Dream (16 page)

“How good are the buffs?” Fred asked.

“Not great now, just basic stuff. The next couple levels will see some good ones, though.”

“Fourth level.” Jeff mused. “Still a long ways to go. How tough do you think we need to be before we can start thinking about a personal try?”

“Ten,” Fred sighed. “At least. How long have we been here?”

“Today makes thirty-five days,” Shad said. “A little more’n an hour passed since we came here. Plus any transit time.”

“Time’s not our biggest enemy,” Derek said thoughtfully. “We need to try to find a safer way of getting XP, though.”

“Havenhall,” Jeff threw his arms open in mock joy. “Bastion of the Ultimate Master.”

“May still be,” Shad gestured towards the standard flying over the gatehouse. “The Eye is still up there.”

“Let’s go get a drink and a room,” Jeff said. “We’ll hear the local news for free.”

As the Black Talons walked through the late afternoon sunlight towards the gatehouse, moving with a purpose but without haste, Derek jumped as if hit by electricity at the sound of the theme to ‘Morrowind’ being played on a flute. Fred clamped a big hand onto the Shadowmancer’s shoulder but was too late to hide the visible reaction.

Nor was Derek the only one-both Shad and Jeff had started, although neither quite so pronouncedly.

Shad swept an index finger in a circle at shoulder height, trying to make it appear casual as he turned to the source of the music, a short young Asian man in Mongol-style fur-trimmed clothes and spiked hat sitting cross-legged on a stone fence, a cased mandolin slung across his back. Stepping closer, he saw the musician was young, very early twenties, and so smooth-skinned that but for a fine dusting of hair across his upper lip he could have passed for a young girl.

“Nice tune,” he said, reaching into his purse as if seeking a coin, his hand closing on the hilt of the knife he had received in Wrym.

“It sounds better on an Xbox,” the flutist slid his instrument into its case. “You ever complete the core quest?”

The Jinxman glanced around: the fence enclosed a pasture for a flock of sheep; across the road was a field of some sort of crop, green plants; Shad didn’t know much about farming and had no interest in learning. “You speak of strange things, friend.”

“Doubt it,” The young man might be short and small-boned, but he showed no sign of fear, despite being unarmed save for a dagger at his belt. “If the Wraiths had half a brain you guys would have been toast. How many tattoos did you come through with?”

Shad stared at the musician. “Five,” he said finally. “Four left.”

“I’m Sam,” the flute player nodded. “It’s a nickname, from Sei. I’m from Guam originally, Japanese citizen in the States getting my degree. I came through with six tattoos a year ago local time.” He patted his stomach.

“A
year
?” Jeff gaped at that. “What the hell?”

“Shad,” the Jinxman jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Jeff, the big guy is Fred, the archer is Derek, the donkey is Ula. We’re been here thirty-eight days counting today.”

“You must be the guys who came through in the Direwood,” Sam nodded, waving away Jeff’s proffered hand. “C’mon, man, you know they don’t do that here.”

“What do you want, Sam?” Shad brought his hand out of his pouch empty.

“Help,” the musician said plainly. “I want to go home, I know
how
to go home, but I can’t do it by myself.”

The Gnarled Staff was a discreet establishment catering to those whose business or affairs required privacy. After Ula was housed and rooms rented, the five sat at a table tucked into an alcove off the inn’s common room, which was located in a converted winery cellar.

“So spill the story,” Shad said once their mugs were full and the serving girl departed. “Start with the Ultimate Master.”

“He’s dead,” Sam took a sip and made a face. “I would kill for a Doctor Pepper. The Green League got him with a pipe bomb, built it into a staff of office, which they dropped into his lap. I didn’t think gunpowder worked here.”

“We found a loophole,” Jeff said helpfully. “Doesn’t affect the locals, though.”

“Anyway, some bodyguards and dedicated loyalists died in the change of power, but mostly everyone acknowledged the new Ultimate Master, they hanged a couple of patsies for killing the old Ultimate Master, and life goes on. The new Master is actually the heir from the old ruling family, so it all works out.”

“Why haven’t the flags changed?” Shad jerked a thumb upwards.

“Less change, less fuss,” Sam shrugged. “The League is being very civilized about the whole thing.”

“What about the Wraiths?” Derek asked.

“The Wraith-Lord was one of those who died in the fighting; the Wraiths themselves are disbanded.”

“Breathing room,” Shad nodded thoughtfully. “Now, what’s your story?”

“They took the whole group right from the table,” Sam explained. “We came through in the hills to the southeast of the city-state. We ran into some wolf-riders an hour after getting here. We scattered, and I haven’t seen three of the guys since. One guy I saw die, and another, Brad, made his way to the City-State about the same time as I did. Brad went native, got a job, and hasn’t set foot outside the city walls since he came through the gate.” He took a pull from his mug, his face looking much older than his years. “I’m a Bard, so I bounced between the City-State and here, playing and listening. I’ve gone to the Fist twice, couple weeks each time, travelling with caravans.”

“You’ve third level,” Derek pointed out. “You’ve been here a
year
.”

“One level for each intruder killed,” the Bard shrugged. “I’m a support class with nobody to support. And to be honest I don’t have much killer instinct. I’m a college student who was gaming one night when the whole world went crazy. All I want to do is go back home.”

“Fair enough,” Derek conceded.

“I haven’t been sitting on my ass, though-I’ve been working my class pretty hard. Besides being an entertainer, a Bard is also a historian and a newsman. I don’t get the ‘
on the main quest’
daily bonuses you guys do, but I was nearly to level three before the pipe bomb went off. I’ve spent a year learning how the world works and more importantly, working on how we can get back.”

“How did you know you were almost to level three?” Jeff asked.

Sam gave him a strange look. “I check.”

“Check what?”

“My tattoos,” Sam tapped his belly. “There’s a red line that outlines the left-most tattoo. When it makes it all the way around, you level and the line vanishes. You didn’t know?”

“Shit,” Fred examined Derek’s forearm. “You’re almost halfway to five. Who told you about that?”

“Guy who met us, a mage named Howin, part of the Council of Twelve.” Seeing blank looks, he elaborated. “The Council is the main resistance against the intruders. They closed the loopholes the intruders use, and brought us through.”

“And who told you
that
?” Shad refastened his sleeve after examining his tattoos.

The Bard shrugged. “You pick things up. They weren’t unknown before this all started.”

“Have you heard of a woman, white hair, goes by Yorrian?”

“Yeah, she’s one of the Council as well. Yorrian is actually her real name-the Twelve stay out of reach of the intruders, not that either side has shown great interest in trying their luck at taking the other side out.”

“You would think the twelve top mages could beat seven imported nerds,” Derek shook his head.

“Have you heard of other outlanders brought here?” Fred asked.

“Yeah. The Council brings them through pretty regularly. Thing is, most don’t last for more’n a few days. If the hunters don’t get them the local fauna does. I’ve been looking for survivors and intact groups my entire time here, passing on information and gathering details when I find them.”

“Why not build a group out of other survivors?” Derek asked.

“I’m not a leader, and most aren’t in any shape for anything-a couple have simply gone nuts. A few others have gone native, mostly not as bravos. I heard the first few groups didn’t come in so close to the intruders, and a couple of those are still around, laying low.”

“So why were you waiting for us?” Shad asked, keeping his voice casual.

“Because you guys hung together and survived. I stay here because the Wraiths are not too bright-they never think to look at individuals. But they’re not completely stupid, either, and while they’re slow, they do work. I have, had, a line on them through one who liked to brag to whores. They tracked you as coming in through the River Gate-at first they discounted you because you cashed in Goblin ears-most new groups are pretty helpless. Then they hit used clothes places until they found your ‘mancer’s robes, which confirmed who you were. They burned a lot of power and established you guys were heading to the Fist.” Sam took a pull at his mug.

“And yet you were waiting when we arrived
here
,” Shad observed.

“I’ve got friends in the Fist who keep an eye on bravos for me. If its important or odd they send a pigeon. Couple weeks ago a group of four bravos turned in a necromancer’s staff and sold a bunch of Elf gear. So when this group suddenly snuck out heading south, I started spending my afternoons watching the road.”

“We couldn’t have been the only bravo group doing well at the Fist-the place is full of bravos.”

“I told them what to watch for,” Sam shrugged. “I’ve been here a year in a class that watches and works people. Outsiders give themselves away in a lot of different ways-for one thing the ones who survive the initial shock are highly organized and mission driven. In case you guys haven’t noticed, the locals have trouble understanding how important roads are, or central governments, or a lot of things we take for granted. Plus little things-glancing at your left wrist instead of up at the sun, that sort of thing. You guys are good-a local would not see a lot of difference.”

“But why us?”

“Because you guys are getting stuff done. You sold a barrow-sword in the City-State for chump change, which means you were skillful enough to take it but had no idea what it was worth. You grabbed six months’ worth of whitestone in record time. And the stuff at the Fist.”

“The Wraiths had a detachment at the Fist,” Jeff pointed out.

“They don’t have any Bards,” Sam said with a touch of pride. “Besides, they’re locals-they won’t pick up on the cues I do. Nobody I’ve heard of came in and set out kicking ass left, right, and center, so they wouldn’t immediately focus on a hard-hitting group. Instead, they would be looking for a group skulking about looking for easy jobs, which they proceed to do extremely efficiently. Who the hell are you guys, anyway?”

“We all served in Iraq,” Shad shrugged. “Together. Our greeter said that was why they grabbed us four instead of our entire gaming group.”

“It’s like the Army is screwing us one last time,” Jeff shook his head.

“OK, I get how you tracked us. And the ‘why’ is that you have a plan to get back?” Shad looked skeptical.

“Yeah. And I know it works-I helped the last group to leave with some detail work. They’re home, now,” Sam tapped his stomach. “What did they tell you about the tattoos?”

“That they are spells, and that when all the intruders are dead they’ll send us back,” Jeff said.

“Did they mention how this place is made up of the descendants of peoples and things that were banished?”

“Yeah.”

“And that there are rules to this place?”

“Yup.”

“OK. Here’s the thing: we weren’t
banished
, just
borrowed
. We don’t belong here, and by the rules we have to be given back. Our tattoos have an expiration date of twenty years local time, and then we go home, or quicker if we die. That’s the best the Council can do to get around the rule. The intruders got here by basically banishing themselves, but they still have the same statute of limitations hanging over their heads, just like any outlander.”

“Why is anyone still here, if there is that twenty-year rule?” Derek asked.

“The original people banished here got the uber-banishment, life without parole sort of thing. Some were even changed in physical appearance for good measure, or so I read. The twenty-year rule is for outlanders who get summoned or banish themselves. Think of it as a tourist visa.”

“Well, that’s good news in one sense, but I’m not eager to spend twenty years here,” Shad scowled and took a long pull at his mug.

“Neither am I. The point is that the Council lied: the tattoos are not spells to send us
home
, they are wards to keep us
here
. When the last ward is removed by an intruder death or the wards expire after twenty years the laws of nature, so to speak, send us home.”

The Black Talons pondered this. “So what if we cut off the tattoos?” Derek asked.

“Won’t work. You might try cutting off your arm, but I’m not sure that would work, either.” Sam pulled a scroll from a case and unrolled it. “The way to do it is to nullify the wards. You build a device, and activate it at a specific time and place.” He pointed to a design drawn on the scroll. “The wards pop off like fireworks, and you’re free. Like shorting out a magnetic lock.”