Warlock- Reign of Blood Read online

  Warlock

  Reign of Blood

  Edwin McRae

  Edited by

  Rachel Rees

  To Madeline McRae for buying me an Atari 600XL upon which I played Wizard’s Crown.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  1

  Mark smelled the smoke, the blood, the sordid cocktail of destruction. He heard the crackling of the fires, the whimpers and the moans, and the rumbling creaking of a large wagon as it pulled away.

  He opened his eyes and found himself standing, swaying, on the main street of a devastated village. The burning buildings around him were familiar, their architecture somehow comfortable, as if he'd seen the style many times before. Mark didn't have time to ponder the strange combination of dislocation and familiarity. As the hulking wagon left the village, its contents a battered and despairing populous of former inhabitants, Mark was presented with a more immediate problem.

  The man was tall and lean. His skin was almost as grey as it was pink, and his chin and nose glared red with surly acne. Armor hugged his skinny body, a light weave of leather and chain, and he hefted a cruelly curved axe in his bloodied hands.

  "You're not one of them," he growled.

  Mark's hand crept instinctively to the sword sheathed at his belt. For the first time, he noticed the hardened leather armor encasing his own tender flesh, and the weight of a longsword on his hip. The leather-bound handle felt comfortable in his grip.

  You are skilled in Swordplay (Tier 1).

  You know how to parry, slash and thrust without doing yourself a mischief.

  The message floated across his vision, transparent enough that it didn't obscure his view of the warrior before him. He knew the font and style all too well. This was Reign of Blood although he didn't recognize exactly where in the game he was. The ground felt firmer beneath his boots as he stood a little straighter and smiled at the reassuring creak of his leather armor.

  "Something funny?" The man’s lips curled into a cruel smile, revealing a line of crooked, yellow teeth.

  Mark simply shook his head and drew his sword from its scabbard. His opponent’s sneer faded, replaced by the calm expression of a warrior about to do his job. With neither a warcry nor even a hiss to warn of his attack, the man lashed out at Mark with his axe. Mark parried the blow, spun on the balls of his feet, and brought his sword sweeping into his opponent's rib cage. At least, that's what he would have done had he still been in his Level 73 Dark Knight avatar with all of the sword proficiencies and superhuman attributes he’d earned over hundreds of hours of grinding in Reign of Blood. What actually happened was that the power of the man’s swing slammed into Mark’s block, drove the flat of his sword into his chest, and knocked him on his ass.

  The pimpled warrior didn't bother to gloat or taunt. He simply raised his axe over his head, ready to deliver a brutal coup de grâce. Feeling the sharp adrenaline rush of panic in his veins, Mark threw himself sideways, narrowly avoiding the axe blade that buried itself in the dirt where his head had been but a moment before.

  The warrior struggled for a moment to haul his weapon out of the dirt, an effort that gave Mark just enough time to lunge forward with his sword, aiming to execute a swift thrust through the man’s gut. At the last moment, the warrior twisted to one side and Mark's swordpoint scored a bloody line across his hip.

  You have dealt the Reiver Scout 1HP in damage.

  A paltry scratch!

  Mark willed the message away and mentally switched off combat notifications. The last thing he needed right now was the distraction of stats. He did his best to ignore the prickle of anxiety crawling through his chest and down his back. For whatever reason, he'd ended up here in a newbie avatar, and he was going to have to adjust to that, and fast, before he got an axeblade between the eyes.

  Ducking under the warrior’s next swing, Mark closed the distance between them, put all of his weight into his shoulder and ploughed into his opponent's chest. Mark grimaced at the pain of the impact, but to his relief the force was enough to knock the other man off his feet. He followed up by driving his swordpoint downwards, but not at the belly or chest, as Mark wasn't confident that his weapon would be able to penetrate the leather and chain of the man’s armor. Instead, he aimed for his opponent's upraised chin and neck. Stunned, the warrior tried to raise his axe to knock Mark’s sword aside, but the effort was too little, too late, and the sharpened steel sank into skin, sinew and jugular. The man’s blood was as red as Mark’s own as it spouted from his ravaged throat and choked him into a quivering, gurgling death.

  Congratulations!

  You have defeated a Level 1 Reiver Scout!

  Your XP reward = 10 XP

  A reiver? Mark had never heard of this kind of mob before, at least not in Reign of Blood. Perhaps he'd accidentally ended up in some sort of expansion, a DLC that he’d somehow missed. Then again, Mark really had no idea why he was here at all.

  He couldn't remember logging in. He’d gotten home from work, saturated because he’d forgotten to take his jacket. It had been an unusually shitty day, which was saying something when compared to most other days Mark could think of. He'd remembered seeing the mess, the wasteland of empty bottles, cigarettes, and McDonald's detritus that his flatmates had typically failed to clean up from the night before. The place stank, but no worse than he did that day. It was that wet human smell brewed up by heat and humidity. It had been a brutal summer, hotter than any on record. Everyone he talked to seemed to think that the weather had completely lost its mind.

  Hungry, he’d gone to the fridge, hoping to heat up his leftover spaghetti bolognese before taking a refreshing shower. The spaghetti was gone, the Tupperware container empty and sitting unwashed on the bench, and when he went to the shower, he discovered its floor covered in someone else's vomit. And no-one was around. They’d probably all gone out for more McDonald’s to soak up the last traces of their hangovers.

  Then there was the text from his ex-wife, reminding him that he’d missed last week's Economic Disparity payment. That might have been the last straw. Mark wasn't sure, as it felt to him as if the straw packet had been empty for a long time.

  If this had been unusual, a particularly deep ravine in the terrain of Mark's life, then he may have been able to shrug it all off and look forward to the time when he could evacuate from this miserable condition, find a new flat, surround himself with people he genuinely liked and respected, perhaps even get a job that didn't make him want to scream silently in the privacy of the supermarket toilet cubicle during his break. But Mark had found himself already standing at the bottom of that ravine, ankle-deep in a quagmire of bad choices, and looking up at the sheer cliffs. Even if he’d pos
sessed climbing gear, he could muster neither the energy nor the will to hammer in that first spike. He'd just wanted the mud to swallow him whole, to drag him down into soft, cloying oblivion.

  He remembered leaving the apartment, slamming the door behind him, and walking. Where to? He didn't remember. But it sure as hell wasn't here.

  Out of habit, he knelt down beside the reiver’s body, preparing to loot his opponent's corpse for all it was worth. It was just what you did, in Reign of Blood and in any other VRMMORPG he'd ever played. Kill, loot, level. Rinse and repeat. He was in the process of untying a small leather pouch from the reiver’s belt when a light cough caused him to look up.

  There were five of them, three women and two men, all of a similar height to the first reiver but much more solid, a chunky combination of muscle and fat wrapped tightly in chainmail armor. Each wore a spiked helm and carried either a stout mace or iron pike in their gauntleted hands. Mark had managed to take down one lightly-armored reiver scout, and it hadn't been easy. Against these five, he would last about as long as a pack of discounted sausages during BBQ season.

  While Mark and his would-be killers eyed each other, a nervous snort interrupted Mark's fateful considerations. A quick glance over his shoulder, a couple of fleeting mental calculations, and Mark was off, sprinting for the horse that stood tethered to the porch pole of a burning inn. He ignored the angry shouts behind him, and the jingle of chain as the reiver warriors attempted to pursue. They'd not carried a single projectile weapon between them, and given the weight of their armor, Mark was confident that he could reach and mount the horse before they got close enough to do anything about it.

  Breathing hard and deep to keep his anxious fingers from fumbling, he untied the reins from the pole, shoved his boot into the closest stirrup, and threw his other leg over the saddle as he quietly prayed that his noob avatar knew how to ride a horse.

  You are skilled in Horse Riding (Tier 1).

  While you might be the envy of many a ten year old girl, you also ride as well as one.

  He turned the horse’s head with the reins, made some clicking sounds in his throat that he hoped would inspire the animal into motion, and dug his heels into the animal’s sides for good measure. The horse responded by launching into a gallop that almost threw Mark from the saddle. Mark held on for dear life, hunkered down low over the horse's neck, and let the powerful animal carry him down the main street of the plundered village, out through the burning farmsteads, and into an expanse of grassy fields.

  The horse, at least, seemed to know where she was going, and whether spurred on by the fire that had so nearly consumed her, or by some sense of newfound loyalty born of Mark's Horse Riding skill, she kept up a steady pace until she clearly felt that they were safe from immediate harm. She slowed to a canter and then to a trot that allowed Mark to sit up straight in the saddle and survey his surroundings. Dense, shoulder-high grass. Forest, enveloping foothills and mountain slopes. Snow-capped peaks gleaming in the late afternoon light. Fluffy white clouds decorating a sky that was...

  Mark heard the arrow, even saw the blur of it out of the corner of his eye, but he simply wasn't fast enough to do anything about it. As the arrowhead punctured his throat, part of his brain wondered why it didn't hurt.

  The Garland Ranger has damaged you for 13 HP!

  HP: -2

  Death is imminent!

  That speculation was soon answered with Mark's next breath. The muscles in his neck convulsed as he gasped, unable to gain air, and the agony of that constriction was far beyond any case of sore throat that Mark had ever experienced. As blood poured down his windpipe, Mark coughed reflexively, a reaction that sent fresh spasms of agony through his neck and head. His hands went to the arrow shaft and feebly tried to pluck it from his skewered throat, but to no avail. His vision darkened, his oxygen-starved brain gave up any attempt at balance, and Mark toppled from the saddle, hitting the dirt in a limp heap.

  As she appeared out of the grass, the woman seemed to Mark as if she was standing at the end of a long, dark tunnel, her longbow still raised, an arrow nocked and leveled at his face. He raised a hand and managed a gurgle that was horribly similar to the sound the reiver scout had made before he expired under the point of Mark’s sword. And then everything, as it usually does upon death, went black.

  2

  Mark sat bolt upright, his hands around his throat. A quick exploration with his fingers revealed the merciful absence of the skewering arrow. He clambered to his feet and gave himself a speedy inspection. Leather armor, check. Sword in scabbard, check. Body fully intact, check.

  You died and respawned at your default Resurrection Point.

  Should you wish to change your Resurrection Point to another location, draw a pentagram on the ground and will that spot to be your place of respawn.

  Please note that you are currently wearing your default gear. Any additional equipment will be dropped upon death and can be acquired by NPCs.

  And one last thing. Reign of Fire promises the height of realism when it comes to injury and death. Frequent deaths can cause emotional trauma.

  Frequent deaths can cause emotional trauma? Mark noted that there was no mention of safety guards or admission of responsibility on the developer’s part there, and he couldn’t remember signing any sort of waiver. He’d experienced countless deaths of varying brutality in other VRMMORPGs, even in earlier versions of Reign of Fire, but nothing came close to the agony he’d just experienced. If anything, he was already traumatized.

  Since this is your first death in Reign of Blood you have been awarded some XP.

  XP reward = 10 XP

  Congratulations!

  You have reached Level 2 in the Warlock class.

  Progress to Level 3 = 20/50 XP

  You have earned 2 Attribute Points.

  AP can be used to improve your Body, Mind and Spirit scores.

  The notification faded from view, replaced with a vista of smouldering destruction. The biggest fires had died down, reducing the village’s buildings to smoking, blackened skeletons. The dead reiver scout was gone, yet there were plenty of other corpses scattered about, those few unfortunates who had attempted to either fight or run.

  Although Mark sorely wanted to pull up his character sheet and spend his AP, the current setting didn’t lend itself to that kind of introspection. This version of Reign of Blood didn’t seem to have a pause button, so he would have to wait and find a quieter, safer spot before he could give his character build any real attention.

  Sensing that he wasn’t alone, Mark slowly turned around. The horse was nowhere to be seen. Instead, out of the drifting smoke strode a lithe figure, longbow raised, arrow nocked and leveled at his face. It seemed that respawning took a while to complete its process. Long enough for the fires to dwindle and for this woman to reach the village. And the fact that she hadn't fired yet, that Mark wasn't once again choking on his own blood, meant she was at least reconsidering the relevance of her earlier murderous action. Mark raised his hands, palms out in a gesture he hoped was universal.

  "Please, I mean you no harm."

  The woman cocked her head and regarded him with faded green eyes. "I can't see how you’d do me any harm even if you wanted to." The voice was low and strong, and carried easily across the distance between them. "I'm more interested in whether you meant harm to these people."

  "I didn't do this."

  The woman took a few steps closer, but not once did her aim waiver. "Then who did?"

  "I killed one of them." Mark pointed at the bloodstained earth where the reiver scout had fallen. "Right there."

  "Killed what exactly?"

  "He was called a Reiver Scout, whatever that means."

  The woman's eyes narrowed and her jaw tensed. "I know what a reiver is, but that still doesn't tell me what you are. Or does it?"

  "I'm not one of them, I promise."

  The woman looked Mark up and down, taking in his garb, his armor, the sword, every
thing about him. Her eyes returned to his face, fixing him with a gaze that was neither menacing nor friendly. She was assessing him. Uninvited, the memories of his recent death put on a little show in his head. The choking. The agony. The sickening sensation of life leaking away. He shoved the macabre song and dance from his mind and focused on holding the woman’s gaze as steadily and as calmly as he could manage.

  "I arrived here just as they were carrying the last of the villagers away in a wagon." He pointed in the direction the wagon had departed, its tracks still prominent in the muddied earth.

  "Arrived from where?"

  Mark wasn't sure how to answer that. If she was a fellow player then the answer was simple. But if she was an NPC then she’d either not understand and shoot him because she thought he was lying, or grow fearful and shoot him because she thought he was some sort of demon creature. Or, she might just glitch like he'd seen other AI do when presented with knowledge beyond their framework, and shoot him by accident. He decided to go for the truth, kind of.

  "A place far from here. I think I’ve been summoned here, by magic perhaps, but I honestly don't know how, or why, or even by who."