Death After Death

The first thing that Simon did once he was standing in the streets of Esmiran was stash his junk in the alley next to the bakery. Then, he walked across the street to secure a room at the inn. One silver piece later, he was back across the street collecting his things.

The last time he’d been here, he’d spent a few days relaxing from the awful pace of the last run before he’d saved that girl and been ambushed by those white cloaks. This time didn’t seem to be any different so far, but then, he didn’t have the clearest memories of this place beyond the fight, the whisperer, and how cute the baker was.

No matter what was going to happen this go around, he didn’t have time to waste. So, instead of drinking and getting to know the regulars around the bar, he went straight to the blacksmith to size the man up.

Simon introduced himself as he looked around. Haadon, which turned out to be the smith’s name, was a man of only average talents; judging by some of the pieces he had lying around, Simon was probably almost as good as him at most things, but there was no abandoned forge Simon could spend weeks screwing with on the off chance that he could do the work himself.

Instead, he got straight to the point and let his money do the talking. “I have some armor in pretty bad shape,” he said, pulling a handful of gold coins from his coin purse and setting them down in a small stack on the anvil while Haadon eyed him with growing interest. “It's some custom pieces, of course, so I’d need the utmost discretion.”

“I’m sure we can handle that,” the smith answered, practically licking his lips.

“You say that, but some of the markings… well, let’s just say if the white cloaks or the village busybody caught wind of it, there would be real trouble,” Simon emphasized, setting down another small stack of coins. “Trouble for both of us, you understand?”

This was enough to make the blacksmith meet Simon’s eye, but only briefly, before he returned to the growing stack of gold. “Yes, sir. I don’t want no trouble here in Esmiran, so as long as you’re just passing through, I’m not inclined to ask about your business.”

Simon smiled at that but quickly suppressed it. He’d forgotten how powerful the magic of greed could be because he’d been poor for several runs in a row now.

After they agreed on a price and another coin for the man’s apprentice to look the other way, Simon returned to where he’d tucked away his bundle and brought it to the smithy. On most pieces, the damage was relatively minor. The chest piece and arms had a few dents, as well as some cooled lava that needed to be hammered off. It was only the legs and back that were in really rough shape.

“I don’t know how you could have survived whatever blow did all this,” the smith said, swallowing hard as he reconsidered their arrangement.

“It wasn’t a battle,” Simon said hastily. “It was a natural disaster in Ionia. A mudslide and other things.”

“Well, then, you’ve come a long way, haven’t you?” the man responded, sidestepping the answer entirely as he studied the armor.

It wasn’t much of a lie, but the blacksmith clearly wanted to believe it, and he just nodded dumbly as Simon went through the details about which straps needed to be replaced and which plates needed to be fixed.

“The most important thing is these lines,” Simon emphasized, pointing to the delicate tracery of patterns that were present on every piece. “None of them can be removed, and any of them that have started to wear away need to be re-etched. If you are ever unclear about what goes where don’t guess. Send your apprentice to find me. I’ll be at the inn, and I’ll redraw them for you.”

“That specific, huh?” the man asked, a little pale. “These aren’t dangerous, though, are they? They’re just like—”

“They are important family heraldry,” Simon shot back, trying to keep everything moving, figuratively speaking. He was well aware of how this looked. He was a deformed stranger appearing out of nowhere and offering a craftsman a small fortune to do some strange work. It was practically a fairy tale. In a sane world, this man would turn Simon into the authorities as soon as he left, but today, Simon didn’t think that likely.

So, he left with a firm handshake and a promise of another payment when the work was completed and the satisfaction that this problem, at least, was left behind him. From that point on it was someone else’s problem, he decided, and he wasn’t going to worry about it. He had other things to worry about anyway, like what he could do to prepare for this evening.

He started by buying a horse. It was only after he’d purchased it that he realized it was a complete waste. He’d imagine himself riding to the mountain village where he’d find the dragon slayer. However, it was only when he was walking that horse across the town square that he recalled where the portal entrance for this town was.

It’s in the fucking well, he groaned mentally as he willed himself not to cry out anything weird. Does that mean I have to walk all that way in plate mail? I’m never going to get there in time.

Simon spent the next few minutes consoling himself about that as he thought through the problem. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure where he would end up when he came out of this portal since the ogre was dead as dead could be. So, he would try to stay positive about that.

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He also decided he could use the horse to speed the mystery woman’s escape if she showed up again. He didn’t look forward to fighting a whole group of those weirdos, but he was hopeful he could get her out of there either way and was pretty sure that was how he would solve this level.

He didn’t have his leather armor anymore for a start. That was something he’d sorely miss if it came to combat. He did have his knife and sword, though, and he made sure he was wearing both when he came down for dinner.

He bought himself some stew and a beer, and then he bought a round for the house, too, which was starting to get crowded. This was to try to mitigate some of the looks he was getting. He told a few stories, too, about faraway places he’d been, though he tried to avoid talk of killing.

When one bearded drunk who was almost as old as he was finally asked him about his scars, Simon responded. “Goblins raided my village when I was young. Ugly business.” The topic didn’t come up again after that, at least not in his presence.

It wasn’t until the sun set that he saw the girl from last time. Part of Simon had hoped that this time, she would have run faster or farther, and she would have already moved on, out of harm's reach. Then he wouldn’t get mixed up in this. That was a selfish desire, given the shape he was in, and almost certainly an unreasonable one. The very fact that the portal still opened on this level meant that this needed to be done.

This time, he didn’t wait for the white cloaks to arrive and moved to the fire to warn her. It was there he got his first surprise of the night. This time, there was someone with her, and strangely enough, it was someone he recognized: Aaric.

He’d seen the boy before on this level, though it wasn’t really proper to call him a boy. He was a man now, and a look of recognition passed between them both immediately.

“Simon?” the young man asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Why aren’t you with the white cloaks this time?” Simon responded, forgetting himself for a moment.

That should have caused consternation, or at least confusion with the boy, but instead, without missing a beat, he sighed and said, “You know about that too? I should have known. It's a long story, but we—”

“Long stories can wait,” Simon interrupted, “We need to get her out of here before your friends show up.”

“The Unspoken are coming? When?” This time, Aaric’s answer was a whisper, but as soon as he said that word, Carelyn’s eyes widened.

“They found me? So quickly?” the woman asked, whirling around to face Aaric. “I told you this would happen, Aaric. I told you…”

It was obvious to Simon that these two were more than prisoner and warden. They probably weren't just friends, either. That was enough to make Simon wonder just how much one small change in his childhood had changed the man, but that was hardly the right question.

The right questions were things like who was she and why was she running away before she could be one of the chosen. For that matter, what he really wanted to know was who these people were and what word of power they were using to suppress magic.

His mind was racing with questions, but none of those could be asked here. Not when people were already starting to give the three of them strange looks. So, he saved those for later and said, “Come on, I’ve got a horse in the stable you can use. We can—”

“We’ve got one too,” Aaric agreed. “Let’s get as far from here as possible, and then I’ll tell you what’s happened since you saved my village from the dark swarm so long ago. I owe you that much, at least.”

The three of them got up and moved to the stable. None of them wasted any time, but even as they started to saddle up their mounts, a group of riders wearing white cloaks came to a stop in front of the inn, not so far from them.

“Damn it,” Aaric cursed. “They really are here.”

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t kill all of them?” Simon asked in a cold tone.

Violence usually wasn’t his first answer, but he didn’t see another way out of this. One or two, he might be able to fight with his sword. Three might be possible if he got the drop on them, but in a case like this, that was his limit. There was no way to sneak out the back from the stables, and he doubted they could outrun the larger group for long if they bolted. So, given that there wasn’t really a martial option, all he had left to fall back on was magic.

“Kill them?” Aaric asked as he climbed up on his horse. “What? How?”

“Unless you give me a better answer than that, I—” Simon hissed, worried as the people started to spread out a bit more, which would make what was about to happen harder.

“Do what you need to do, Simon,” Aaric answered. “I just need to keep Carelyn safe.”

No sooner were the words out of Aaric’s mouth than Simon called out, “Gervuul Oonbetit!” both of his companions gave him a look of pure horror as they recognized what he was doing on some level, but the real horror was yet to come.

Simon had considered fire and lightning for this. It would have sown more chaos. This close to the inn, though, the fireball would light the place up, and there was no telling where the chain lightning would go once unleashed. So, instead, he used greater force and the magic of his words combined with his focus to create a scythe of pure power that stretched across most of the courtyard before it raced across it toward his enemies.

Simon had really leaned into the hero bit over the last few lives and tried not to kill more people than he absolutely had to unless they happened to be related to a certain despot from Crowvar. This time, though, there was no way around it. Even as some of the men and white cloaks turned to face him, the paper-thin shockwave passed through them, neatly slicing their heads from their necks.

In a few cases, amulets that the men were wearing flared to life briefly. Simon would have liked to study that more, but he was already moving. It did not seem to be enough to save the men in most cases anyway, but it seemed to be evidence of magical items, which wasn’t something he’d seen very often in this world.

Such magic didn’t come without cost to Simon. Not at the age he felt now. A year's worth of life meant a lot more to someone who was already fifty or sixty than it did the 29-year-old he was whenever he reset the Pit. Even as he felt the energy leave him, though, he knew he’d made the right decision.

At least, that was the goal. It went over the heads of a couple of people who had bent down or dismounted. In a few cases, it gashed deeply into people’s chests or simply sliced through the top of their skulls. For a moment, though, it was like nothing had happened. It was only seconds later, as one of the survivors shouted an alarm and their two horses darted off into the night, that the true carnage was unleashed, and most of the Unspoken simply fell to pieces.

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