Steel and moonshine book.., p.1
Steel and Moonshine: Book 3, page 1
Contents
PREVIOUSLY ON
CHAPTER 1: HANGING IN THERE
CHAPTER 2: RUNNER BOY
CHAPTER 3: BETTER PAY
CHAPTER 4: JERRY’S BREWERY
CHAPTER 5: BASEMENTS
CHAPTER 6: PLACE OF DANCE
CHAPTER 7: NO HALAVEE
CHAPTER 8: WHALE EXCREMENT
CHAPTER 9: MUDBALL
CHAPTER 10: SONG OF JOURNEY
CHAPTER 11: BAREFOOT
CHAPTER 12: OLD MAN
CHAPTER 13: GOBLINS EVERYWHERE
CHAPTER 14: OF DROW AND DRUIDS
CHAPTER 15: HE WHO RIDES WITH DARKNESS
CHAPTER 16: WHERE MAGES RULE
CHAPTER 17: THE BULL OF SANKTA VARATH
CHAPTER 18: KOREMAN
CHAPTER 19: SPLINTERS
CHAPTER 20: COCKTAIL VOUCHERS
CHAPTER 21: THE KIND OF GUY
CHAPTER 22: DECISIONS
CHAPTER 23: EMBERS OF THE PAST
CHAPTER 24: GODS AND WARS
CHAPTER 25: ORC FOR HIRE
CHAPTER 26: PILGRIMAGE
CHAPTER 27: SPEAK TO US OF YOUR SINS
CHAPTER 28: BLOWN UP
CHAPTER 29: FEAR
CHAPTER 30: EVERDARK
CHAPTER 31: RETURNAL
CHAPTER 32: THE DEAL
CHAPTER 33: VIOLENCE
CHAPTER 34: DARK MATTERS
CHAPTER 35: NEVER A DONE DEAL
CHAPTER 36: SHATRA’LA
CHAPTER 37: HISTORY ON REPEAT
CHAPTER 38: WHISPERS
EPILOGUE
THE LITRPG COMMUNITY
MORE LITRPG COMMUNITIES
STEEL AND MOONSHINE
BOOK 3
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CASSIUS LANGE & NED CASTOR
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PREVIOUSLY ON
STEEL AND MOONSHINE
It’s easy enough to bury a problem in your backyard. Or so Frank thought. Not much time had passed before Hector, the leader of the bounty hunters came knocking again.
But that was only half of it. The city had taken notice of the Midnights’ rather frequent tendency to blow things up. A warning was issued by the son of the Lord Watcher. Unless Frank proclaimed the Midnight Bounties a family business and officialized his feud with the bounty hunters, he’d be looking at some serious dungeon time. And not the fun kind, either.
So, the Midnights were created. A family headed by Frank, no-longer-Gerber, Midnight, and his trusty entourage of foulmouthed heroes. Before they could face Hector and his bounty hunters, there was business to take care of. The orcs, envious of the dwarves having their own trophy, asked for the head of the harbin witch, a terrifying creature living off orcs in the wilds. It took a few well-placed bolts from Rot, some fiery hell from Tyfus, and Frank’s trusty sword to hang the witch’s head in the club.
With the orcs barely taken care of, another group begged for their own…special kind of entertainment. The goblins of Sankta Varath wanted to throw a party of their own that was called a Sinka. It included, but wasn’t limited to, golden powder, freshly squeezed milk, and things better not remembered. Frank indulged the goblins as he had done with the other races, and the payoff was more than enough to build up the Midnight Bounties even further.
And then the Syndicate came calling. The Midnight Bounties had grown respectable enough…well, perhaps not respectable, but certainly loud enough not to be ignored any further.
Frank met with the biggest names in the business at a meeting in the Lusty Lion, the best and richest club in town. There he was met with William ‘Redball’ Rogers, the head of the Syndicate, who extended a welcoming hand to Frank together with a nice sack of gold. Another member of the Syndicate was just as accommodating if not more, Lady Ren. Frank and the wealthy aristocrat spent an evening together in William’s club, an evening Frank would remember whether he wanted to or not.
All good things have to come to an end, and so did Frank’s spree of luck. A sudden, violent raid hit the Midnight Bounties, and though luckily nobody was hurt and the attackers were killed, Frank and the others were shaken. There was only one man who could have done it, Frank thought. And that man was Hector, the leader of the Bounty Hunters Guild.
Blinded by rage and certain of the perpetrator, Frank and Tyfus attacked the guild with everything they had. Bounty hunters died in the dozens, the headquarters was engulfed in flames, and Hector died by Frank’s sword. His last words were a pleading message, a truth that “It wasn’t him.”
With his death, Frank finally reached level 60.
A list of new classes was offered, all exciting and powerful in their own way, but Frank set his eyes on something unique called a spellmonger. A class that combined his martial prowess and his warlock class into one unified powerhouse.
The demonic voices seemed very pleased with the choice, which was a reason for concern, but Frank took it in stride as he always did.
The club was doing better than ever before, the money was rolling in, and the guests were happy. What’s more, the staff was busier than ever before. Frank sported new gear, most prominently Mercy, a deadly two-handed sword gifted to him, albeit somewhat reluctantly, by the late Hector. Together with a brand new and very powerful class, the spellmonger was on a path of success.
Despite this, Frank’s mind was plagued with Hector’s last words. The Bounty Hunters Guild was burnt to the ground, its members and leader dead or scattered, and yet his family wasn’t safe. Someone led him on, someone tricked him, someone who wanted to harm the Midnights and Frank…
Well, Frank wasn’t going to sit on his ass. He’d find out and once he did, he’d give his new spells and abilities a chance to shine.
CHAPTER 1: HANGING IN THERE
Sankta Varath looked almost peaceful on a warm spring Sunday afternoon. Early merrybloom flowers spread their white petals between slits in the cobblestone. Birds chirped happily on the clay rooftops, and even the sullen faces of the pilgrims dotting the corners of the street seemed…Well, less sullen. Sankta Varath was bathed in yellow sunlight shedding the city into an eventless but comforting drowsiness.
I felt content, though I knew it had to do with the four whiskeys I had before we made our way to Queen’s Street for the weekly hangings. If it weren’t for Fey and Spif’s incessant pleading, I would never have spent my only free day watching a couple of shmucks shitting themselves as they choked to death. But here I was.
You can’t put a price on quality family time.
“I can’t believe you’ve never seen a hanging,” Pearl, who joined us along with Wort, said.
“It is a brutish thing,” Wort muttered; the bull-man came along for protection, though honestly, he was the only one I worried about. Despite his appearance, the fautaur had a kind heart, and who knew how he’d react?
“I don’t mean you; I meant Fey and Spif. I know you cow-people don’t like killing.”
“Our people mostly use fire,” Fey said, “And we call it the Cleansing. I always thought hangings were the more civilized way. At least they don’t scream that long.”
“Why don’t your people just use cold steel? It would be quicker and less painful,” Wort said with a frown that accompanied him since we’d left the Ashpit.
“You’ve got to deserve the sword,” I said, “Besides, you can’t make bets on who lasts the longest in a beheading.”
Wort shot me a worried gaze.
“You bet on—”
A small explosion rocked the street. I pushed Spif behind me with one arm and grabbed for the hilt of the Duke with the other. Wort grunted loudly, and Pearl grabbed for her daggers.
Wood and stone burst out of the shop before us, covering the street in thick smoke and flying debris. A masked gnome shot out of a hole that seconds ago was a door. Two armed goblins followed suit, babbling hectically.
“Split up!” the gnome roared.
A host of blackhelms rushed to intercept the three tiny robbers from the other end of the street. Their armored boots clanked against the cobbled street.
“Grab them!” One of the watchmen yelled.
I removed my hand from the hilt of my sword and crossed my arms. The gnome looked briefly up at me, a vaultpack slung over his shoulder. He winked and smiled, then brought his hands together and pointed them at the incoming blackhelms.
“Watch out! Magic!” the guard officer yelled, taking cover.
A green light shot from the gnome’s hands and merged into a small vortex in the middle of the road. A small green portal opened there almost instantaneously.
The city watchmen peeked over a cart of wheat, where they’d quickly taken cover after hearing the word ‘magic’.
A giant bullfrog, the size of an orc, jumped out of the portal. For a short moment, it stood there, scanning its surroundings, then, closing its bulbous eyes on the sergeant, jumped up and landed on the cart, shattering it beneath its weight. One chunkier blackhelm was too slow to react and ate the bullfrog’s giant ass. The impact sent one of his boots flying.
“Run! Now!” the gnome yelled, and the three fun-sized thieves parted in different directions, disappearing into Sankta Varath’s endless meandering alleys.
“Master Frank,” Wort began, and I knew where it would end. “We can still catch them!”
Pearl snickered as she sheathed her daggers.
“Not our job, Wort,” I said.
The watchmen quickly surrounded the summoned creature with their weapons drawn. They engaged it as one from several angles, charging in with the aid of their officer’s battle cry. Just as they were about to slide their blades into the slimy skin of the creature, it disappeared into a puff of green smoke.
The officer, a sergeant of the watch from what I could see, sheathed his sword and hurried over to the flattened guardsman. Light magic surrounded his hands as he closed his eyes and lowered both hands on the man’s chest. Seconds later, the telltale glowing light of a healing spell covered him.
The bullfrog’s victim was still alive, after all. The sergeant wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed in relief. His eyes darted toward Wort and me as we passed them.
“Thanks for the help,” he said, spitting on the ground.
“Any time,” I said flatly and pulled Wort after me.
“They took everything!” the storeowner cried, coming out of the ruined shop. He was an older fellow in a torn overall stained with his own blood. His hair was still smoking from the explosion.
“My apologies, sir,” the sergeant said. “We’ll get them sooner or later.”
“Bah,” the man waved them away, then looked down the street to where the robbers had disappeared. Blackhelms never solved any crime in Sankta Varath; the watchmen’s promises meant squat; everyone knew as much.
“Happy?” The sergeant sneered at me.
“Who’s happy nowadays, pal?” I said and made my way down the street, leaving the blackhelms and the unfortunate shop owner to their plight.
“I’m happy,” Spif said in a half-whisper as if too afraid of my reaction.
I tossed his hair and smiled.
“Of course you are, you slutty little monster.”
Spif giggled and pranced like a child on its first day in the mines.
King Onameus’ Square was bustling with activity. The weekend hangings brought together poor and rich, dwarf and elf, and old and young in a rare moment of Sankta Varathian comradery.
The mighty white square had ample room for thousands of citizens who gathered, talked, drank, and ate from the many food stands dotting the Old King’s terrace. Mages employed by the city evoked fantastic illusions that reached toward the sky, colorful portrayals of Sankta Varath’s greatest warriors.
I was in a good mood, and even the fact there was an image of Commander Stein, among many others, didn’t manage to piss me off. That much...
Children frolicked among the masses carrying small spits with roast fairies dipped in honey. A group of gnomes scolded one of their own for wearing stilted boots, the accusation quite serious considering height was a touchy subject among their kind.
I stopped by a betting stand to put down a wager on who’d choke first. You didn’t know the name or race of the people getting executed, only the number. I picked number five because I always picked five, and the goblin happily took the bet. Pearl put down another gold on number one, but neither Wort nor Fey wanted to play.
“Grueling,” Wort said.
“They’ll hang whether I make money or not, Wort,” Pearl said nonchalantly, packing away her Vaultcoin. “Look, it’s about to begin.”
Two blackhelms walked onto the scaffold, and great applause roared across Onameus’ Square. Behind them, five prisoners walked onto the platform, each with their hands in chains and their heads covered in a burlap sack.
Following the prisoners, the King’s Executioner walked on stage, and two more blackhelms took up positions in the background where six King’s Guards stood in full silver and gold plate armor. I had seen the hangings turn sour more than once. I’d seen an orc fighter hang there for up to ten minutes before the executioner slid a blade into his heart to hurry it up. I’d seen mages who weren’t pacified properly burn half the scaffold and the guards with it, let alone well-leveled rogues who’d slip out the noose and disappear before anyone could react. But that was all part of the show and why people enjoyed the hangings so much.
The King’s Executioner raised his hands, asking for silence, and the audience accommodated the legendary showman. His name was Edgar Rainfill, a former soldier with a knack for entertainment as much as murder. He left the army shortly after I joined, and I only heard good things about him.
“Fellow citizens of Sankta Varath,” he said as a ray of sunlight dropped directly onto his slick black leather tunic. “What a beautiful day to hand out some justice! Can I get a…”
He grabbed his throat and pretended to choke, letting out a loud gurgling sound. The audience roared in laughter and then did the same. Thousands of voices pretended to choke while thousands more laughed.
It wasn’t a new joke by any means; he did it every other time. I always focused on the prisoners on stage, gauging their reactions while the masses entertained themselves. I’d seen many a prisoner piss himself at that very moment.
Pearl jabbed me with her elbow,
“Number five pissed himself; you’re losing, Lice.”
“Bah, maybe, but maybe he’ll be the one clinging the most to live. Have you thought about that?”
She snickered.
“Like that ever happens.”
She was right, though. The ones that pissed themselves early usually didn’t last too long.
Rainfill raised his hands again, and the laughter died down. He nodded toward the guards, and they ushered the five prisoners forward, then tied the nooses around their necks. All five were about equal height, meaning none were of the small or the very large races.
The King’s Executioner pulled the sack off the first man’s head, and we found a slater looking back at the audience, his eyes a burning yellow.
“Richter Saltz killed the captain of his ship and tried to escape into Shen’tar when a Steelheart galleon picked him up. He almost made it, ladies and gentlemen!”
The audience’s applause was mild but respectful.
“Any last words?”
The slater looked down at the crowd and frowned. He opened his mouth and decided against any last words, shaking his head.
“Doesn’t look like he’ll hold out for long,” I said, nudging Pearl.
“Look at number five; he’s shaking. I bet you a king’s head Saltz lasts longer than whoever five is.”
“Deal,” I said.
“Sometimes silence has more weight than words. I applaud that. Can we get a hand, ladies and gentlemen, for Mr. Saltz?” the executioner said.
A few hands clapped, and the executioner moved to the next offender.
Just as I assumed, the next prisoner was an orc. The broad shoulders were an easy tell. He was accused of theft, murder, arson, rape, and even treason. How one orc could do so much damage was beyond anyone present, but the scaffolds always had to have an orc present for some reason.
“Rise stronger!” the orc roared after Rainfill asked him about his last words. The audience applauded lazily. Orcs had the most boring last words.
“What does that mean?” Fey asked.
“It’s a common orc war cry. Nothing special about it,” I reassured her.
Myself? Less so. It wasn’t just a common war cry. It was an idea as old as their race—an idea Nergat brought to life that still simmered beneath the streets of Sankta Varath.
“I can’t see anything!” Spif complained, pulling me back from a dark place.
