Mark of the fated a litr.., p.21
Mark of the Fated: A LitRPG Adventure, page 21
+ 2 ability points to Melee
+ 3 Wisdom
+ 3 Charisma
Holy Shield (Level 1)
Stoicism
There were further skills and spells that were locked until higher levels of paladinhood. I reread the class information and looked up at Bart. “Do you think it suits me, though? It’s not too… I dunno… pretentious?”
“Mark, I think the class was made for you. A warrior who fights for the weak. A peerless advocate for the side of good. What better choice is there?”
“A fireball wielding archmage?” I suggested.
“Could you really picture yourself in a dress?”
“They’re called robes,” I argued. “but probably not. It’s just lobbing flaming things from a distance worked out pretty well in the tutorial.”
“Against a few rats and spiders. And even some of those encounters weren’t stellar.”
“Give me a break! I was using wall torches. I bet the mana created lava balls would cause some mayhem.” I pew-pewed a couple towards Bart and he glowered at me, unimpressed.
“Are you changing your mind again?” he asked.
Was I?
“No. I feel pretty happy with a goody two-shoes. If I get overrun by enemies, at least I’ll have time to lament my choices as they try and get through my heavy armour to the soft bits beneath.”
“That’s the spirit! So…?”
I gave it one final thought. I’d loved the class throughout my gaming life. Crushing evil with divine fury. Opening my character tab, I pulled open the classes and clicked it before I could change my mind. A message popped up.
This choice is final. Are you sure you would like to pick – Paladin?
“Gah!” The confirmation question opened up the doubts again. “Bart, is there a way to undo the choice?”
“No.”
Damn! I knew that would be his answer. “Maybe I should wait a bit longer.”
“That’s not what you were saying a moment ago.”
I groaned. “Can you speak to your bosses? Add in a respec for pay option?”
“I doubt they would listen.”
“Damnit, Bart. You’re meant to help me.”
“This whole thing is about you helping yourselves. Picking for you would defeat the object, no?”
“No!” I blurted. “Picking for me would be awesome.”
“If you are in doubt, leave it. You’re not going anywhere, are you?” Bart chuckled.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Funny, aren’t you? Have they introduced comedy clubs in your sphere yet?”
“You think I could make it on stage?” Bart gushed.
“Yeah! If you were there to sweep it.”
Bart’s smile faded. “I think I may have been hasty in saving your wretched species. I might petition to change our decision.”
“You need to grow a thick skin if you want to make it in showbiz, Bart, my son! It’s a cutthroat business and you’re always going to get a heckler or two.”
“Heckler?” his face dulled as he searched his memory. “As in the gun? That seems very dangerous in a confined setting.”
“Heckler, as in a no good arsehole who’s only goal is to trip you up and make you feel foolish.”
“I see,” he mused.
Do it now!
I did, and clicked accept on my choice. The momentary distraction of the conversation had helped. The screen faded and a swirling aura of light began to weave its way around me. A series of holy symbols formed within the golden glow and drifted towards me. I cringed, waiting for any pain they might bring. As they diffused through my skin, I felt nothing. At all. No righteousness. No divine wisdom or power.
“What gives? I was expecting to hear angels singing and shit like that?”
“They’re probably not singing because you use words like shit and fuck.”
“Whoa! Ok, censor police, I’ll come quietly. At least I don’t drop C bombs.” He made a solid point, though. I was now dedicated to a higher calling. Using casual profanity was fine when you were nearing destitution in the real world, but if I expected to inspire others to fight the impending invasion, I needed to rein it in. That would suck hard.
“Do you feel satisfied with your choice?” asked Bart.
I was overjoyed to have an immediate answer. “Yes.” It did feel good. My stealth days were largely behind me until I could allocate enough points to counteract the armour I would need. I might’ve be able to sneak up on a few enemies with chronic hearing difficulties, but the vast majority would hear me clanking along well before my blade got anywhere near their throats. There was always the option of gear switching to a lighter armour set if it was worth the hassle.
“I’m glad to hear that.”
“Is there anything you can tell me now? Anything to help?”
“I can tell you there’s someone coming,” he replied, vanishing.
At first I didn’t hear anything. Moving to the door, I pressed my ear to the wood and finally heard low, muffled voices approaching. Some of the other prisoners began to wail and moan, begging for food and water. A crack of club on the cells stilled the complaints as the footsteps reached me. Whatever held the door secure was removed and the dark wood swung inwards. The woman who stood waiting was as awesome a sight as I had ever seen. I couldn’t fully make out her face as she stood taller than the lintel. Her skin was heavily tattooed in red where I could see it around her leather armour. There was none of the intricate needle artwork of my world. The images were crude, depicting scenes of battle like a living tapestry.
Two of the weapons etched on her skin hung from her belt. Twin battleaxes, the blades crafted from a dark stone. She ducked and peered at me through the opening, the tattoos covering her face too. Blonde hair hung over her shoulders, tied tightly against her scalp in plaits.
I’d expected her voice to be deep and guttural. What came out was melodic and pleasant. “Where did you get the torch?”
Shit! I’d forgotten my little burning comfort blanket.
“Er, it was already here?” I offered by way of explanation.
Her male companion stepped forward. “Take him,” he ordered. “We’ll get to the truth in the chamber.”
Two burly prison guards slipped around them and grabbed me. I could’ve fought back and felt confident in my chances. The swirling symbols of my class choice and their meaning stayed my hand. This would be resolved through calm discussion and logic, not violence.
I let them drag me away.
Chapter 27
This Little Piggy
When he’d said chamber, I’d assumed it was some kind of meeting room. When I saw what awaited me I began to buck and thrash, almost summoning my familiars in panic. It was like something out of the Spanish Inquisition; they had the whole kit and caboodle. A rack, its ropes crusted with dark stains from the wrists and ankles of previous victims. An iron maiden stood in the corner, the door open and inviting. The rusty spikes within, not so much. The third device made my butt clench. The Judas Cradle had been explained by a particularly eager history teacher in all its glory. Ropes hung from hooks in the ceiling, ready to lower my weight onto the pointed tip of the triangular metal below. From there the torturers would add more weights to the poor fucker who was sat astride the device, pulling him down harder and harder. Let’s just say it would hurt worse than a strong vindaloo.
“Sit him down,” said the man, whose character tab identified him as Rendel.
If they’d moved me anywhere near the butt ripper, I would’ve flipped my shit and drowned them in rats. To my eternal relief, the tattooed woman sat me in a relatively normal chair with only leather straps setting it aside from those around the nearby guard’s table.
“I normally like to get to know a lady before I let them tie me up.”
The woman grunted as they lashed me tightly. Rendel moved to the nearby bench, picking through dirty blades, thumb screws, and other shocking implements. I looked to the lady, and a look of sad resignation passed over her face.
“Take this,” Rendel ordered, handing her a hammer.
“How about we get to know each other a bit?” My voice squeaked a little as she reluctantly took it.
“I’m sorry, but I have to do this.”
“No, you don’t. We can talk and I’ll answer your questions!”
“The marshal has ordered it. I don’t have a choice.” She looked to the guards. “Take off his shoes.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. My feet are cold.”
I tried to resist by bunching my toes, but the brutes ripped my moccasins off and tossed them in the corner. I’m not embarrassed to say I started to shit myself. Figuratively, not literally. Rendel was licking his lips in anticipation of the pain to come.
“I’m Mark, it’s nice to meet you.” My attempt to offer a hand was thwarted by the thick straps securing my wrists.
“I’m Sunlith. My friends call me Sun. I’m sorry about this, Mark. It’s nothing personal.”
“Of course it’s personal! You’re going to hit me!”
She shook her head as she knelt at my feet, the reluctance plain in her downcast eyes. “Not because I want to. You’re not the only one who has been in that chair.” The haunted look in her eyes told me her own time under questioning hadn’t been all that long ago. It was at that point I noticed the partly regrown nails on her fingers, and the three missing toes, two on her left foot, one on her right.
“You do know that any information obtained under torture can’t be relied upon?”
“I know that. The marshal does not.”
“The person being hurt will say anything to get the pain to stop!”
“Indeed they will,” she said, offering me a leather bound bit to bite on. “It helps,” she added, knowingly.
“What would help even more is if you just asked your questions and believe my answers.”
“Stop your carping, boy,” grumbled Rendel. “You bleat worse than a teenage farmhand.”
I turned to glower at the torturer, despite my fear. “We’re going to have a falling out if you keep talking shit to me.”
Sun tried to show her compassion by patting my leg. “The marshal has ordered it. Finneus would take great pleasure in punishing me if I don’t comply.”
I couldn’t believe that this powerful looking woman was scared of the cavalry master, or any man for that matter. Her hidden character sheet told me of her combat prowess. “You could just say you hurt me and I’ll play along. I’ll convince the marshal of my motives, if only I could see him.”
Sun’s bereft eyes pleaded with me. “Please don’t make this any harder.”
Rendel started to laugh. “The rumours I’ve heard had you taking down two orc raiding parties and a warg pack.”
“I got lucky with the first and the second group captured me. It was only Romund and the villagers who saved me. We killed the wargs by luck more than anything.”
Sun’s face pinched when I spoke about killing the wargs, but I was more worried about the massive lump of black iron in her hand.
“They say your timing is too fortuitous,” continued Rendel. “Hence why the marshal wants you questioned.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“You already know that these are dark times,” explained Rendel. “The wolves are at the door so to speak. This land is beset on all sides. Each attack takes another bite from the failing body of Kherrash. Soon, she will perish.”
I turned to the woman. “And where do you fit into all of this? You don’t look like a native?”
She sighed. “I owe a debt to these people, and the marshal himself. I promised I would help in any way I could, otherwise I wouldn’t be here.” She looked around the chamber in disgust. “Especially here.”
The hammer was perilously close to my toes and I winced every time Sun’s arm moved. “That’s why I’m here too! To fight! To save the same people! Just let me prove it to you!”
“The marshal needs answers first,” she replied, miserably. “Wounds will heal, you can trust me on that.”
“I’d rather just answer your questions without the pain.”
Rendel burst out laughing. “Where is your courage, mighty slayer?”
“In my other trousers.”
“So it seems,” he replied, mockingly. His face became stone. “From where do you hail, traveller?”
“Brighton. A town in England.”
“You lie. There is no such land. From where do you hail?” he repeated, nodding at Sun.
She raised the weapon, and I closed my eyes, awaiting the pain. After a couple of seconds, I heard the tool hit the ground.
“I can’t,” she said, standing up. “What he says is the truth, I can sense it.”
Rendel pushed her aside and grabbed the hammer.
“I asked from where do you hail?” Rendel repeated, raising the weapon.
“Answer him, Mark!” Sun snapped, almost begging in her tone.
“England!” I growled through gritted teeth.
I could see his muscles tense, ready to strike. I tensed too, ready for the agony.
“Hold!”
My eyes snapped open to see Finneus standing at the door. “You don’t need to torture me. I’m not a spy.”
“You may not be a spy, but you are something. I’ve spoken to Romund and some of the villagers. Are their tales true?”
“That I clubbed a few orcs to death? Yeah, that’s true.”
“I’m talking about your dark powers. Your… necromantic powers.”
Sun looked at me in a different light and backed up a pace. Rendel scurried away as if I was afflicted with the plague.
“I don’t have necromantic powers.” Which was true. Resurrection was something pure. A chance to restore life. Necromancy was the twisting of death for nefarious ends.
“Then how do you explain the dead child who is now very much alive.”
I was surrounded by hostiles and I wasn’t about to spill my secrets to them. It wouldn’t just be Gutrender who would want to see my insides and study them.
Finneus grew angry. “I asked you a question!”
“And I don’t have an answer, so do your worst! I regret ever coming here to help you people.” I fixed my gaze on one of the torches and prepared myself. Unlike my own, the wick was made from a splayed branch packed with dried hay. The embers flickered as they fell.
“Finneus?” asked Rendel uncertainly, seeking an order.
The commander huffed. “The marshal wants the questioning… paused. For now. Take him back to his cell. I’ll see which way the marshal’s mood is blowing once he’s had time to think. He may just decide to put him to death and be done with it. A spy is one thing. If the tales are true though, he may be something much worse.” With a final snort he swept out of the room.
“Release him,” ordered Rendel.
“Can I at least get my shoes?” I muttered as the straps were loosened.
To my surprise, Sun herself collected them. The two no-names dragged me down the passage back to my cell. Rendel had beat a hasty retreat as soon as we’d left the chamber, the word necromancer ringing in his head no doubt. As we made our way back, Sun addressed them as Scab and Brin. The first’s name was apt considering he was a veritable walking sore. I slumped inside the cell and crawled into the corner. Sun followed and laid my shoes down carefully just inside the door.
“I’ll get you some water and cloth to wash before you see the marshal,” she said, locking me in.
How could I possibly convince people that I was no threat when their only method of lie detection was bodily harm? I doubted they had polygraphs without electricity to run the machines. “To hell with it. Let them sort their own shit out.” Summoning another torch to replace the one they’d stolen, I sat and took stock of my situation. Maybe my decision to look for allies had been a mistake. If that was the case, then why did I have reputation tabs for various factions? I figured it best to let them do their worst and if that meant death, then my second attempt would keep me well away from any form of authority.
“You’re crazy,” I said to myself.
There I was thinking about being executed without so much as a care in the world. The pain would be bad enough. The humiliation slightly worse, considering I’d come to help. It was the unknown price to pay that eventually had me rattled enough to start looking for a way out. I had no doubt that by fighting my way free it would burn any bridges that might be maintained with the humans of the land. I’d only be confirming their suspicions, not that they weren’t deserving of my wrath. I was deep below ground with no knowledge of tunnelling. If I tried to go all Shawshank I’d end up buried by tonnes of earth before I ever got to the shitter pipe. Not that castles like this had shitter pipes. More like holes that protruded over the outside wall.
What options did that leave? Smashing the door in and making a break for it through a heavily patrolled garrison. That was after escaping the keep, then the inner wall, then the outer wall, and the moats. I’d end up cut to pieces or Boromir’d with arrows before I got close to freedom.
“I could seduce Sun and schmooze my way out?”
With the way she’d gaped at me after Finneus’s words, I’d have been better off trying it with one of the greasy, filth encrusted jailers. They just weren’t my normal type. Washing at least once a month was a non-negotiable part of my dating preferences.
I heard the beat of feet on the stone outside and the door once again swung open. Sun was carrying a bowl of warm water and a small stack of pristine cloths.
“Thanks.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, avoiding eye contact.
I didn’t reply, and she took this to be a spurning of her apology.
The water was tossed inside the cell and the door slammed shut without another word. I felt like a complete dick that I hadn’t at least acknowledged the fact that she had refused the order.
“They were going to hit you, remember,” I reminded myself as I started to mop up the spillage.
I took the uninterrupted time to open up the skill trees and added another point each in Evasion and Frenzy in Combat, bringing them both up to level 3. I now had four spare points waiting in Melee, so I scrolled through to it and studied the choices.
