by J. T. Wright
Pulling his shirt back over his head and resettling his weapons belt and mail over it, Trent flexed his fingers. They felt cleverer, faster. His wrist was sure, and his arm steadied in a way that had nothing to do with Strength. Putting away his sewing kit, Trent snatched up the imbued Elwire short sword beside him and stood up.
His actions disturbed Pup half laying in his lap. The Dog would have settled between Trent’s knees completely if Trent had not pushed the animal away. Pup was always sleeping, it seemed, much to Trent’s envy.
As he tested his new Dexterity, working through the forms of Basic Small Blades and combining it with the footwork of Three Steps, Trent suppressed a yawn. Endurance allowed him to press on without sleep much longer than the average Adventurer of his Level, but there were limitations to all things. How long had it been since he had gotten more than a few minutes of rest snatched here and there?
The Moonlit Forest was almost worse than the Land of the Undying Lord in this regard. In the Survival Trial, at least Trent had Tersa or Orion to stand watch while he slept. Here, Trent only had Pup, and the Dog was next to useless as a guard. He took those moments when Trent’s eyes were shut to curl up on the boy’s lap and go to sleep himself.
Body warm and loose, Trent lowered his sword and shot a glare at Pup. The Dog was lying on its back, paws swatting at the air. Sensing Trent’s gaze, Pup flipped to his feet and pounced forward to latch onto Trent’s pant leg, shaking his head as he growled viciously. The Dog had reached Level 5 over the last few encounters, another fact which made Trent want to abandon the leach.
The Trial’s clear conditions stated that killing 10 Wererats was necessary to achieve a simple clear. That description did not mention that any Wererats killed after 25 would no longer provide XP, but that was how it was. Trent could level his Skills using the Trial Beasts as sparring partners. His personal Level was stuck.
Killing two or three Wererats was easy for Trent now. Was he ready for Wolves yet? He thought that with traps and ambushes, his wooden blades would bring him victory, permitting him to avoid the flesh-melting howl of the greys.
But he had not come across another Wolf Vine, and he was out of Liquid Silver. If he ran into another black Werewolf unexpectedly, the creature would slaughter him. Trent was certain of that. The memory of the dark-furred Trial Beast showing up suddenly, where he had never seen one before, still caused Trent to shudder.
He had been putting off increasing a lesser Class in hopes of finally bringing Survivalist to Level 3, but Trent needed to be more capable now. Pulling up the Class section of his Status, Trent went over his options. There were plenty.
Swordsman would provide him with another Skill or 2 and 4 Attribute Points. Trent set that aside. A new Class, one with ranged attacks, would counter the howling of the Wolves, and that was what he needed.
He ignored the Basic Classes and looked through the Specialized ones. A Mage Class would give him what he wanted, so he concentrated on those. There were two, Charm Specialist and Fire Elementalist. Honestly, the Charm Specialist sang to his curiosity the most but, with a sigh, Trent began to funnel XP into Fire Elementalist. He had obvious advantages there, and it was time to use them.
It should have taken less than 1000 XP to choose the Specialized Class, and given the nature of leveling, it was a process that was practically instantaneous. When a minute passed and no changes occurred to his Status, Trent knew something was wrong.
No matter how he concentrated, Fire Elementalist did not add itself to his Class list. The XP he assigned to it refused to flow and remained at 3845, no matter how he issued his mental commands. He had a panicked moment as he wondered if his Status was broken!
Then he caught sight of Pup through the transparent screen that filled his vision. The Dog’s ears were perked up, and a high-pitched woofing noise escaped its jaws. Pup sneezed and began rolling in the grass, continuously emitting a sound that had better not be laughter!
“What’s gotten into you?” Trent demanded querulously, his eyes narrowing.
Pup sat up and pointed at Trent with his muzzle. The Dog looked up at the full moon, then around at the shadow-filled forest with exaggerated motions. Looking back at Trent, Pup's lips curled upwards to reveal milk teeth, which he snapped in a manner Trent presumed was supposed to be menacing. Darting forward, Pup clamped down on Trent’s pants, mimicking a hamstringing attack, then rushed away and repeated.
After the third repetition, Trent reached down and grabbed the animal. “You think the Trial only allows physical Classes to level?” Pup responded by licking the metal of Trent’s mask.
Returning his attention to his Status, Trent attempted to prove Pup wrong by channeling XP into Swordsman. When 2000 XP disappeared and 4 Attribute Points, along with the Skills Light Armor and Flash Strike, added themselves to his Status, Trent’s fingers tightened around the smug Dog.
With the poor state of repair his scale mail was in, Light Armor, which lessened the weight of armor while increasing its effectiveness, was little help. Flash Strike, at Level 1, was merely a rapid attack. With the increase in his movement that Dash provided, Trent could see the nimble Flash Strike, with its low cost in XP, becoming a staple of his repertoire. However, neither Skill promised to allow him to defeat a Werewolf safely.
“How did you know I was trying to level up?” Trent voiced the question the second it occurred to him. Pup's ears perked up, and his brown eyes bulged as Trent’s hands squeezed harder, attempting to force an answer out of the animal.
Pup squirmed and hooted in his hands, and Trent eased his grip. The Dog had been right. Trent did not know how that was possible, but he had to admit it. And Pup being correct was better than Trent’s Status being broken… probably.
Pup whined and pushed at Trent’s hands with his paws. Instead of letting the animal loose, Trent’s fingers pinched Pup's muzzle shut. Pup started to object, then recognized the tilt to Trent’s head and the stiffness in his shoulders as a sign that something was off, and quieted.
The odd pair of boy and Dog had made camp in a clearing while Trent mended his torn shirt and practiced his Skills. They had only done so because Trent had not seen any Trial Beasts other than the rats in the area. At this point, he had little to fear from the lesser Beasts of this Trial.
The one aspect of the Wererats that was superior to the Wolves was their silence. Werewolves could be heard approaching from a distance, but several times Trent had been surprised by a Rat leaping out of the bushes. The clearing solved the problem of the creature’s stealth, requiring them to break out of cover to attack.
The sound that Trent’s Perception brought to his ears could have been the wind rustling through the trees. It could have been a pack of outside Beasts challenging the Trial in their own way. Trent set Pup down and traded the short sword he had been working with for a longer wooden blade because he knew he was not that lucky.
The skittering sound was Wererats, and if those slinking Beasts were making noise, more than two or three were headed his way. Trent let his ears guide him until he was facing the right direction. Pup, having grown used to watching Trent prepare, scuttled back.
Pup's paralyzing howl wasn’t strong enough to do much more than cause a Wererat to falter for a moment, and his teeth could no more pierce a Rat’s hide than they could Trent’s clothing. His role in the coming fight would be to stay out of the way. He would risk Trent’s displeasure to use his howl or throw himself at an ankle when he could, but those times were few.
Trent took a deep breath and pushed it out in a rush as eight Wererats broke out of the tree line. His hands shook, then tightened around his hilt, as he noticed a larger, darker form at the center of the mischief of rats. The Trial had tired of Trent treating its Beasts as training partners and sent a Guardian to reprimand him. Trent should have expected that.
He did not need Identify to recognize the superiority of the black Rat or confirm its position as a Guardian. He felt the same wave of authority coming from
the Beast that he had in the underground prison when he fought Krip, the Tainted Terror. He had not recognized the sensation at the time. It was apparent to him here.
Trent took a one-handed grip on his longsword and called forth his shield. Eight Wererats were too many. He would need to fight defensively if he could and run when an opportunity presented itself. Even with a shield, Trent though his odds of walking away from the coming fight unscathed were nonexistent. He quickly assigned his 4 Free Attribute Points, 2 to Constitution, 1 to Strength, and 1 to Agility, before dismissing his Status. He doubted even that would be enough to keep his skin intact.
**********
Martin Vane wrapped one arm around the throat of a Moon Cursed Ratkin. He plunged his knife into the Beast’s lower back, holding tight as it sought to throw him off. His knife flashed in and out of the Beast, once, twice, and before it could enter a third time, the Trial’s creature dissolved. It left behind three teeth and a chunk of meat.
Martin’s boots kicked the teeth aside like the worthless trash they were. He reached down and closed his fingers around the meat. He brought it to his nose and took a deep breath. The meat was grey and riddled with green lines, smelling of rot and foulness. The scent caused drool to leak over the edges of Martin’s muzzle.
He had not had a full stomach in days. He knew this flesh was cursed. The Kindred told stories of these types of Dungeons and what could be found in them. Martin had learned what would happen should he eat this putrid tissue. The plague of the Moon Cursed could be passed on, and giving into hunger was the way the curse spread.
With a frustrated trill of his tongue, Martin hurled the meat away. His claws ripped a piece of bark from a nearby tree, and he stuffed it into his mouth. The bark was bitter, tasting of mold and moss. He swallowed it and tore off another piece.
It annoyed Martin that he couldn’t remember the name of this tree. No, he was annoyed because he was forced to rely on half-remembered knowledge to survive. The name escaped him, but his father’s descriptions of edible plants were fresh in his mind.
Maybe it was because he had sworn he would never use it. His parents may have been happy killing Beasts in the city sewers and dancing under a full moon with others of their kind, but Martin had run from that life, never looking back. Why fight Beasts for money when money was available in almost every pocket? Why run through the sewers when a bed covered in rose-scented sheets could be rented for a few silvers?
Martin had never had any use for his animal form. Clawed hands were not good for picking locks. A Rat’s ears and tail brought curious eyes, the bane of a Thief. A rodent’s teeth were good for persuading a reluctant mark, but Martin’s knives served just as well. Yet, despite his distaste for his heritage, he had spent days now, perhaps longer, crawling about a forest on all fours.
A bugling noise, followed by a series of short grunts and the trample of hooves, caused Martin’s head to snap up. His nose twitched until it found a scent, and he rushed through the trees following it. A short distance away, he slowed his pace and dropped into Stealth.
An Elk and a Wererat were fighting among the trunks. The Elk, tall and proud, lowered its head to charge at the Beast, and the Rat narrowly avoided being stomped upon, lashing out with its claws as the animal went by. The smell of blood clogged Martin’s nose, and he clutched his hands in excitement.
The Elk whirled on its hind legs and rearing, struck out with its hooves. The smaller Wererat was pushed to the ground, one of its arms snapping under the weight of the Elk. Teeth bit into legs, and the Elk bugled again, this time in pain. It stamped and crushed the Rat creature angrily. For every blow it landed, new lacerations opened up on its legs and belly, as the Rat dug in with its claws.
The Elk was a common animal, the Wererat a Beast, but where the Rat was the lowest of its kind, the Elk was a protector and champion of its own. While it took grievous wounds killing the Wererat, its victory was never in doubt.
Martin watched as the Elk sunk to its belly and then lay on its side, chest heaving. The body of the Dungeon Beast disappeared, leaving the same disappointing loot that Martin had received. The Elk, however, valued the drops. It tossed away the meat and took one of the teeth in its mouth. Martin watched as it began to chew.
Martin had thought this part of the stories he had heard to be untrue. He was not pleased to see his father vindicated. The drops of a Hunter’s Dungeon could be used as a restorative for Beasts and animals. If they were unharmed, the teeth would strengthen Attributes and sharpen the Elk's natural weapons.
Standing up and assuming his preferred state, an ordinary man with a plain face, Martin went forward. He held his arms wide, showing he was no threat. His gesture was unnecessary. The Elk chomped at its prize, unconcerned with Martin’s approach. A curious light in its eyes said the Elk was wondering what his intentions were. It allowed his approach, unafraid. In this place, it did not fear any but the Dungeon’s creations.
“What Level are you, friend?” Martin murmured, stepping slowly forward. “Father said an animal must reach Level 20 before it can become a Beast. Are you close? Or have you already passed the mark? Are you here seeking a Name? A Title? Will you become a Forest Lord soon?”
The Elk chewed and swallowed, picking another tooth to gnaw on. It listened to his words, and either it heard nothing worth responding to, or it was incapable of understanding. Martin did not care either way. His words were a peace offering, a gentle extension of goodwill. His questions were for himself; it was the tone that mattered.
The Elk didn’t object when Martin stooped down to examine its wounds. “These are bad. No, you have not reached Level 20. You’re powerful for an animal, but still only common prey.”
The Elk slumped over, its heart stopping as Martin’s long, thin knives pierced its brain. He pulled them loose and licked the blood from their blades. “Just prey.”
Martin used his animal form and tore into the slain Elk's stomach with his teeth. His jaws closed over warm muscle and he ripped it off. He nearly choked as he gobbled the flesh, hardly bothering to chew. He slurped the Elk's blood, the salty, metallic fluid was more satisfying than the frost-covered leaves he had sucked on for moisture.
A stomach that was happy to be filled with raw meat was a gift to all Kindred, one that Martin had never appreciated before. As he filled his with hair-covered hide and gnawed the flesh from bone, he found the benefit of his race. When his hunger was sated at last, Martin collapsed to the earth, panting, a wide crimson smile on his face.
He rubbed the blood from his muzzle and licked it from his palm. A Truce amongst Hunters? Another lie proven true! That dumb animal had just let him walk right up! It would take some of the thrill out of being a Thief, but Martin wished more victims were so accommodating!
Standing up, Martin stretched. He felt good! Then the air, the mood of the Dungeon changed. Martin’s shoulders hunched as a weight settled on them. His head darted from side to side. He could feel angry, disapproving eyes watching him, but he could not determine where they were coming from. He drew his knives and activated Stealth, preparing himself.
A shriek and a high-pitched howl caused his ears to swivel. A threat was directed at him. The screeching and thudding indicated that someone else had walked into trouble first. Creeping towards the sound of battle, Martin licked his lips. Was his next meal being prepared? He hid at the edge of a clearing and waited.
Hidden at the edge of a clearing, Martin was astonished to find the kid, Trent, still alive. He had thought the boy lucky if he survived a minute in a Field Dungeon, yet here he was facing seven Moon Cursed. No! Eight Wererats flung themselves at the Swordsman; the black one was bigger but harder to see in the moonlight.
Martin waited for Trent to fall. At Level 20, Martin would never dare confront eight Wererats alone. Granted, his Class was not suited for direct Combat like the Swordsman Class, but Trent was as green as a Wood Ranked Adventurer could be. The kid’s death was assured, and his gear would finally belong to Mart
in! It was a shame that whatever was locked in Trent’s Storage would be lost. Martin would have to accept that that was the way things went sometimes.
When the thin blade of Trent’s sword cut the head from one Were-Beast, and he proceeded to disembowel another, Martin’s jaw dropped in astonishment. That sword was not the same one the kid had had when Martin left him for dead. That cheap Basic blade had nothing in common with the elegant weapon that cut Wererats as easily as it would paper! The design was strange, lacking any protective protrusions to shield the hand, but Martin’s nose twitched as he wondered how much coin selling the blade would bring.
The kid was quicker than Martin expected. The Kindred's tail swished as Trent batted a Beast aside with his shield and then pivoted, severing the wrist of one sneaking up behind him. The Swordsman seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, and every time Martin expected to see him surrounded or overwhelmed, Trent’s feet danced their way out of range.
But Trent did not escape untouched. No matter how he dodged, occasionally a claw would mark his shoulder, or teeth would nip his side. Blood flowed freely from several light wounds. Trent never slowed or acknowledged the pain. Although beneath that silver mask, his face must be twisted in a grimace, Martin could see no sign of it in the boy’s movement.
And his movements were precise! Each step, every attack, carried Trent to exactly where he wanted to be. He moved towards the greys and away from the black. The most dangerous Were-Beast gnashed its teeth as its subordinates continued to hamper its attacks instead of dragging the Swordsman to the ground.
The last of the greys fell, and then it was only Trent and the dark-colored Wererat. Martin’s hackles rose. If Trent could defeat seven Moon Cursed, didn’t that mean he was a match for the Thief? The memory of Trent’s hand closing on his wrist when Martin had tried to cut his purse prodded at the man, reminding him that his Stealth might not serve him against Trent.
Martin wanted Trent to die. Now, as Trent faced off against the last Wererat, Martin internally cheered for the Moon Cursed. Swordsmen were not known for their forgiving natures. Were Trent to survive, the day might come when he would demand an answer from Martin for his actions.
