by J. T. Wright
Eliora looked and saw an older man in the uniform of the Immortals approaching. Clean-shaven, with hair more grey than blonde, Colonel Bromden made his way across the deck and presented the perfect image of a man who had dedicated his life to military service. The white and gold of his uniform was neat, his boots shined to gleaming. Only the metal of his scabbard and the collar that ringed his neck were more brightly polished.
The collar was the mark of an Immortal. All the soldiers of that regiment wore one. Most wore dull black, the Colonel’s was white, matching his uniform and announcing his rank. You had to be Level 50 to join the kingdom’s elite. The lines around the corners of the Colonel’s mouth and eyes said he hadn’t achieved that Level as early as Vanessa. Eliora thought the man’s wrinkles added to his authority. The grey in his hair was a testament to long years of service.
Bromden swept a bow that would have shamed a Duelist when he presented himself before the two noblewomen. Straightening up, he clicked his heels together, “Your Highness, Your Grace, trouble approaches. I would advise you both to return and remain in your chambers."
Bromden was the soul of courtesy, but his deep voice held iron. Eliora was impressed that the man remembered to address Vanessa as a Duchess. It was easy to be confused by the difference between the Al'dross status at court and their honors at home. Just now, Eliora had made a slip. Inwardly, the girl grinned at the possible problems such a slip might cause for the nobles below when they arrived at Al’drossford.
“We are a day from my husband’s lands, Colonel. If there is trouble, my place is here.” Vanessa’s smile had captured greater men than Bromden, but if the Colonel was affected by the Sorceress’s spell, Eliora saw no sign of it.
“My men can handle a flock of Piercing Sparrows. There is no…” Bromden spoke pointedly. He was used to being obeyed.
“Your men can protect the barge, Colonel. I would never interfere on the deck of this ship.” A black staff that looked to be carved from stone suddenly appeared in Vanessa’s hand. “But you can hardly object if I meet the threat before it arrives in your area of responsibility.”
Vanessa allowed for no further argument. She began walking away as the Colonel prepared his objections. Eliora, who was still in the dark over what was being discussed, wanted an explanation, but her questions caught in her throat as she watched Vanessa sway towards the far railing.
Each step the Duchess took brought her further from the planks of the deck. By the time she reached the railing, Vanessa was several feet above it, walking on the air as if it were solid ground. Crewmen and soldiers alike watched her performance with open mouths and disbelieving eyes. Eliora was no exception.
Only Bromden seemed unimpressed. His tone was resigned as he called out to a nearby crewman, “Tell the Captain to halt. We’ll be stopping for a time.”
Eliora rushed to the railing, certain her aunt’s display couldn’t be maintained. The girl clutched the wood and leaned over the rail, wishing she could follow. Vanessa no longer pretended to walk. The wind carried her toward the approaching flock that Eliora only now noticed.
Piercing Sparrows weren’t the worst flying Beast the World had to offer, but they were still a threat to unprepared Adventurers. They earned their name from the talons and beaks that could rend armor. Half the size of a man, and fast-moving, the Sparrows were hard to hit when they swooped out of the skies with hardly a sound. Their diving attacks didn’t seem to be a problem for the Duchess.
Vanessa was above the flock and almost a mile from the barge in seconds. Eliora regretted not picking up a Skill like Far Sight at this moment. The birds were visible due to their numbers, but she could barely make out the sight of her aunt. That wasn’t a problem for long.
The Beasts, focused on the meal that awaited them on the land barge, took no notice of the Sorceress. When one astute Sparrow finally spotted her, it was too late. Chain Lightning killed the observant bird in the first hit and spread out to its flock. Flight was impossible with wings that seized up, and a fall from that height would have ended the effected Sparrows.
Vanessa Al'dross was more merciful than that. Hailstorm and Wind Blades followed Chain Lightning. Feathers and blood flew, and the birds, so silent in their attack, uttered chirping screams as they were blown from the sky. It was a massacre as the Sorceress brought forth the storm from which she got her title. Eliora was too far away to count the fallen, but dozens of Sparrows could be seen dropping to the ground with each spell Vanessa cast.
Beside Eliora, Colonel Bromden gave a growl that contained a helpless sigh. Eliora glanced at him and then hurriedly back to the show Vanessa was putting on. “What’s the matter, Colonel? Aunt Vanessa has things well in hand. Isn’t that good? Could your soldiers have done as well?”
Eliora risked the Colonel's ire with that last question. Bromden didn’t appear to mind. “As well? Perhaps not. But we would have been quicker!” The man grumbled.
“Quicker than that?” Eliora waved a hand to where the last Piercing Sparrow was plummeting towards the earth. From the time Eliora had seen the flock to the last Sparrow’s fall, only a handful of minutes had passed.
“Much quicker,” Bromden responded. “Longer to kill, no doubt, but once we were done, the barge would be on… No, we would have done the job on the move! But Her Grace isn’t a soldier; she is a former Adventurer.”
Bromden’s lips twitched. “You see, don’t you, Your Highness? The Duchess has finished the Beasts, but instead of returning…” An irritated hand waved in Vanessa’s direction. “My men wouldn’t worry about the corpses and Cores. An Adventurer is not so focused. We’ll be waiting an hour or more while the Duchess collects her spoils.
“Forgive me, your Highness. I must go and explain our delay to the Captain.” Offering a brief salute, Bromden strolled off, muttering under his breath. Behind him, Eliora grinned. The Colonel had been assigned as her personal guard since her birth. She was well aware of his punctual personality.
Her eyes went from Bromden's broad back to where Vanessa’s smaller form could be sinking into the trees. Eliora’s grin faded into a more resolute expression. She pressed her lips together as she promised that, soon, she would be the Adventurer collecting her spoils.
A wave of impatience crawled through her as Eliora realized her plans were being delayed by Vanessa’s actions. Al’drossford was Vanessa’s home, but it was Eliora’s destination. No, not her destination. Al’drossford would be the start of the journey. The beginning that led to Eliora challenging Piercing Sparrows without a care.
Chapter 26
The streets of Al’drossford were always crowded. Day and night, there were laborers working, merchants hawking their wares, Adventurers with Quests to complete, and commoners with errands to run. Trent wasn’t sure how he had failed to spot the swirling mass of humanity that clogged the roads during his last foray through the city. It shouldn’t have been possible to miss it.
Crowds made way for the Duke’s daughter. Kirstin and her family were well-known figures in the city. The people parted for a formation of Guardsmen, especially a group on horseback traveling with a wagon. Walking behind Cullen was like having the city wall traveling with you. No one, whether they recognized the Sergeant or not, stood in Cullen’s way.
Traveling on his own for the first time, Trent was discovering that no one paid any mind to the presence of a lone Swordsman of average height and build. Trent was the one who had to sidestep quickly if he didn’t want to be overrun. The pathways of the Keep’s outer ward carried their own stream of people going about their tasks, but compared to the city streets, those pathways were empty.
Trent was jostled and pushed with every step he took. He would dodge one person and run into another. Each time this happened, Trent earned himself a curse. Bewildered eyes would stare at him, and angry mouths would shout for him to watch where he was going. These occurrences were unavoidable. No matter how Trent ducked and stepped, it was as if Al’drossford’s citizens couldn’t see him.
&n
bsp; Orion had once told Trent that to be a Survivalist, the boy would find being outside the wilds “uncomfortable.” Trent had taken that to mean that his was a Class meant to explore the unpopulated corners of the World. He was beginning to understand how wrong his assumption had been.
Each push was an attack that had Trent reaching for a weapon. Every shout was a war cry that demanded the boy ball his fists and strike. He had almost drawn his sword the first few times he had been shoved. Instead of getting easier, subsequent collisions had Trent shaking with the strain of holding back.
Walking a mile down a gentle slope, Trent was drenched in a cold sweat. The exertion from walking was nothing; the temperature was mild. It was the internal battle against his own instincts that exhausted the boy. Trent saw a shop with an area around the door that was free of people, and he made a desperate bolt for the serene spot, anxious for a break.
Three steps and Trent collided with a potbellied, middle-aged man. It was the man that tumbled to the ground from the impact. Trent stayed on his feet, hardly swaying, but he froze and deliberately kept his hand from his sword hilt.
The fat man was a Level 15 Laborer. His size dwarfed Trent’s, but his Attributes couldn’t match his mass. In a physical contest with a Level 9 Warrior, the Laborer was bound to lose. His subsequent fall and the angry protests that followed were inevitable.
“Hey! Watch it, ya fat, stupid…” The man sat up indignantly. He’d had a couple of mugs with lunch, and these were more at fault for his tumble than Trent was. But, those mugs had produced a hint of both courage and belligerence in him, that wouldn’t allow him to admit to responsibility.
His liquid courage faded somewhat when he caught sight of his assailant. To an experienced Adventurer, Trent’s damaged scale mail and much-mended clothing wouldn’t look intimidating. His vambraces and cowl might have drawn a second look, but the sight of his cheap Basic sword, in its worn sheath, would have lost him any points gained.
To the Laborer, the masked Swordsman in his beat-up armor, with his hand hovering over the hilt of his weapon, told a different story. This was a Warrior used to violence and more than a little unhinged. You saw these types about occasionally, and unless you had a Combat Class yourself, you stepped around them carefully.
“Fucking prick,” the words spilled out of his mouth, and the Laborer marveled at his own bravery. “You watch it! You watch it, or I'll call the watch, you bleeding psycho! You can’t be ‘ssaulting honest folk in the streets! I'll call the watch; you see if I don’t.”
These last words came from over his shoulder. The Laborer had no intention of sticking around the unstable Swordsman. He wasn’t that drunk! Hardly tipsy! Where had the damned Swordsman come from anyway? One minute, the Laborer was walking along, and the next, he was slamming to the ground! Damned Adventurers! Think they owned the world!
Trent found himself in a small circle of calm. The press of people that had no respect for his space had given way for the shouting drunk. Seizing the opportunity, Trent dashed for the quiet storefront he had been trying to shelter in. Reaching it, Trent drew shuddering breaths and turned around to try and pick out an escape route.
He was surprised to see that he recognized his location. That stone wall with its ornamental metal gate, he'd seen it before. Beyond that gate was the exit to Al’drossford’s Trial that Teleport Scrolls brought you to! That meant the huge building nearby, with its multiple stories and streams of people coming and going, was the local Adventurers Guildhall.
The structure was impressive. All grey stone, the Guildhall was almost a fortress, rising from the lesser businesses around it. Its broad doors stood open, welcoming all, and inviting Trent with a siren call of adventure. This is where all Awakened got their start. Even Commoners walked through those doors to get their first evaluation.
Trent had no intention of joining the Guild. He never even considered it. He had a Quest. A Quest that merely required him to live in the wilds alone. Faced with the Guild’s appeal, his curiosity was peaked. Certainly, other people found what was inside intriguing; the steady flow of Adventurers made that apparent. Why shouldn’t he find out what was within those hallowed walls?
His feet started to shuffle towards the open doors. He only needed a break in the crowd to dart through, and he would make his move. He leaned forward; his calves tensed… the hard object that rapped against the back of his head banished any plans Trent might have had.
That hadn’t been an accidental bump! The strike that set Trent’s ears to ringing had been a deliberate attack! His sword was out, and he turned to swing before he was consciously aware.
**********
Contrary to appearances, the shop in whose doorway Trent took refuge, was a busy one. Agatha's Adventuring and Alchemical Supplies was in a prime location. Considering what they sold, you couldn’t ask for a more perfect spot than the area directly across from the Guildhall. At any given moment, scores of Adventurers could be found inside, buying and selling, as they prepared for a delve or Quest.
It was unusual for the shop to be so empty. The proprietor, Agatha Craw, was taking advantage of the rare quiet to have a cup of tea and relax. Normally, this was the busiest time of her day. Late afternoon meant early rising Adventurers would be ending their foray into the local Dungeon, and the late shift would be taking over. Agatha wasn’t worried about her lack of customers. She sold the best and bought at the best price; she knew this lull would end.
It didn’t hurt that Agatha had been born a Seer. Any real concern about her lack of clientele could be resolved by the simplest implementation of her birthright. Not that Agatha ever used her Skill that way.
Agatha hated being a Seer. Others might think it was a grand thing being born with access to your Status, and a Class that meant there was little in the world kept secret from you if you really wanted to know, but Agatha knew the truth.
Having a Status came with responsibility. Her parents had tried to give her a normal childhood, but it was hard to hide the fact that your child was stronger and faster than some common men at the tender age of six. They moved around a lot when Agatha was a child. Early Awakening could be explained away, but there would always be the question once it came out. What is the girl’s Class?
If exposed, Agatha's life wouldn’t belong to her anymore. Kings, Merchant Princes, Warlords, or Generals, any of them would give their right arm to control a Seer. It wouldn’t have been a bad life under the right master. Agatha and her parents could have lived well. Well, but not freely. Perhaps another Seer would find being restricted to a golden prison comfortable, but not Agatha.
The nicest thing that could be said of the shop's owner when she was a child was that she was a little rowdy. She had been strong and quick to learn. With an Archer for a father and a Tracker for a mother, she was allowed her freedom. As soon as she was tall enough to pass for a standard Awakened, Agatha had picked up the Warrior Class and joined the Guild.
With the Skills her parents had taught her, the eyes of a Seer and her Warrior Class, she become a Bounty Hunter. Where her parents hunted Beasts and roamed from town to town, Agatha hunted men while doing the same. She was good at it. Within a few short years, she had built a name for herself and couldn’t imagine a better life.
Love changed that. While hunting a particularly talented Bandit, Agatha found more than she expected. That vile, hateful man had found a group of companions and claimed to have sworn off the life that brought Agatha to his camp. She hadn’t bought it for a second!
Unfortunately, Agatha had to bring the Bandit in alive. He’d never been caught before. There were plenty of witnesses to his crimes, but none that could identify him. While Agatha was sure she had the right man, she needed him to confess in a truth circle, if she wanted to collect the sizable bounty. The Bandit was hard enough to capture when he was alone, but with a group of friends willing to protect him…
Three times she tried. Twice, that treacherous, dog-faced bastard had held her off. The third tim
e, with the help of a poison she brewed herself, she got the drop on him. She would have brought him in too, only the fat son of a bitch was too heavy. She had to carry him to make decent time and drag him when she got tired. Slowed by the bastard’s fat, his companions managed to catch up.
One companion at least. A thin Assassin with a ready smile and honest eyes. She had dropped the pigheaded Bandit when she stepped into the Assassin’s trap. Her only solace was the scum-sucking villain had gotten a good cut on his face when she dropped him, but it was little comfort while dangling in the air with a rope around her ankles.
The Assassin had laughed at her! She would have killed him for that if she’d been able. She swore and spit as the man freed his friend from his bindings. Then, instead of waking the Bandit, the Assassin had sat on the man’s chest and proceeded to question her about the concoction she had used to make the capture.
His questions had caused her to swear even louder, and the Assassin had laughed again. He said that a pretty lady shouldn’t use such language! He’d said hearing her words was like seeing wilt on a rose, and that was a shame.
From another man, those words would have triggered another fit of anger, giving Agatha the strength to free herself from the swinging rope that held her. She would have fallen on the lying garbage and ripped his throat out with her teeth!
Agatha was no beauty. There had been the promise of handsomeness when she was a girl, but her choices had robbed her of that. Her face was scarred from battle, and she never saw the need to have those scars Healed. She kept her hair short, and her investments in Strength and Constitution produced a body that was more masculine than the slender Assassin’s.
It never bothered her to be called ugly or mannish. Insults slid off her. It was the false compliments that pricked her like daggers. Wheedling liars trying to escape or trick her were the things that got under her skin. The Bandit she had captured had called her a hag-faced bitch and faced her like an equal. It was a strange kind of respect, but Agatha’s life had created a strange kind of person.
