by J. T. Wright
The Guild ranked Adventurers, just like the World ranked all else, but not in the same terms. No one would rank an Adventurer Advanced, much less Legendary or Divine. Instead, the Guild called Adventurers by the material their token was made of.
New Awakened were issued tokens of wood. After they completed enough Quests, and cleared a few Trials, that token would become copper. From there, it went iron, steel, silver, gold, mithril, and crystal. Dale had never met a Gold-ranked Adventurer. Crystal rank was a myth as far as he was concerned.
Once his token had been black iron. Even lacking the luster of steel, the iron had managed to instill a sense of pride in the Adventurer. Maybe his token hadn’t had the gems or runes that others did. No great deeds decorated his token with sparkles and elaborate engravings, but he had been of the third rank at the age of twenty-nine. He’d always thought that spoke well of him.
That was all gone now. The token in his hand was a melted hunk of slag with jagged edges. Edges that would cut into his palm if he squeezed a little tighter. He didn’t squeeze, though; he held the token carefully. The sight of it cut deep enough as it was.
A Guild Attendant who examined his token now wouldn’t see the number of Beasts he had slain. They wouldn’t marvel at the Dungeons he had delved or the Quests he had successfully finished. All that would be seen by Attendants and Guards now was Dale’s name, the word “Wanted,” and the amount of the bounty on his head. The amount that would be paid to whoever delivered the token to a Guildhall.
Dale had turned in bounties a time or two himself. He had always smirked when receiving the payment. His smug look had been for the folly of the Adventurer who had gotten caught. Dale was not innocent himself, but he would never be caught. Not Dale of Kilpond.
He still wasn’t! He wouldn’t be either. He was wanted, but no one had managed to snare him. They would be coming, but Dale planned to be long gone. Only one of his crimes had been reported. Two, if you counted banditry and murder as separate offenses. Even if you did, the Guild would only offer silver for his head. It would take gold to move the Guild’s heavy hitters. Unless his luck worsened and he stumbled across one of those who hunted men for a living, Dale would only have to worry about rookies for now.
Wood ranked or possibly copper, that was all the Guild would muster for twenty or thirty silver. Dale would welcome the arrival of the saplings, a general term for Wood-ranked beginners. He and his two friends, Kurt and Brins, were low on supplies.
The saplings would come in groups of five or six, thinking their numbers would carry the day. Their pouches and packs would be filled with food and potions. Dale would happily take life’s daily necessities from their corpses. He’d robbed the bodies of men and women he knew in the past. It was no bother taking from strangers seeking to kill him for the reward.
Dale tried to cheer himself with thoughts of rich rookies offering up priceless treasures as they begged for mercy. It didn’t help. The token in his hand pulled him back to reality. His life was over. He could never set foot in a Guildhall again and would spend the rest of his days looking over his shoulder for hunters and Guardsmen.
His life would be a rough one from now one. He, Kurt, and Brins had worked the Kilpond circuit together since Awakening. They traveled between the Trial towns of Kilpond, Sweet Meadows, and Meek’s Landing, clearing the Dungeons, and doing odd Quests.
They would stay in one town for a few weeks until the work dried up and then move on. On the road, they might pad their pockets with the earnings of the unwary, but they weren’t greedy. One group in five was tossed into the Blackmire by the trio. Dale had greeted more with a wave than he did a knife all told.
That was over now. His iron was melted. His reputation was destroyed. Adventurers with whom he had delved and shared drinks would hunt him now, like a Beast, if they caught the slightest hint of his scent.
“Put that trash away, why don’t ya?” Kurt's complaining nasal voice drifted from the other side of the campfire. “Looking at it won’t change nothin’. You should throw it away. That’s what I did with mine!”
Dale almost followed Kurt's advice. He almost threw the token right at Kurt's head. Dale was a Level 28 Assassin. Kurt, a Level 25 Marksman, wouldn’t be able to dodge. Not as drunk as the man was. If he threw it hard enough, maybe Kurt would fall into the fire, or at least, lose consciousness, and spare Dale his whining drivel!
Throw the token away! Idiot! The token was enchanted! You could drop it in the deepest ocean, and ten minutes later, it would be back in your pouch, dry as ever. No one could collect a bounty if a wanted Adventurer could abandon the evidence of his guilt!
“This is all your fault!” Dale snapped. Kurt met the accusation with a hurt look and drunk, blurry eyes. “All you had to do was take out the Mage! If you'd done your part, I wouldn’t have been too busy dodging Fire Bolts, and the Rogue wouldn’t have gotten away! But no, you were staring at her tits when you should have been shooting!”
“What’s all this Mage and Rogue shit?” Brins stumbled into the firelight and plopped down to Dale’s left. “You remember their names, doncha? They sure as shirt… shirt… shit, knew ours. Was it Meek’s Landing where we worked wit' um?”
Dale cast Brins a disgusted look. The Guardian Class holder’s words were slurred, and he waved a wine bottle around as he spoke. Had Brins taken the bottle into the tree line with him? How stupid did you have to be to squat in the Blackmire and still drink? Brins was lucky a Blood Panther hadn’t ripped out his throat while his trousers were around his ankles!
“Nah, it was that mess up in Sweet Meadows where we worked with um the most,” Kurt corrected, taking a swig from his own bottle. “She did have fine tits, though. Shame to kill her.”
That did it. Dale was on his feet and hurling his token at Kurt’s head without a second thought. The token flew two feet above and a foot to the right of his target. Ridel's black heart! Was Dale as drunk as these two morons? Well if he missed, he missed. He still had a knife.
At the edge of the campfire’s glow, a hand reached out and snatched Dale’s token out of the air. Dale’s murderous impulse came to a screeching halt. Too soon! It was too soon for hunters to arrive! They should have had two days before a team could wind up the courage to come after them, and that team would still need to catch up.
“That’s the stuff!” Kurt cheered. “Get rid of the damned thing. I chucked mine, ya know. Unlucky to keep it.”
Seeing Dale staring into the night, and Brins staggering to his feet, Kurt’s booze-filled brain comprehended that not all was right. He glanced over his shoulder and what he saw caused him to pop up and scramble for his bow.
The body of the hand clutching Dale’s token sauntered into the light. Al’rashians traveled through the area often enough, but Dale hadn’t expected to see one traveling alone on the Kilpond highroad at night. This one had silver eyes. That was important. It meant… something. Damned if he could remember what.
The Al’rashian was tall, six foot or a bit better. Jet black hair and silver eyes graced the Al’rashian’s angular features. There was a staff of white wood in his hand, and a heavy sword belted at his waist. The man was an odd series of contradictions.
He had a Warrior’s build and a Swordsman’s stride, but the staff and robes he wore said Mage. That wasn’t right, either. The robes were as white as the staff and split at the waist to allow the man’s legs to move freely. Dale could also see chainmail peeking out where the robe wasn’t quite closed in front.
The Al’rashian looked dangerous, slinking into the camp like a prowling cat. Dale pushed that thought aside. The man's face held youth, and Dale had two friends at hand. This Al’rashian was just the first set of supplies the Guild was delivering.
There was something else wrong. Dale’s taut nerves and drunken mind couldn’t pick it out, though. Had he noticed that the Al’rashian wasn’t carrying a pack, not so much as a belt pouch, his hand might not have drifted to his knife. The absence of these essentials
should have been a clue that not all was as it appeared.
The Al’rashian didn’t seem to pay any attention to the jitters his approach had caused. He gently set his staff on the ground and took a seat on the round of wood Kurt had so courteously vacated. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world as he tucked Dale’s Guild token into a pocket in the inside of his robe and held his hands out to warm them at the fire.
“Orion Embra, Kin Slayer,” Orion introduced himself briefly, causing more uncertainty to hold the trio still.
Orion was feeling optimistic. Two days of being celebrated and feasted by Lizardmen had banished any hard feeling he might have held over being hunted. The tribe had even gifted him with the robe and chainmail he wore. They had been taken off trespassers who hadn’t been successful in avoiding the tribe’s patrols, but Orion didn’t think that lessened their value any. After all, the tribe regularly traded with outsiders, and the enchanted cloth and metal represented a small fortune to them.
Now the World had prepared another gift for him. The stars twinkled as if they were blessing him. It was a nice change from the way his life had been progressing.
“Kin Slayer, eh?” Kurt snorted a laugh. He almost dropped his bow as he bent down and retrieved his wine bottle. Some had spilled, but there was a bit left. “That means you’re no hunter then, yeah? Well…”
“Shut up, Kurt.” Dale licked his lips as he snapped at the Marksman. Al’rashians could be odd. They were stiff, formal, and touchy at the best of times. However, they did not go around announcing that they were criminals. Orion’s declaration that he was a Kin Slayer didn’t put the Al’rashian on the trio's side of the law.
“No need to be such a tight ass, Dale.” Kurt finished what was left of his wine in a single swallow. “Orion, yeah? That pack there by your feet has the wine. Toss me a bottle, will ya? Take one for your own while you’re at it. We're celebrating! “
Dale promised himself he would cut Kurt’s throat once the Al’rashian was dead. For now, he just needed the man to shut up! Orion spoke before Dale could find his voice.
“A coincidence, I am also celebrating.” Orion rubbed his hands together and looked up at the stars. “What month is it? The sky and weather say late Augina, but that can’t be true. It was Marith when I entered the Trial, and Marith when we met, the three of you and I.”
Was I five months in the Trial?” Orion muttered to himself. “Five months in the dark? Five months with the Undead? Does it matter?”
Orion glanced at each of the three companions in turn. Brins held his shield and had belted on his sword. Dale caressed the hilt of the long daggers at his waist. Kurt had dropped his bow and was staring sullenly at the pack with the wine. He was starting to think the Al’rashian wasn’t going to hand him a bottle.
“I should thank you, really,” Orion continued. “Who would have thought that possible? When my sword broke, and the three of you forced me into the swamp, I held hate for you. I swore vengeance when I entered the Trial. But now I feel gratitude. Your actions brought great improvement to my life. I thank and forgive you."
Kurt was done waiting. If the bottle wouldn’t come to him, he would go to the bottle. “Amazing, we're all friends here. Shit, if I know what you are forgiving us for, but I want a…”
Kurt’s hands flipped the top of the bag open, but before he could reach in and claim the sweet fruits of his labor, his wrist was caught in an iron grip. His face flushed as he turned his neck to give Orion a piece of his mind, but his mouth went dry, and his mind blank as silver eyes scrutinized him.
“I forgive you, but a vow is a vow, and I swore vengeance. Bind.”
Bind had long been Orion’s favorite Spell. With enhancement from his Controller Ability, while it still required physical contact, the simple Spell with its short chant was more than powerful enough to hold the Archer, while Orion dealt with the other scum.
Kurt fell to the side, landing alarmingly close to the fire, as his muscles locked up in unnatural stiffness. He saw Orion stand, saw the Al’rashian’s sword clear its sheath, and then he was forced to stare at the staff Orion had left behind. Even his eyes refused to answer his command to move.
It was probably for the best. Kurt wouldn’t have liked what he saw had he been able to watch. Brins brought his shield up to deflect Orion’s blow and attempted to draw his sword. The Al’rashian made it look so easy, but Brins’ own blade seemed glued in his scabbard.
Brins expected to feel the hammering strike of the Al’rashian on his shield. He expected to hear the ring of metal on metal at his successful defense. Orion’s sword laughed at those expectations as it twisted in the air, changing a chop into a slash; a slash that never came near the Guardian.
Dale thought to circle behind the Al’rashian, and never expected a blade to cut at his cheek. Had that strike connected, it would have removed his jaw! Dale staggered backward. He didn’t try to block or parry, just to move away.
The sword in Orion’s hands, with its single curved edge, looked like the kind of Basic equipment a sapling would wield. Nothing fancy and slightly scarred from use, the sword was probably worth coppers. Only a Wood-ranked Adventurer would be seen with it.
But Dale didn’t dare confront the sword directly with his knives. Powered by Orion’s arms. and Skill, that blade could have been a stalk of grass, and Dale wouldn’t risk his thin stilettos against it.
The Al’rashian had babbled on about having met the trio before, but Dale thought the man mad. Orion moved like a Sword Master! They had never tried to rob an Advanced Class Holder in their lives!
Dale stepped backwards continuously. He was an Assassin; he had to get away from the light. In the dark, Dale would have the upper hand. Where was Brins? A little help was called for in this situation.
Brins, having finally freed his sword from its leather prison, acted as if he heard the Assassin’s thoughts. In a way, the Guardian had. The two had worked together since Awakening. Brins understood what the Assassin had in mind. Holding his shield in front of him, and his sword perpendicular with the ground, the Guardian activated his Charge Skill.
Feet pounding, propelled by a flood of Stamina, Brins rushed at the Al’rashian’s back. This was their chance! Whether Brins hit him or not, Orion would be forced to divert his attention away from Dale. Once that happened, the Assassin would slip into the shadows and utilizing his own Skills, he would…
Orion moved all right, but not in the way Dale expected. A shuffling step, a twirl, and the Al’rashian was behind the charging Guardian, who showed no intention of stopping! What was happening? Even drunk, Brins had better control than this!
Dale’s eyes focused on his partner’s outstretched sword. He attempted to mimic Orion’s shuffling movement. He failed. He managed to avoid Brins’s blade but not the shield that plowed into him. Suddenly, he was pushed to the ground, and after that, the World stopped making sense.
Since Brins was unable to halt his Charge, his momentum should have continued carrying him forward. Dale should have been trampled under his friend’s feet. He should not have been crushed under the weight of Brins' falling body.
The Guardian wasn’t wearing his armor, but his weight was enough to make Dale grunt. Dale opened his mouth to curse the clumsy fool. A warm, salty, and metallic fluid flowed in before Dale could get the curse out. Choking, Dale shut his mouth and tried to roll away, but Brins's unresponsive weight prevented this maneuver. The liquid splashed onto his face, temporarily blinding him.
Blinking and dropping a stiletto to free up one of his hands, Dale tried to rub the sticky fluid from his eyes. It was then that he caught a glimpse of Brins's neck. It was a neck and nothing more. A neck without a head, pumping blood. Dale would have screamed, then, if he’d been able. The slit in his own throat denied him that release. Soon, death provided the relief he craved.
Orion took the time to collect Brins's Guild token and belt pouch. He looted Dale while he was at it. The bodies didn’t yield much. Besides weapon
s and shield, which were placed in Storage, Brins and Dale only had some scraps of paper and a few coins on them. Hopefully, the packs would hold something of value.
Tucking Brins’ scarred Guild token into his inner pocket, Orion kept the rest out. He would examine the scraps at the fire. Setting the collection of miscellaneous junk on a log, Orion turned his attention to the disabled Kurt.
The Archer was still paralyzed by the effects of Bind. At the man’s Level, even with Orion’s Spell being enhanced by Controller, the drunk should have been wiggling by now. Was Kurt’s inebriated state increasing the Spell’s duration? Curious, Orion cleaned and sheathed his sword, and settled down to observe him.
It didn’t take long before Orion recognized that he was being cruel to the paralyzed man. The Archer may be a murderer and thief, wanted by the Guild for his crimes, but Orion had no right to torture him. Kill him, yes, Orion had plenty of reason to want Kurt dead, but experimenting on the drunk was out of line.
Orion removed Dale’s stiletto from Storage. He admired it briefly. The Assassin had either had good taste or good luck. The long thin knife was well sharpened and of good quality. It wasn’t a masterwork, but the blade did not reflect the fire’s light, showing that it would not betray its wielder’s position.
Kurt’s blood refused to stick to the knife as it did its work, another sign of its crafter’s expertise. Dale’s knife had accomplished the task for which he’d promised himself he would use it. The Assassin had never considered he might not be alive when the deed was done.
Orion searched the Archer and then dragged the trio’s bodies away from the camp and into the Blackmire. Their packs held little of worth. Some dried meat and wine, a few spare weapons, and some clothing were all Orion found.
Orion was tempted to pour out the wine. A single drink told him it was cheap barely palatable swill. A second drink had him reminiscing about the pulpy brew of the Lizardmen. That was a liquor Orion wouldn’t mind having a supply of. The Lizardmen’s homebrew had been bitter at first taste, but chewing the pulpy remains of fruit in the liquid released a sweetness that countered the sharp, all while enhancing the drink’s intoxicating effects.
