by J. T. Wright
“Why would they want the Bandit Class anyway?” Reann dryly dismissed Orion’s tales of Heroes.
“You saw those Scribes cast.” Orion looked back over his shoulder. “One Spell and they were done, and those Firebolts were as weak as they come. Without the bonuses of a Class, they are vulnerable. And if things are as bad in Wallander as they sound, every fighter for hundreds of miles is probably caught up in it.”
Reann ran that thought around her head for a bit before changing the subject. “Hope the next village has a decent inn. A good meal and a soft bed…”
“You can forget about stopping at… actually, you do as you like, I won’t be joining you.” Thoughts of what his clansmen might be facing in Wallander caused Orion to pick up his pace, but it was for Reann that he was foregoing a rest in the next village.
It wasn’t a gesture that the woman could grasp. “Trying to ditch me again?” she asked suspiciously. “Thought we had an understanding! I proved myself back there, didn’t I?”
“You killed four Laborers after I told you to wait.” Orion stopped, and turned to face her.
“They were planning to…” Reann started to bluster, then paused and took a deep breath. “I was spotted. I wanted to wait, but… I didn’t know they were….” No excuse she could offer felt right. It was true, she’d slipped up, but if she had known they were Profession holders, she would have disabled them, instead of… the memory of a young tawny-haired man, who got off one shot before her Wind Cut caused him to choke on his own blood turned her stomach.
“They may not have deserved what happened, but they asked for it,” Orion said firmly. “However, they were not Bandits; they were villagers. I will not be stopping at the next inn because more likely than not the men you killed will have family there. Family who won’t care whether your actions were justified or not.”
“Unless your poison resistance is especially high, I don’t recommend eating food that is prepared by people who have reason to hate you.” Orion cut off a lecture and started walking again. “Then again, if you can survive it, Blue Devil Weed grows in the area. You won’t find a better spice.”
“What happens if you can’t survive it?” Reann pulled her Cloak around herself, chilled by the thought of a town that might hate her as much as Sweet Meadows had despised the men who murdered her friends.
“Your organs melt, and,” Orion searched for a way to describe the effects of the poison, “you release an unpleasant gas as you die.”
“That was a joke, right? You’re trying to cheer me up with a joke?” Reann tripped over her feet, trying to get a better look at Orion’s face.
“You won’t think it’s a joke when you smell it.” Orion shuddered. “The stench is fierce; it will tarnish your memory in the minds of those who knew you. No deed is great enough to cover such a death. It’s better to die running from a Grak than of the windy curse of the Blue Devil Weed.”
Reann spent the next several miles watching Orion out of the corner of her eye, waiting for the Al’rashian to crack and snicker at what had to be a juvenile attempt at humor. He never did, and they were a day beyond the next village before she saw him take a deep breath.
Chapter Fifteen
Quest Complete - Survive alone in the Wilds for two weeks. Reward 1000 Experience, 1 Free Attribute point. 1 Free Skill point.
The notification greeted Trent as he opened his eyes. He wouldn’t have thought that a Trial counted as the Wilds, but given the challengers in the Moonlit Forest, maybe he should have. He looked down at the puppy sleeping in his lap. He had let Pup rest there. Trent could maintain his balance on the branch of the silver tree while unconscious. Pup could not.
“It looks like you don't count, Dog,” Trent muttered. The animal had been stealing half, if not more, of all the XP Trent earned. At least the Dog hadn’t cheated him in respect to his Quest. Thinking of Experience Points, the completed Quest had pushed him over the edge. He could finally level Survivalist.
You are now a Level 3 Survivalist. You have learned the Skill, Arrows Flight Level 1. You have learned the Skill, Bloodletting Level 1. 6000 Experience and Basic Spear Level 10 required for next level up.
Trent was still learning about this first Class he had chosen. Ranar had said Survivalists were violent, their Skills meant for getting close to and facing their opponents. Arrows Flight and Bloodletting seemed to confirm this.
Bloodletting was meant to be used in conjunction with an attack Skill like Thrust and would add a greater bleeding effect to any wound caused. Trent’s recent injuries had impressed upon him just how crippling deeper wounds could be. Bloodletting was a Skill he was happy to see added to his Status.
Arrows Flight was another Skill like Enhanced Jump that had a possibility to fail if Trent got the timing wrong. When used correctly, the Skill would propel Trent along the course of an arrow that was being fired towards him, faster than the object itself. He could approach an Archer and attack while the bowman was still fumbling for a second arrow.
It was an impressive Skill, but the cost made Trent’s jaw drop. At 200 SP, and 100 MP, Arrows Flight was one of the most expensive tools in his arsenal. Combined with the fact that it had to be used in the open while facing the attacks of an Archer, Trent felt his enthusiasm for what was obviously an Advanced Skill, wane.
A new level in Survivalist also brought 5 Free Attribute Points. With the reward from his Quest, Trent had six to spend. He quickly added 3 to Strength, 2 to Dexterity, and 1 to Constitution. He studied the results in his Status as he felt the effects of the increased Attributes subtlety taking hold throughout his body.
Name: Trent Embra
Age: 12
Race: Al’rashian
Level: 11
Class: Survivalist Level 3
Class: Swordsman Level 8
Profession: None
Health: 630
Stamina: 630
Mana: 130
Strength: 25
Agility: 27
Dexterity :30
Constitution: 14
Endurance: 3
Intelligence: 13
Perception: 2
Wisdom: 10
Free Attribute Points: 0
Free Skill Points: 6
The numbers which defined him were a far cry from the ones he started with as a newly Awakened being months ago. Would they be enough to allow Trent to defeat Martin? He couldn’t say. He had managed to bluff his way out of a confrontation with the Thief in their last encounter, but he knew the man was a higher level. If not for the demands of the Trial, Trent would leave things as they were.
Not that he had made any progress on his latest Quest. The Moonlit Forest called for Martin’s death, and yet the rules of the Trial meant that any sign of passage the Thief might leave soon vanished. Trent’s Tracking Skill had not picked up the slightest hint of the Thief despite his searching.
Searching that he should be getting back to. He picked the petals of the Wolf Vine, acquiring four more vials of Liquid Silver, one of which he tucked into his belt. Not the most secure spot, but it was the best he could manage until he could replace his pouch. The other three went into Storage.
Climbing down from his resting place, Trent had Pup tucked under one arm and a wooden sword shoved through his belt, things he had gotten quite used to. The lazy Dog snorted without waking as Trent dropped the last six feet to the ground, his boots thudding on the packed dirt below the tree.
The drop might not have disturbed Pup but being tossed to the ground wasn’t something he could ignore. The Dog yelped as he impacted against the earth and brambles pricked at his hide. He whined as he clambered to his paws, staring reproachfully at Trent.
Trent didn’t see the Dog’s sad eyes. He was too busy trying to free his sword. The wooden blade was securely bound by his belt, and Trent absently wondered if the lack of a sheath would be the reason he lost his life.
The Werewolf was as surprised as Trent was, buying the Swordsman the precious seconds he
needed to disentangle his blade. The Elwire sword swept out, cutting a thin line across the Beast’s chest and shoulder. Rancid breath flooded Trent’s senses as the Wolf howled in pain. Trent kicked at the stunned creature’s knee and turned to run.
A second Werewolf’s jaws snapped at his face, and Trent narrowly twisted aside. Adrenaline surged through him, banishing the last cobwebs left by restless sleep. He directed a low cut to the second Beast’s legs and was rewarded with the sight of blood. Long Slash, enhanced by Bloodletting, cut its way along the creature’s side and carried Trent to its back.
The trail beyond the Beast was clear. He could run now, but Trent pivoted, holding his sword with both hands, his legs and shoulders powering a slice down the Werewolf’s back. Violence, aggression, and the need to conquer one’s enemies were the weaknesses of a Survivalist. They were the instincts that had driven Trent to panic on the streets of Al’drossford.
But the Moonlit Forest was not filled with innocently passing Commoners. It was a wild place, a place where violence was not only appropriate, it was necessary. Trent let loose the reigns he had put on the weaknesses of his Class. A cold fury filled him as he threw himself forward.
Two weeks. According to his Quest, he had spent two weeks in this Trial. It was only now that he was overcome with the realization that the biggest struggle he faced was with his own uncertainty. He vowed to hunt and then found himself clinging to the shadows, hiding. He swore to be more, then avoided the challenges that came his way, until a Guardian was ripping into his skin.
It was fighting the Guardian that had taught him weaknesses could also be strengths. Now that lesson had sunk in. A Survivalist was aggressive, a Swordsman arrogant, but both Classes fought at the front, never showing their back to the enemy, confident that victory was a stroke away.
Howls filled with paralyzing sound and flesh melting light narrowly missed Trent as he slashed and hacked at the two Beasts. Blood splattered against his mask and stained his shirt as he abandoned the forms of Military Fencing for the simplicity of Basic Longsword. Military Fencing was meant to be used against soldiers, and there was little civilization left in the man-shaped Wolves.
There was less civilization left in Trent as he struck at hamstrings and whirled to slice at eyes. He twisted and lunged, his Thrust barely penetrating thick hide. His wrists ripped his blade to the side, enlarging the wound. Elwire wood imbued with Liquid Silver caused Moon Cursed blood to boil, and the poison seeped into the Beasts as Trent continued his relentless assault.
That same blood evaporated on his blade when Trent found himself standing over the corpses of two creatures he would have fled from had that been an option. His chest heaved, and he swallowed heavily. Tucking his sword under his arm, Trent fumbled for his water skin and drank deeply, the stale fluid rushing through his body.
It was a good thing that the hides of Werewolves held no value. Trent had rent nearly every inch of the Trials creature’s skin, leaving the Beasts a shredded mess. Trent’s hands patted at his own body, searching for wounds, and was astonished to find himself untouched. If not for the XP in his Status and his nearly depleted Stamina, he would have thought it all a dream.
As Trent stood waiting for his Stamina to recover, Pup wriggled his way out of the brush and darted over to flop on Trent’s boots. Taking his sword in his right hand, Trent knelt and rubbed at the Dog’s ears. Pup leaned into his palm, grumbling happily at the attention.
“You stole half the XP again,” Trent sighed. “You'll probably want the teeth as well, huh? What do you want with them anyway?”
Pup’s tail beat a furious pattern and he latched on to Trent’s hand as an answer.
“If they’re improving your bite, I don’t see it.” Trent shook the Dog loose and Pup tumbled away. “You need to run.”
Pup scrambled into a sitting position and cocked his head. Trent’s words were out of place until Pup followed the boy’s gaze and saw the black figure rushing down the trail. Trent’s boots missed stepping on the Dog by a hair’s width as he flung himself forward. The unnatural stillness of the Moonlit Forest was unbroken as the Swordsman and Beast clashed.
Claws slashed at Trent’s head and he craned his neck to avoid them. Triple Slash cut the black Werewolf once, but the subsequent blows missed as the Beast stepped back. Trent tried to Parry the counter that was sent his way and once again found himself reeling as his Skill was broken. His mind clouded by the sudden shock, Trent was nearly caught by the second Skilled strike directed at his abdomen.
Flipping himself over the Beast’s arm, Trent landed on one knee and twisted to slice at the Werewolf’s legs. A clawed foot impacted against his chest, flinging him on to his back. As he landed, he heard a clicking sound that he hoped wasn’t a bone breaking. His sword fell from his hand, and his lungs refused to work. For a moment, Trent was unable to move.
The Werewolf’s jaws opened, and a red light gathered behind its teeth. Trent tried to roll to the side. His body refused to listen. Vacant white eyes set in black fur regarded him mockingly as the Wolf prepared to melt the skin from his bones.
Pup was small. Trent realized just how tiny the Dog was when he popped into existence on the back of the Werewolf’s neck and bit down. Pup growled as he clamped down, but it was a lethargic sound. The Dog braced his legs and shook his head, trying to tear into the much larger Beast, and from where Trent lay, he could see Pup’s body tremble from Mana or Stamina depletion, perhaps both.
Pup had stolen the Shadow Rat’s Core, learning a new Skill when he had consumed it. A Skill that allowed him to traverse the space between himself and the Wolf, but clearly, he lacked the Attributes to support the Skill, much like his teeth lacked the strength to pierce through the Beast’s fur.
The black Werewolf kept his eyes on Trent and continued to gather his attack as one clawed hand streaked up to grasp Pup around his middle. There was a crunching sound as the Dog was lifted away, and the agonized squeak that burst out of Pup was cut off as his body slammed to the earth.
Trent, usually so silent as he fought, screamed. His hand slapped against the ground for his sword hilt and found the object that had clinked when he fell instead. His fingers curled around the vial of Liquid Silver that had dropped from his belt, and Trent hurled it with another outraged cry.
The Werewolf’s rending howl met the vial in midair. Glass shattered, and the poison became a mist that floated into the Wolf’s open muzzle. The Beast’s howl became a sharp roar of pain. Its bellows continued as the burning on its face was joined by lines of fire crisscrossing its torso.
Trent found his sword and his feet. Trent saw red as he unleashed an unending chain of Skilled strikes and a hoarse wail, all directed at the Beast. Chop severed the Werewolf’s arm at the elbow. Fast Strike, Triple Slash, and Thrust were repeated again and again as the creature backpedaled. Trent followed it, his arms filled with a desperate energy. The Werewolf was driven to the ground, and Trent kept hacking at it until his body became heavy.
Even then, he tried to kick and stomp at the corpse. If wheezing gasps and the sound of rattling breath had not broken through his rage, Trent might have continued until he fell from exhaustion. The noise of Pup laboring for air brought him to his senses and sent him scrambling to the Dog’s side.
Dropping his sword, Trent hurried to kneel beside Pup. The Dog’s limbs were twisted at unnatural angles, his eyes were open but rolled back, and his chest caved in. Trent’s mouth opened and then he clamped his lips shut. He was afraid that asking how the Dog could still be alive would send the animal into the dark.
Maybe that would be a mercy. The pup's body shook with every breath, and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. Trent’s hands hovered helplessly over the tiny body. Balm couldn’t help here nor the greater healing potion in Trent’s Storage. Both the charm and the potion were meant to heal flesh, not bone. Pup was broken in a way that required more than Trent had.
“What were you thinking? How are you still alive?” Tren
t whispered, “Why are you even here? You’re no Beast, no Hunter. You’re an animal! A stupid, weak, brave, idiot!”
Pup did not whimper as Trent pulled him onto his lap. The unconscious Dog should have been killed instantly, and Trent was sure it was only a cruel joke of the Trial that kept the animal trapped in his body. In the part of his mind that tracked the health of party members, Trent watched Pup’s life decrease from 3 HP to 2. The end was near.
“You can’t die without a name! No one should die like that!” It was something Trent had avoided. Names were important. It wasn’t his place to give the Dog one. He remembered a small Awakened, a boy, who in his memory was hardly bigger than the puppy. That boy had run until his feet bled and might have died without a name himself. Trent might never have had a name if it weren’t for Michael.
“Es'trent. You deserve better than that.” Trent lightly caressed Pup's ear. “Dreq. Your name is Dreq. It means…”
There had been an itch beneath Trent’s skin ever since he brought the Dog into his party. As Dreq's HP dropped to 1 and Trent prepared to close the pup's eyes, that itch became a burrowing sensation in his chest that caused Trent’s mind to go blank.
He did not notice how his palm warmed as it settled on Dreq's head. He forgot the meaning of the Dog’s name, forgot to wonder how it came to him in the first place. The only thing that drew his attention away from the intensifying ache at his center and back to the animal in his lap was the snapping sound of bone.
Eyes wide, Trent watched as Dreq’s legs straightened, and the depression in his chest bulged back out. The Dog’s breathing eased, and his eyelids slid shut. Before they closed completely Trent caught a glimpse of healthy brown pupils, heavy with sleep.
