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Chapter 18: A Most Deserved Reward

  The fire in the hearth crackled softly. Heaps of uneaten food and pieces of bones littered the plates and the table. A smear of gravy ran from one end of it, between empty mugs and bread baskets, all the way down Bleff’s lap. The goblin would have no mention of it. He, Zandalee, and Threelegs sat back in their chairs and rubbing their bellies, content like children of Great Oomer’s Home.

  There were many more soldiers in the Hollow Hog Tavern than the last time we had visited. And they were much friendlier, too. So friendly in fact, that they paid for our meat and drinks. Not all was cheerful, however, and rightly so. When bloody survival ended and the cheers died down, the field of corpses at their feet shook them awake to their grim reality.

  I was going through my Soulforge, wanting to assign my next skill point. I had deliberated only shortly on what to choose and that was (Iron Leap). An ability that allowed me to jump up to 10 feet into the distance and knock down the hated foe as I landed. A brilliant skill that would embellish my growing arsenal of war.

  Fry smoked a pipe with his legs crossed at the neighboring table. He eyed us and held his glass raised.

  “To Captain Griff and Sergeant Thrin, aye.”

  “To the Frostlands with them,” I said, and our glasses clinked. Fry and his fellow soldiers smiled albeit wearily.

  A moment later Zandalee muttered “Frostlands” and tsked.

  “I sense dismissiveness in your tone, demon witch.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “The captain has performed a great act of courage, gnome. He surely will be let to the Frostlands. Such is the will of Kold.”

  “Aye,” Fry and the other soldiers agreed.

  “Besides, have you not summoned a demon tonight? That makes you a demon witch, demon witch.”

  “She’s a warlock, Chosen,” Fry said with a knowing grin. “Those are a dime a dozen around here. You better get used to ‘em.”

  A grim prospect. So many witches, so many demons. These fools had no idea what hellish fires they were playing with. Yet I was too full of meat, tired of battle, Kold forgive me, and much too content to argue.

  “I will call you warlock then, warlock. So be it.”

  “So be it,” the gnome mock repeated, trying to mimic my tone.

  I sneered at her as dismissively as I could and of course, she sneered back.

  “Chosen,” Fry began. “May we ask you something?”

  When I faced away from the demon witch, I realized all the soldiers in the tavern had come up to Fry’s table.

  “It must be some question when you all have gathered to hear me answer.”

  Fry smiled then leaned his elbows on the table and puffed out a big cloud of pungent smoke.

  “We all are more than thankful for what you did last night, aren’t we men?”

  The soldiers heartily confirmed his question.

  “Aye, well done,” one said.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” another muttered.

  “You knew it was better to let them all through one point, the gate. It saved lives, it saved the wall. You fight them undead like three men would fight ‘em. We all saw it, didn’t we men?” They all confirmed again.

  “No doubt, no doubt,” one said.

  “Fought like ten men, I’d say,” another claimed.

  “And you breathed into this rune ‘ere. It began to glow red. The Bloodlight of Kold is what we call it. You saw the rune, right men? I showed it to you.”

  “It glows red, it does,” one said.

  “Bloodlight of Kold it is,” another added.

  I looked upon their hopeful faces and smiled. Kold’s reach was endless, below, above, and beyond the world.

  “So we was wondering,” Fry continued. “Where are you from? And, no offense meant, but who are you?”

  “He’s a Varian Lord of Tartarus, straight from Hell. Blood of Ra’een and blood of Kold,” Bleff said, holding up a spoon theatrically.

  A murmur broke out, and Fry quickly cut into it.

  “It’s true then, you are a chosen of Kold?”

  “I have no such title, soldiers. I’m first and foremost Shieldfather. Protector of the Steel Bastion. My people have been at the Gates of Hell for cycles unremembered. I have washed ashore at your beach only days ago—”

  “Just like we did, aye?” Threelegs said. All heads turned to the dwarf, and he seemed a bit uncomfortable with the attention “I mean…Zandalee and Hartar and meself washed ashore there too after the storm took our ship to the bottom.”

  “So the same story, is it?” Fry asked.

  “I was on no ship,” I said. “An old wizard tore me from the battle in Hell and cast me onto the beach south of here.”

  “Oh, please. All adventurers land here because their ships sank. It’s a known fact the silver current makes the Tanzanite Sea unsafe. Why are you—” Zandalee hissed as if I had somehow offended her with the truth.

  “He didn’t,” Bleff intervened on my behalf. “Trust me, gnome. This one is different.”

  Another round of chatter filled the tavern as the soldiers tried to make sense of it all.

  “I’m looking to return to Hell. That is all I want to do. And it can’t happen through malicious acts. I need to find an entrance.”

  “An entrance!” The gnome snapped her head back in laughter. “There’s no such thing!”

  “Why would you lie, gnome?” Fry said. “There’s an entrance to Hell, there always was up north, isn’t there men?”

  “Aye, beyond the Death Mountains in the Firelands,” one of them spat as if he’d bitten into rotten food. “It’s where the Ganta are from.”

  Though I promised myself I’d practice constraint, curb my hopes, and weigh the words of the overwolders carefully, I couldn’t stop my heart from racing.

  “These Firelands, are they far from here?”

  “Are you people for real?” Zandalee asked, but nobody paid her any heed.

  “Aye, they north of the Northlands, beyond the snow. It’s where the Ganta are from. There’s a door to Hell there, they say. Not even the northmen have the balls to go there though. It’s a cursed land.”

  “Then we must venture north. Beyond the Death Mountains, you said?”

  “Aye.”

  “Beyond the Death Mountains, Bleff. Did you hear that? We might have our path laid out for us.”

  The goblin almost choked on a piece of dry cake.

  “Death Mountains,” he mumbled. “Sounds inviting.”

  “There’s no space for cynicism, goblin. This is a moment of joy. Be joyful.” I turned to Fry. “And these Ganta you speak of, who are they? There was a northman down south who called me a Ganta God. Why?”

  The soldiers looked at each other with worried faces.

  “Who knows what a northman is ever talking about, eh? I don’t know why he called you that; all I know is the Ganta and the northmen don’t like each other much. But to tell ye the truth, none of us ever saw a Ganta. They live in the Firelands, they say. And from what I’ve heard, they eat babies and each other.”

  “And so do the Northmen,” one of the soldiers said, raising his voice. The others agreed.

  “I for one never saw a northman either. Why one would show up so far south…can’t be a good thing is all I know,” another said to more stern nods.

  The door to the tavern swung open wildly, grabbing everyone’s attention. A soldier stood in the doorframe; his face full of worry.

  “The Confessor is calling everyone to the square.”

  “Time to hand in quests!” Bleff said, clapping his hands together.

  We walked out of the tavern and into the square where a sizable group of people surrounded the quivering old Lord Confessor. Soldiers who had returned to the barracks after battle stood there in line as well while the fragile old man paced up and down their ranks, his cane thudding across the cobbled stone.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Two men in black-plated armor waited at the entrance to the keep. Their heads were masked by great helmets. They wore the same colors as all the other soldiers, the red tree of Roterwind on their chests and large, well-maintained halberds in their hands.

  “There they are,” he said, pointing the stick at us. The villagers parted as Bleff, Zandalee, Threelegs, and I walked up with Fry and the soldiers that had been with us in the tavern.

  “Come, come, stand before me, adventurers,” he beckoned us impatiently.

  Gone was the mild, enthusiastic tone from before. The Lord Confessor seemed awfully displeased.

  Once we found ourselves before him and the commotion died down, the skinny old man raised his cane high.

  “I hear tales of great cowardice!” he announced, raising his weak, croaky voice.

  “Cowardice that cost our honorable captain and his sergeant their lives!”

  “Cowardice?” I muttered but my words died in the erupting murmur that spread between soldiers and villagers.

  “Lord Edgemere saw it all from up in the keep. His eye ever watching, it is.”

  “Lord Confessor,” Fry began. “The captain didn’t die because—”

  “And a new captain must be named,” the old man continued. “And I see nobody more worthy than our trusted man Fry Biggens here. Step forward, son. You have done well.”

  The weathered soldier made his way to the front of the crowd but there was no merriment in his step.

  “Lord Edgemere himself told me of your heroic acts, son. He saw it from up there.”

  The confessor pointed toward the keep which was once again littered with the same black birds that had abandoned the town prior to the battle.

  “Captain Biggens, hear hear!” the Lord Confessor said and the crowd erupted in mild cheers and applause.

  Many claimed he deserved it, some others thought there was no better man, and a few muttered curses under their breaths, but such was the game of ascension. There would always be those who thought themselves more worthy.

  “Now as our new captain, you’re ordered to bring Lord Edgemere the coward adventurer responsible for Captain Griff’s death,” the old man said grimly and a heavy silence landed among the crowd.

  “Lord Confessor, the adventurers fought bravely. There was not a single—”

  “Dwarf!” the old man almost shrieked, pointing his cane at Threelegs. “The captain could hardly follow every man during such a battle, but Lord Edgemere’s eyes miss nothing. You’ve been sentenced to the interrogation chamber for your cowardice.”

  “No!” Zandalee yelled. “No, no, not again!”

  “Be silent, gnome! Captain Biggens,” the confessor said, tapping the iron cage next to him with his cane. “Escort the dwarf to the keep. You, soldiers, restrain that gnome, will you?”

  “But Lord Confessor, Threelegs fought—”

  “Will defiance be your first act as captain?”

  The two guards in black plate standing at the entrance to the keep took a step forward as if in warning.

  “No, Lord Confessor.”

  “This man is no coward!” I yelled, raising my tone above the murmur.

  The Lord Confessor eyed me shortly then turned away and waddled towards his guards.

  “It’ll be fine, Zandalee,” Threelegs said, taking a deep breath as two of the soldiers who were sitting with us in the tavern restrained the thrashing gnome.

  “They’re just using us, Threelegs!”

  “It’ll be fine,” the dwarf said, assuing her again.

  He didn’t fight the soldiers leading him into the iron cage and went willingly though a dark mask had spread across his face. This was injustice and I wouldn’t stand for it, yet I knew little of the customs here, and seeing Threelegs offering no resistance, I restrained my urge to protest. They locked the iron cage with the dwarf inside and began rolling it into the keep as Captain Biggens watched the procedure.

  He seemed angry but resigned.

  There were no cheers or applause or words of cowardice like the morning before when Hartar, Zandalee’s husband was taken. On the contrary, most of the crowd hurriedly made their way home, or back to the walls to fix any damage it sustained during the earlier battle.

  “Get some rest, men,” Fry said, shaking his head.

  They ushered the prisoner into his cage, and the two black guards disappeared behind the doors. The Lord Confessor remained outside and beckoned the two of us over.

  As my shadow landed on the fragile old man, he looked up at me with a forced smile that made his lips shiver in effort.

  “You’ve done well last night, I hear.”

  “I’m a Shieldfather. My life is to protect. You took an innocent man to the interrogation chamber. I hope your questions will be honorable and your judgement fair.”

  “Fair?” the Lord Confessor snorted and just as I felt he was about to laugh, he grew ridiculously serious. “Of course I’m fair. Wouldn’t be the Lord Confessor if I wasn’t. Now, don’t you bother yourself with that. Us Roterwooders have our way of doing things. It’s our land and our right.”

  “So it is,” I said.

  “Now then, where was I? Yes. You’ve finished your quest, big fellow,” he said and with that, my Soulforge chimed.

  QUEST: The Long Night Complete!

  DESCRIPTION: Defend Roterwoods for one night against the undead horde.

  REWARD: 300 XP, 2 GOLD, 1x Beekeepers Gloves

  Just as I accepted my reward, I felt my body tremble in elation. I had reached level 8 and the few wounds and cuts I suffered disappeared. It took me a moment to fully come to my senses and when I did, I noticed Bleff standing there, drooling away as he enjoyed a level-up as well.

  “Get a grip on yourself, goblin,” I said, shaking him sober.

  “Wha?”

  “I thank you, Lord Confessor. The reward will serve us well on our way to Hell.”

  “To Hell?” He shook his head. “Whatever. If you enjoyed the reward, perhaps you’ll consider giving the defense another round. The reward is the same, and if you defend Roterwoods for seven nights in a row, you’ll get a really big one.”

  “Seven nights? That is too much time, Lord Confessor. We must be on our way. But I thank you for the opportunity. Once again, I have no doubt your justice is fair but do know that I saw Threeleg’s heroics with my own two eyes. If you have any respect for me, and I feel like you do, show him the mercy he deserves. We’ll be on our way—”

  “One more night!” the Lord Confessor said, surprising himself with the urgency in his own voice. He cleared his throat and continued in a more patient manner. “Then one more night, Shieldfather. We need your prowess out there. The soldiers told me you’ve led them to victory. Perhaps you could teach them a thing or two. If you do, your friend Threelegs will be treated with nothing but the utmost respect.”

  Though I disliked his tone, and many other aspects of his existence, my honor would not let me walk away from people in need of my help. Especially because the help in question was the defense of a town.

  “One more night, Lord Confessor. And then you are on your own again.”

  “Of course, yes. Yes. Excellent.”

  His rotting teeth chattered. He licked his lips then offered me the same quest again and I accepted. He vanished behind the iron door shortly after and I hurriedly scanned my inventory for the new pair of gloves.

  NAME: Beekeeper’s Gloves

  TYPE: Leather Gloves

  DEFENSE: 2

  STRENGTH: +1

  CONSTITUTION: +1

  COLD RESISTANCE: +5

  PASSIVE ABILITY: Can’t be disarmed.

  DESCRIPTION: They used to belong to a long-dead beekeeper. Or was he long lost? Maybe he just moved. Strange are the ways of the beekeepers. In any case, they’ve been dipped in honey one too many times and are all sticky. This sweet attribute prevents any attempt to disarm the wearer. Well done.

  Why the description needed to tell me I did well was beyond me as always. Yet I more than appreciated the effect the gloves had. I happily pulled them on and clenched my fists, feeling the warm, comfortable leather against my skin.

  “Check this out, big man,” Bleff said, showing me a ring on his hairy finger. It was barely an iron band without any embellishments, but the goblin seemed awfully proud.

  “Brings in two more intellect. And that’s not all. With my new level, I can now do this,” he said and weaved his hands into the familiar (Word of Vitality).

  As the spell landed, I saw my health rise by a significant 80 points. Just as I was to offer words of praise, Bleff held his hand up.

  “One more thing, hold on.”

  He clenched his fist and raised it again. As he did, I received another 40 points of health.

  “That’s (Word of One).” The goblin grinned. “My (Word of Vitality) adds 80 points to anyone I buff, but my (Word of One) buffs any of my other buffs by 50%. I can only have it active on one target, but it’s still pretty nifty.”

  “That it is,” I said truthfully.

  Bleff blabbered on about his buffs, new ring, ate some boogers, and told stories of his life as an orc as I scanned through my skills.

  I assigned another point to one of the first skills that allowed me to increase the defense of my shield from 50% to 100%. This meant my buckler now offered a very solid 12 points of defense. I grinned, satisfied with the result, and then quickly glanced over my stats.

  STAT SCREEN

  NAME: SHIELDFATHER

  RACE: VAINAR

  CLASS: IRON TOWER WARRIOR

  LEVEL: 8

  DEFENSE: 25

  ATTACK: 15

  HEALTH: 220 (+120)

  STRENGTH: 15 [+3 from race modifier]

  CONSTITUTION: 18 [+5 from race modifier]

  AGILITY: 9

  INTELLECT: 5

  FIRE RESISTANCE: +60

  COLD RESISTANCE: -40

  EXPERIENCE: 32/480 TO LEVEL 9

  My defense skill had increased significantly with level 8, and I had no doubt in my mind that the following night would be all that much easier for it. My cold resistance was slowly building up too, though it still took all my resolve not to shake most of the time. Luckily there was ample killing around this place to keep me warm.

  “Anyway,” Bleff yawned, “Let’s get some shuteye, Shieldfather.”

  I looked up at the keep one more time, trying to see if I could gauge this Lord Edgemere peeking through one of the openings on the upper floors, but it was in vain. There was a shroud of unease about that place and despite the rewards, I was looking forward to leaving Roterwoods as soon as possible.

  On our way back up the stairs and to our bedroom, we found Zandalee standing in the hallway as if waiting for us. Her eyes were red and her face puffy.

  “You two,” she said, then opened the door next to ours and beckoned us inside. Bleff gave me a quizzical look and I shrugged, following the gnome’s call. She shut the door behind us and put her hands on her tiny hips.

  “You need to help me get Threelegs and Hartar out of there. I’m not leaving this rotten place until I get them back.”

  “I was assured by the Lord Confessor that Threeleg’s interrogation would be fair and just, gnome. You mustn’t worry—”

  “Are you that thick-skulled? You think anyone ever leaves the interrogation chamber? I’ve been here for four days now and I never saw anyone leave!”

  “Just because he’s foul-looking, has little teeth, a terrible breath, and a demon’s hunch, doesn’t mean he’s evil. Look at Bleff.”

  “Yeah!” Bleff agreed.

  “Listen to me,” Zandalee continued. “That bastard confessor promised us a great deal of rewards if we were to stay for a week. The first night we were here there was another adventurer called Jibbers with us. He was called a coward the next morning. Then it was Hartar the day after, now Threelegs. Who do you think comes next?”

  “You?” Bleff asked.

  “Or you!” she snapped. “I don’t know what they do with people inside that keep, but it isn’t anything good. Threelegs and I were coming up with a plan and when we saw you two arrive, I knew we could use you somehow, but I wasn’t sure how. Not yet. Now I know. We need to sneak into the keep when the horde begins its attack—”

  “I will be at the wall when the horde arrives, warlock. There is no other place for me in this world or any other. That said, there might be something to your words. This town fills me with unease, I must say.”

  I looked through the window in Zandalee’s room and saw a small flock of black birds perched on a tree. They all seemed to look in my direction somehow.

  “However, all you have are empty accusations. Let us have one more night here and I will make a fair judgment afterward.”

  “There won’t be an after!” she snapped and glared at me for a long moment, but then drove her face into her hands and sobbed. Bleff and I looked at each other before the goblin landed a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’ll be fine. Shieldfather is here, he’ll sort it all out. Trust me.”

  She pushed his hand away and looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “I’ll do it myself then. Just go.”

  “One more night,” I said, raising my voice. “Let me teach these people how to defend themselves and I’ll do everything I can to free Threelegs. I promise.”

  Zandalee looked at me with her big, purple eyes and I knew there was no trust in those.

  “You’ll see,” I said, getting up. “Bleff, let us rest and you should too, warlock. Tomorrow you will see your friends again.”

  The gnome said nothing, and I understood why. I closed the door behind us and breathed out slowly.

  “What is justice in this world, Bleff?”

  “What’s justice? I don’t know. Look at me, Shieldfather. If there was justice, would I really look like this?”

  I thought on it, I thought on his cowardice, and his occasional, mostly accidental heroics. Then I thought about the inevitable tears that would follow the truth were I to utter it.

  “The Gods give and take as they see fit. Let us rest.”

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