practised that look in the mirror for quite some time, observing from every angle to make sure he got the expression just right. It seemed to have the desired effect. The sergeant removed her gauntlets, laid them on the bed beside her, and leaned back a little so that her palms rested on the bed sheets.
"I hoped to wait for the reinforcements first, but it seems they've been redirected elsewhere." He grunted his dismay at the reiver army’s dubious military leadership. "We’re stretched too thin, raiding and skirmishing on too many fronts."
"I heard it's because we’re still testing Garland’s defenses."
Serik laughed. "What defenses? They can barely muster a ranger per village and their druids wouldn't know a battle spell if it bit them in the ass.”
“What about the mist man? I’ve never seen druid magic like that before.”
“Neither have I, but I’ve seen plenty of men die just the way he did. Whatever new magic these druids have, it’s clearly no more effective than their old magic was.” Serik slapped his palm down onto his bedside table with enough force to rattle his dinner bowl from its perch. It dropped and clunked dully against the floorboards. “If our supposed betters possessed even a couple of decent brains to rub together, we’d be making a united push and Garland would be ours tomorrow.”
The sergeant's bloodshot blue eyes glistened with more than just lamplight. There was a touch of fear there too, and Serik knew why. Reivers had been raiding and pillaging weak targets for so long, for so many generations, that they'd all but forgotten the ways of actual war. Soldiers like the sergeant weren't interested in the toil of conquest. They just wanted a little excitement, a bit of plunder, and a few days off to celebrate and get right royally drunk. But Serik didn't consider himself to be a soldier, not like the sergeant, not like any of the men and women under his command. He studied the histories, even taught himself to read the Old Tongue. He knew what reivers had been, and what they could be again.
He broadened his smile a little, added a bit of warmth to his eyes, and waved away her obvious concern. "Don't worry, I'm just an ambitious officer who likes to entertain fantasies from our ancient and glorious past. High command doesn't give a shit about what I think."
She noticeably relaxed and gave Serik what he interpreted to be an "I'm tired of talking" look. Yes, Serik supposed, she probably was. Women like the sergeant weren’t entertained by such intellectual delights as speculation and contemplation. Hers was a world of action, of drinking, smoking, eating, fighting and fucking. She’d clearly had enough of the others tonight, apart from perhaps the smoking.
"Speaking of fantasies, I have one in mind that you might like."
"Oh yeah?" The sergeant raised an eyebrow that had been dyed the same shade as her hair.
"It involves you, some physical exertion, and a complete lack of armor."
"I'm having a little trouble visualizing that, Captain." The sergeant licked her lips with a rather pointy tong
ue. "I think you’ll have to show me."
Serik awoke with the naked sergeant wrapped around him. She was snoring softly into the back of his neck, but that wasn't the sound that had disturbed his slumber. He forced his eyes open and tried to scour the night with his sleep-numbed ears.
There was a crackling sound, followed by iron falling against wood, and then a harsh whisper, the words of which he couldn't quite make out. He pushed his bedmate aside and fumbled for his breaches in the darkness. The sergeant didn't wake, instead rolling onto her other side with a groan and a sigh. As Serik pulled up his pants and fastened his buckle, he whispered at the sleeping woman through clenched teeth.
"Sergeant." No effect. He pulled on his undershirt and reached for his chain mail. "Sergeant!" That got her attention. She raised herself up on one arm, and to Serik's dark-adjusted eyes, her hair, ruffled by sleep and sex, cascaded rather fetchingly across her ample breasts. In other circumstances, Serik would have paused to admire the view, but the whinney of a horse out in the courtyard told him that he had more urgent matters to attend to.
"What is it?" she asked, quickly adding a mumbled "sir" as her sleep-addled brain reminded her who she was talking to.
"Trouble, in the courtyard. Get your armor on."
He didn't wait for her, instead cracking the door to see if anyone was waiting outside to stab him in the throat. The coast was clear, but he kicked the door open for good measure so that any assailant lurking behind would be welcomed by a faceful of splinters. The door slammed back against the wall, unobstructed. Serik drew his longsword from the sheath hanging at the end of his bed, and stepped out onto the catwalk, his swordpoint leading the way.
