NOVEL NEXT Chapter 106: Tragedy
––––––
Mau_dev: While I'm riffing on AI: No, most of you won't meet the AI. They're for edge cases and problem children. Double my memory budget, then we'll talk.
––––––
Friday, November 22nd, 2090, about 3:00 pm MST, Montana City
"It isn't like a traditional RPG, and I think that's what throws Hiram off," Gordon explained. "He doesn't know what to expect. He deigned to ask what was so special about my character that people were so eager to watch my exploits and . . . I couldn't tell him in a way he seemed to think was meaningful."
"It's completely different."
Gordon shrugged. "It is and it isn't. Let's see if I can find an example."
The battlefield was quiet now, save for the soft, wet sounds of Karen wiping gore off her saber with practiced efficiency. Gordon, crouched beside a fallen ghoul, turned a battered reload tool over in his hand like it was treasure, prodding it with the tip of his Bowie until the prongs were all straight.
"This," he said, holding the dented piece of tin up in the firelight, his voice edged with dry satisfaction, "is my time stop. I get a free round of action—courtesy of taking six seconds to load this in advance."
Karen didn't even look up, her expression unimpressed as she scrubbed at her blade. "My word. Six whole seconds?"
He glanced at her sideways. "You have my permission to swoon. Do you see what I mean? It's a time saving mechanic. Same thing to him. Not impressive."
Karen finally looked up, her eyes sparkling with faux reverence. "I have to say I was very impressed."
She stood up, sliding her cleaned saber into its sheath with a sharp shhink before hefting her other saber—the one still glistening red. She struck a theatrical pose, mimicking his earlier bravado.
"This," she declared dramatically, echoing him, "is my haste. I get a second attack per round, and all I had to do was learn to fight left-handed."
Gordon opened his mouth to argue but paused, his eyes flicking between her twin blades. He had to admit she had a point. And hers might, grudgingly, be cooler.
"That's. . . fair," he muttered, straightening up and dusting his coat off.
Karen grinned, smug. "Admit it, cowboy. You're impressed."
He looked at her, deadpan. "Swooning."
She snorted, flipping the saber playfully before sliding it into her belt.
The party had stopped for the night. Because, apparently, that's how much Gordon had missed–the whole first day of caravaning. A necromancer fight. Slavery. Poetry.
He was gratified to discover that Claire had, in his absence, purchased replacement weapons for Karen and himself. That would help.
The monastery was Spartan—basic. Even the bricks seemed austere, though that was just the terracotta, darkened beneath the starlit sky. Above, the heavens blazed with stars, none of them bright enough to fully illuminate the structure's silhouette against its backdrop of weeping blossom trees.
The porter who met them—clearly a monk himself—emerged with a paper lantern, which he hung from the end of a pike-length pole set into a shallow divot at the courtyard's center. By its dim light, they could just barely manage to pack their belongings.
The prisoner transport arrived with a clatter and a rattle. Inside, the men and women groaned in relief, grateful for even the momentary end to the jolting ride. The guards hopped off and stretched. Of the six who remained, none looked especially battle-hardened—this was why they'd run with extra auxiliaries in the first place. And it was why the player's "dream team" could still, at this point, end the caravan arc in total failure. Just six left. All it would take was another ambush, and they'd have no escort at all.
So they decided to wait until morning.
The monks were subdued in their relief and generosity. Still, the supplies were unloaded, carefully measured, logged in books, and tallied against the backs of bills. Eventually, one of the monks approached Gordon and presented him with a small purse—the party's cut from the first leg of the caravan journey. It was modest, and probably didn't cover what Karen had spent on food, or what Claire had spent re-equipping Gordon and Claire, but it was something.
Gordon held up the coin pouch and looked around the group. "We went on a quest with Claire and got loot from it."
"Bite me," she said.
The guards were setting up their tents—small, conical things—arrayed in a circle around the prisoner wagon. The wagon itself was locked and left undisturbed, as though no one really wanted to deal with it. Humane? Not exactly.
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
"Alright," Gordon said. "Now that we've got a prisoner transport, how are we going to handle it so we don't look like just. . . heartless, terrible people on stream?"
She sighed. "I think it's lose-lose. If we work with the slaves—try to make their lives better—we're still leaving them in chains. And viewers'll know that. If we free them? We lose the contract, fail the quest, and now we've committed a crime. Then we've got to deal with being outlaws, which is a long and stupid questline. Assuming we don't actually end up in court."
"I'm not playing for that," she added, more quietly.
"So we're already in for a penny," Gordon said. "Guess that means we're in for a pound."
"We can pay for some food for them," Gordon said. "It's cheap."
"Can be cheap," Claire muttered.
The coach—for now reduced to just that, a coach—had been detached from its horses. The animals were led off for a rubdown, and even the nobleman himself—Mercutio—was out in the yard, helping to rub down his tired horse's legs.
They certainly spent a lot of time out there in the courtyard. When they finally turned in, they were ready to sleep. Sleep in Ghostlands was much like blacking out and waking up again—very quick.
Mercutio was walking back and forth, pacing.
"I think I'll keep an eye on him tonight," Gordon said.
"You and me both," said Karen.
The night passed slowly—and quickly too, in the strange way time compressed on Ghostlands' day-night cycle.
It happened after midnight. The coach door creaked open. A slim, well-dressed figure stepped out and moved purposefully into the yard.
There were two guards on duty—both from the prisoner transport—and both had stationed themselves on the same side of the courtyard as Mercutio's carriage. Perhaps they thought they were flattering him by keeping close, offering him extra protection. Apparently, it didn't work.
He struck fast.
A clean, decisive blow to the back of the first guard's head with the hilt of his rapier. Karen and Gordon both stiffened.
Now that's interesting, Gordon thought.
The second guard had just enough time to begin drawing his sword—then Mercutio kicked him hard in the head as he rose. The nobleman moved beside him and brought the hilt down again, and again, until the man went still.
It had been surprisingly quiet.
The jingle of keys was subtle. The noble's next move—to the side of the prisoner transport—was not.
"Hang on," Gordon said.
Karen had already begun preparing for action.
"Let the man cook," he added.
The back of the prisoner transport creaked open. It was relatively quiet.
And then it all went to hell.
A slight girl—clad in the tattered clothing of a prisoner long-exposed to the elements—stepped down from the transport. Mercutio, standing just beside her, unfurled a scroll with a flourish.
"She was one of the slaves the whole time," Karen said softly, wonderingly.
Mercutio dropped to one knee and began to read. He gestured with dramatic flair, but his words were too quiet to catch. The girl squealed—that they heard clearly—and leapt into his arms.
He caught her, spun her like a dancer. The two were clearly, unmistakably, deliriously happy.
But she had been very loud.
Four guards emerged from their tents, weapons drawn and eyes searching. The situation turned on a hinge.
"No," Gordon breathed. It was too dark, too chaotic to risk a shot. He started running.
Karen followed fast and low, her movements sharp and purposeful. She hadn't been kidding all those years ago when she said she was going to be a pirate ninja—a ninja who used pirate swords.
The happy couple broke apart. The girl—Eunice, presumably—turned to flee.
It happened fast.
One guard raised a crossbow. Mercutio stepped in front of her with a shout.
He crumpled, falling to his knees.
Then chaos. The guards weren't just firing at Eunice—they were opening fire on the entire prisoner transport.
"This won't count for much at this point," Gordon muttered, "but. . ."
He snapped off a volley. Four guards fell before they could reload.
Silence. Just the sound of Eunice sobbing in the darkness, and the creak of dying breath.
They looked down at the nobleman.
"I can't believe she liked it," Karen said, almost laughing. She reached down and plucked the scroll from Mercutio's slack fingers. "Like seriously. Read this, Gordon. It was criminal."
He unrolled it. Sighed.
"I think I know what happened," he told her.
And read aloud:
There isn't much that rhymes with Eunice—
Though I think of her a lot.
And our love displays a trueness
That most other loves do not.
I had aspired to write a sonnet
Full of vim and fiery hell,
But I'm told to rethink on it—
And I think it's just as well.
For the core of things is simple,
And that's whether we shall be.
If you wanted—if you'd try to—
Come and spend a life with me?
"Really?" Asked Karen. "That wasn't even . . . good."
Gordon didn't look up from the scroll. "I think he took your feedback into consideration."
She paused.
"I'd say that changing course when someone shows you you're wrong is. . . very good indeed."
Karen looked away, frowning.
"Anyway," Gordon said, surveying what was left of the caravan, "I guess it's just us and the monks now. Should be trivial to finish up at this point. Who's game to push till midnight and get it done?"