by J. T. Wright
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Fourty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Prologue
The Spirit of Al’rashia marked its ruler with golden eyes. None were ever born with the symbol of Royalty. It was only when the current king neared the end of his life that another would appear with the unmistakable favor of the nation’s Spirit. They might come from one of the seven greater clans, or the seven lesser clans that made up Al’rashia's nobility. They might even come from among the clans of commoners.
Rarely did the children of royalty inherit the throne. Being born with the silver eyes of the nobility, they might dream of the day that their eyes would glow with gold; some thought it was these dreams that made their hopes impossible. The Spirit of Al’rashia respected ambition, but honor had to be earned.
There was one clan that produced generations of rulers. The first king and the subsequent six all descended from the Dross. The eighth queen of Al’rashia was an Embra, but even after they were replaced, the Dross Clan remained first among the greater clans.
When it became apparent that the nation could not withstand the plague of creatures that assaulted them, the people of Al’rashia gathered their wealth and fled. All except the Dross. The Dross Clan left their riches behind and, instead, collected their weapons and marched for Windshire Stronghold. There they knelt and begged the king, Darak Fairdor, to allow them to stand with him.
Five thousand of the Dusk Wraiths were all that remained of Al’rashia’s formal armies. The Awakened Dross numbered nearly fifty thousand. Warriors and Mages, Archers and Rogues, the silver-eyed Dross were all prepared to die with their king and his violet-eyed troops. Their numbers would make no difference in the end, but their clan had built the kingdom; it was fitting for them to be there.
Darak Fairdor denied them their request. He loaded the Dross down with supplies and materials and sent them away. Ordering them to find a new home, he instructed the clan to rebuild and see a new Al'rashia rise. It was the second to last command Darak would give as king. His final words would send the Dusk Wraiths charging into the ranks of an enemy they could not defeat.
The Dross obeyed their king and for ten long years they searched for a new home. It was no easy task to establish a seat of power. They would need a Major Trial with a domain large enough to shelter all their people. It needed to be close enough to fields that could be farmed. It had to have suitable wild areas nearby for both young Awakened and old in which to hunt and level, and it had to be far enough away from other established nations that the Al’rashians could rebuild their society without fear of conquest.
By the time the Dross reached the Streg River, their numbers had grown. They had swept up thousands of Al’rashian refugees and displaced Awakeneds. Traveling with a hundred thousand people, a full half of whom were noncombatants, was exhausting, so when they arrived at the banks of the Streg, the Elders called a halt to their search.
This place had almost all they needed. It had been two years since the Dross had last visited territory claimed by another, though a determined group could reach the nearest center of civilization within eight months. There was water and farmland, stone quarries and forests, everything they needed to find, except for a Trial.
A temporary camp was erected. Hoping there was at least a minor Trial nearby, Scouts were sent to scour the surrounding area. If not for a child playing where he should not be, the Dross might have moved on after they had rested.
It was a young Awakened playing on the river who found what the clan leaders could not. When his makeshift raft carried him miles down the Streg and deposited him on the far banks, that Level 3 Warrior’s only thought was for the punishment he would face when he returned. Thinking of the strict discipline necessary to keep one hundred thousand people in line and safe while traversing the Wilds, the Warrior decided that a solitary life wasn’t so bad and resolved to live right where he was.
Hunger prompted him to explore the hillside located at the bend in the river. Curiosity led him into a small cave halfway up the hill. The realization that he was the first to clear a low-leveled Hereditary Trial caused the Warrior to swallow his fear and report his discovery.
The Dross found their home. The hill that the Trial was located on could be more accurately described as a small mountain. Protected on three sides by the Streg River, the position was defensible. Once Geomancers flattened the top, there would be enough space to build a scaled down replica of Windshire Stronghold. The hillside was carved and shaped so that buildings could be erected, and a walled courtyard was built around the Trial entrance.
The city the Dross founded was never named, but, privately, they referred to it as Beacon, with hopes that the scattered clans of Al’rashia would eventually be drawn here. Refusing to trust fate and luck, the Dross sent out messengers with word to the Adventurers’ Guild, so Al’rashians would know a place had been prepared for them.
Years passed by and the messengers never returned. More were sent and were never heard from again. The Dross continued to build, continued to wait and more messengers were sacrificed.
A second Trial was found within the territory the Dross had claimed. Its entrance was a crack in a bell-shaped rock. The Trial was a single room, and its Beasts only suitable for newly Awakened to challenge while they earned the XP to gain their first Class. That was enough to celebrate. After all, Trials expanded the more they were challenged.
Every permanent Trial had a domain, an area which prevented wild Beasts from approaching and wandering Trials from appearing. With time, the Trial at Bellrise would have a domain that would touch on the domain of Beacon's Trial, which had already grown from a circumference of two miles to five.
It was at the town which they named Bellrise, that another Al’rashian clan contacted the Dross. This occasion was far from the joyous one that they had been waiting for. It was not the Embras or Wygons that arrived but the Verrens.
The Verrens bore the silver eyes of nobility, but theirs was a minor clan. The least of the minor clans and one with a poor reputat
ion, the Verrens were known for promoting themselves at others’ expense. This clan had not come to join the Dross but to demand that the greater clan acknowledge them.
The Verrens had established a kingdom, and using their considerable wealth, populated it with slaves and refugees. They claimed this gave them the right to rule. They presented the Dross with a charter, a binding magical contract, and implied that conflict would follow a refusal to sign.
Seeking to prevent a war with another clan, the Dross complied, but they insisted on two provisions. The first was that the throne in their fortress must never be occupied except by a true Al’rashian king. The second was that the charter would be revoked when that king arrived.
The Verrens agreed but added an addendum of their own. The Dross would become the Al'dross under Verren leadership. That demand almost caused swords to be produced. The Verrens felt they were elevated by the addition of the Al to their name. For the Dross, it was a mockery of their heritage and an insult.
In the end, the charter was signed. The Dross had faith. They had faith in the Spirit of Al’rashia. They had faith that an Al’rashian king would be found. They believed that on the day a golden-eyed Al’rashian sat upon the throne at Beacon, the Verrens would come to realize the mistake they had made.
Beacon became Al'drossford, and the Dross became the Al'dross. Their bloodline would fade over the centuries, as they intermingled with the other races in the newly established Al'verren kingdom. Silver eyes would turn blue, and, eventually, when you looked at the Baron of Al’drossford, you would be hard-pressed to see any hint of Al’rashian nobility in him.
Chapter One
The first structure built by the Dross was not the fortress at Al’drossford’s center, neither was it the wall that surrounded and protected the city. The Dross had built with hope, and that hope had been that their brethren would approach easily and feel welcome. With that in mind, the Dross had constructed bridges to smooth the journey.
Night had settled over the territory, and moonlight played on the waters of the Streg River. Beneath the bridge, small fish risked the open air to bite at bugs hovering over their home. Standing on the stone that crossed the river, a masked Swordsman leaned against the rail to look at the ripples below.
The Swordsman was of average height, no more than five feet and eight inches. His appearance was battered, and in the dark, someone making their way across the bridge might have thought they had stumbled upon a ghost.
His boots were well-made but scuffed and worn. The black trousers that covered his legs had obviously been repaired many times by someone using a low-leveled Mend charm. But at least the holes in those loose-fitting pants of Beast hide had been closed. The scale mail that covered his torso had no such luck.
In some places, the small metal plates of the armor had been knocked off, revealing leather underneath. There was a rent in the left side, where, if you looked closely through the opening, you could see that the Swordsman wore a shirt of material identical to his pants. The hole on his left shoulder was the worst. Most of the armor was gone, and it appeared the damage had been done by teeth.
His cowl was in good shape, black as the night and probably holding a higher Defensive Rating than his mail. But with his hood up, and a featureless silver mask covering his face, it wouldn’t have been a surprise to see a superstitious Commoner run screaming from him and swear off late travel for the rest of their lives.
The Swordsman wore vambraces on his forearms that had similar scales to his mail shirt. Those arm guards rubbed against the stone of the bridge as the Swordsman leaned out further. Behind his mask, Trent Embra bit his cheek and wondered what exactly held the structure up.
There were no supports or pillars extending from the bottom of the bridge into the water. As far as he could tell, the arched bridge was suspended sixty feet above the surface of the river by nothing, unless it rested on the air itself. Which could be true.
Magic could accomplish amazing things. Trent himself did not have enough Mana to cast more than charms, but even those were impressive to the young Al’rashian. Trent’s Status said he was twelve years old, but that was a lie. It had only been…. Two months? Three?... since Trent had first come into the Infinite World believing himself to be a summoned creature.
He would have to start paying more attention to time. Time and distance were two things the importance of which escaped Trent. He knew that it was the month of Augina, and that meant it was Autumn. This was a recent discovery, though. He had overheard a Guardsman commenting on how winter was fast approaching when he exited through the city gate.
As for distance, the contemplation of that tricky subject was why he had stopped to lean against the railing. Trent had once taken a trip to the north of Al'drossford, to an area between the town of Slyhill and the Burning Lake. On horseback, traveling at an unhurried pace, the distance between Slyhill and Al’drossford had taken a week.
Returning had taken longer, but then they had not traveled a very straight path. Sergeant Cullen said they covered twenty miles a day. Trent roughly knew how far a mile was, and the Sergeant had been lying. Cullen did that sometimes to keep his trainees on their toes.
Going full out, with the Skill Dash activated, Trent could run a mile in seven minutes. With a Stamina pool of 495, and the secondary Attribute Endurance slowing the rate at which his Stamina depleted and enhancing its recovery speed, Trent could maintain that pace for over an hour. It was a feat which he could repeat three or four times a day. More, if he had Stamina potions.
They had not run the whole way from the Garden of Clarity to Al’drossford. Cullen made allowances for Tersa. The redheaded Recruit could not match Trent for speed. Still, Trent was certain twenty miles a day was just the Sergeant’s way of telling them to shut up and concentrate on moving their feet.
What did distance and time count for anyway? For the first time, Trent’s schedule was his own. He didn’t have anyone telling him what to do or where to be. He didn’t even have a destination in mind. He had been traveling south, but only because he had been standing near the keep’s southern gate when he decided to leave.
A well-maintained dirt road continued from where the bridge ended. Trent had no idea where that road led. Maybe he should have taken Agatha up on her offer when she said he could stay with her for the night. He was not tired, but Agatha might have had a map he could look at.
Thinking of the old woman with the scarred face, Trent reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a wooden disc. Agatha had helped him get this. It was a Guild Token. Having it meant Trent was now officially an Adventurer. He was one of those brave souls who fought Beasts and challenged Trials for a living.
The Token was wide enough to cover Trent’s palm. Appearing to be made of a pale-yellow wood, the disc was thin and fragile looking. It held a few carefully drawn lines and a dark grey ring marred the outside border. Those markings were supposed to detail the Trials that Trent had cleared and the Beasts he had defeated. Agatha had studied them and seemed to know how to decipher them. To Trent, they were just random scribbles and stains.
Trent squeezed the Token in his hand and the wood flexed. He looked at the water below and was tempted to throw the disc into the river. He didn’t want to be rid of it, but Agatha said it was impossible to lose or destroy a Guild Token. She had said if he threw it away, he would find it back in his pouch, eventually. Trent was curious how long the process would take.
Instead of chucking the Token, Trent put it in Storage. It would be safer there. Maybe it was impossible to lose it, but better not to take a chance. Trent had no family, and his bond with Kirstin Al'dross had been severed. His friends…
Trent felt a pang of sadness. Tersa would have been jealous of his Guild Token. Trent thought Cullen might have been proud; the Sergeant had been an Adventurer once, after all. They both might have felt something if he showed them the disc, but, then again, neither Tersa nor Cullen had seemed to have any use for him since the Garden.
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nbsp; The frail-looking Token was all Trent had that said he was a part of the world. It made him an Adventurer. No, he did not want to risk it. He peered over the side of the railing. It would be fun to see if the Token would float or sink, though.
Trent supposed it would float. The Token was lightweight. If it did float, would that mean he could watch it drift? He would be able to see how far it went until the disc’s enchantments kicked in and it winked out of existence to reappear in his pouch or hand. That sounded like something worth seeing; it sounded fun.
Trent cleared his throat and stepped back from the edge. He did not have time for fun. He had a Quest! A mission set by his Survivalist Class to live in the Wilds alone for two weeks. He didn’t know where the road south led, but all roads would eventually take you out of settled territory and into the realms of Beasts. South was as good as any direction.
Adjusting his sword belt, Trent set off. The Streg River was over half a mile wide at this point. It was lonely crossing the bridge by himself with the wind whistling around him. Trent broke into a light jog, and soon enough, he left the stone and stepped into the dirt.
He dropped back to a walk. Al'drossford ended at the city wall, but there were plenty of homes scattered about the far side of the bridge. Trent supposed the people who lived here considered themselves citizens of the city. But from what Trent could see, their lives were quite different from those of Al'drossford’s residents.
Even at this time of the night, the city streets had been busy. There were businesses in Al’drossford that never closed, and others that only opened after the sun set. Outside the walls and across the river, life wasn’t so hectic. Trent could hear laughter and conversation coming from the houses. He could smell the smoke from fires built for cooking and warmth.
The only people Trent spotted were children. They ran about the road and chased each other between the houses. They laughed and teasingly called as they engaged in seemingly pointless activities. They slapped one another and ran away. Sometimes they hid and tried to repress giggles as one child searched alone.
