I also wanted to avoid any of the insects and other things clinging to the walls. The slugs and the snails were even slipperier than the water or the moss. Bizarre dragonflies came buzzing around my head, along with gnats that seemed intent on my eyes, and at one point I saw a scorpion, but it scuttled away into cracks in the rocks.
I was recovering from the shock of seeing the scorpion when my rope gave a sudden jerk, so violent that I almost lost my grip. I looked down and Gerik was waving madly, gesturing at something above me.
I looked up to see a man grinning down over the edge, some fifteen feet above me. It was one of the Whitewater guards I’d seen in the Leaky Centaur. He was Caucasian, with a mustache that looked like a toupee glued beneath his nose. He’d wedged a torch into a crack in the rocks, giving him some light so that he could go about his work, which was to use his dagger to cut my rope loose.
“Oh you son of a bitch,” I blurted.
“How do you like this, you fuck?” the man yelled down. There was such anger in his voice. What had I done to earn that hatred? I mean, maybe he’d been paid to kill me or something, but to hate me? Where was that coming from?
But right now, the only thing that mattered is that I didn’t want to fall. Around me, there was nowhere to grab, nothing that could hold me. The rope was my only chance, and I could see it starting to fray where the bastard was slicing at it with his dagger. He was cutting where the rope was pulled taut between the stalagmite and the edge of the drop, the very drop I’d be taking if I didn’t do something.
I found a loose rock the size of my fist and yanked it free from the cliff, then tried to hold on with one hand while pitching the rock at the man above me. It didn’t work. I almost lost my grip on the rope and saved him the trouble of cutting me loose. The rock went straight up in the air no more than ten feet, then arced back down behind me. I could hear it splash into the waters.
“Shit!” I yelled. There wasn’t anything I could do. I was helplessly hanging, and soon to be helplessly falling.
“Why are you doing this?” I yelled up at the man, but he just glanced down with a mixture of a grimace and a smile, flicked a thumb over the edge of his blade as a way of telling me that it was very, very sharp, then once more began cutting at the rope. It was nearly impossible to hold the rope in my panic. I could feel it sliding through my fingers. I knew my only chance was to scramble the rest of the way down before he could cut the rope.
I began finding footholds as best as possible, not looking for the choicest footholds but instead the quickest ones. But then the man smiled at me, and I knew that I wouldn’t prove able to climb down fast enough. That grin said it all. He had me.
I threw another rock. It was worse than my first try.
The man and his murderous mustache laughed at my weak attempt to hit him. My one-handed toss, clutching at the rope with my other hand, entirely unbalanced me. I spun on the rope, and it took a frantic grab with my other hand to save my life. Momentarily, anyway.
But when I clutched at the rope with my other hand I noticed the ring on my finger, the treasure I’d found after I’d torched the fangflies. The Trip Ring.
“Oh yeah!” I screeched. “My ring! Trip, you motherfucker!” I was staring up at my probable murderer with all the fear and hatred I could muster, picturing him tripping. He was looking away from me, his attention turning back to the rope, but even from my terrible angle I could see him trip. He jerked as he stumbled, arms waving, feet scrambling for purchase, his hand frantically grabbing for the rope, but missing.
He fell.
Yes!” I yelled out.
“Oh shit!” I yelled next, because he was dropping toward me, arms and legs kicking wildly as he screamed. I hugged the side of the rocks as tightly as I could. It seemed impossible that he’d miss me, but as I braced for impact there was a quick moment of wind, the sensation of something brushing against my back, and the next moment I heard a terrible thud below me, an impact that only momentarily stilled his scream, because when I looked down I saw his broken body, both legs twisted into unnatural positions, just as he bounced into the water. He sank. Then surfaced.
Then he screamed as the churning waters sent him speeding along toward the whirlpool, which swallowed him only moments later.
And just like that, I’d killed a man.
I was no longer purely Josh Hester. I was Josh Hester Who Had Killed A Man.
A glowing announcement of “+132 Experience Points” rose out of the whirlpool and floated all the way over to me.
I waited for the guilt and horror over killing a man to settle into my stomach, but it didn’t happen. I felt numb, but at the same time I was bursting with relief at having survived. He’d been trying to kill me. That meant I hadn’t murdered him. I’d killed him. There’s a difference.
I was surprised to find the rocks of the river’s edge beneath my feet, having been climbing down without paying attention. Gerik helped to steady me even as we clung against the rocks during one of the smaller surges of the river.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
It was too loud, there at the river’s edge, to have any sort of conversation. Gerik clasped my shoulder, though, as a way of telling me that I’d survived. It was a truth that I needed to hold tight, a far saner focus than the sound of the man’s screams or that terrible thud of his impact. I’d survived. That’s all there was to it.
Gerik gestured past me, pointing out a tunnel entrance some ten feet away, maybe ten feet up. We navigated the broken rocks and the pools of water, clinging to the cliff like leeches as the waves slapped against us.
At one point, clutching a pommel-shaped protrusion of stone and waiting for the waters to subside enough for us to make any more progress, I stared in horrified wonder at the cheap-looking ring on my finger. Three times a day, it could trip someone. Three times a day, I could kill a man. I knew that the thoughts racing through my head didn’t make sense, but I couldn’t stop them. I was almost glad for the adjacent chaos of the river and our desperate scramble along the wet rocks. It was distracting.
When we entered the tunnel, it wasn’t long before the huge cavern was behind us.
I found that I missed the overpowering roar of the water.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
As we walked, I told Gerik about the blurred man. I spoke of how he’d appeared in a strange vision of mine, guiding and goading my father to his death. I talked about seeing the foxes while riding my bike, and the tattoos on my arms and chest.
“Foxes?” Gerik asked in his voice like a cheese grater on gravel. “And this man’s face was blurred? Did you use your divination ability on him?”
“Didn’t even think about that. Not sure I had the ability then?”
“Well, you have it now. What’s it say about the tattoos?”
“Oh. I didn’t think of that, either.”
“Lots of people have died not thinking about things, Josh of Apartment 3B. You need to start.”
So we paused in a hallway carved from living stone, chiseled with immaculate care, with a line of throne-like chairs carved into the walls. I sat in one of the chairs after Gerik had thoroughly checked it for traps.
“Chairs are often trapped,” he explained, his fingers tracing the lines of stone, his eyes narrowed as he studied each speck of dust.
“Traps?” I asked, taking off my shirt so that I could see the foxes on my arms and chest. It made me feel a ridiculous, sitting there shirtless while wearing a cloak. It reminded me of my sister’s roommate Valentine with his fetish clubs.
“Oh yes,” Gerik said, tapping his finger lightly on the carved arm of the chair. “Chairs can have a wide range of traps. Sometimes it’s flames from a hidden spigot. Or poison darts. Pressure traps that trigger explosions. A few years back, I was in the Horsedrawn Dungeon, you know that one?”
“I do not.”
“An amazing thing. An entire dungeon, near to big as this one, but the entrance is in a moving carriage. Only appears on certain days. A noiseless horse. No sound from the wheels, either. You have to know where to look. There’s a blood sacrifice involved.”
“You mean… human sacrifice?” I’d been studying my tattoos, but stopped, realizing how very little I knew about this heavily armed man who was standing next to me far beneath the surface of the earth.
“Not the type you mean. Just a cut across your palm, then hold it up to the horse like you’re feeding it oats. That thing’s tongue feels like silk. The carriage only stops once the horse is fed.”
“Goncourt is one fucked up place,” I said. I meant it in a bad way.
“That it is,” Gerik agreed. He meant it in a good way. “The point is, we were sitting in the back of the carriage, Daylin and I. Big bear of a man. Likely some orc in his ancestry. Maybe even some giant. The two of us were some measure of bored. Sometimes it takes a bit for the dungeon’s entrance to appear in the carriage. We were passing time by talking of Daylin’s ex-wives. They number enough that we could’ve been there all night. Daylin’s a good man, but not a cleanly one, and that can wear.”
“That can wear,” I agreed, trying to decide if the foxes on my arms had changed. Were they faced in a different direction?
Gerik said, “Daylin shifted at one point to peer out a window. Sat down in a different spot. Thing is, we hadn’t even thought to check the carriage seats for traps.”
“Oh god. Is this another one of your stories that goes bad?”
“What?” Gerik made a face as if he couldn’t understand what I meant. There was a wind picking up in the hallway. A sound of rattling windows. It was disconcerting because there weren’t any windows.
Gerik said, “So, he sits down, and there’s this sound. Like, a click. And then an iron spike exploded out of the seat exactly where Daylin had been sitting! Would’ve gone up right through his balls, for sure!”
“Wow. That sounds like a close call that could’ve—”
“And I know it would’ve gone through his balls, because the next one did. Came up right where he was sitting. Slammed up through his groin. He’s got nothing left down there, these days. Walks a bit odd.”
“God damn it. Never tell me a story again.”
“Hmm, so these are the tattoos, then? The scars?” He was looking me over, lifting my cloak to stare at my back and see if there were any more foxes.
“Yeah. Hurt like hell. You ever seen anything like this?”
“No. Use your divination. See what it says.”
I concentrated, and in not long glowing letters formed a couple feet out from my chest.
Fox Geas
Cursed Spell
The victim must perform a designated task within
a set time limit. During the spell’s duration the foxes
slowly merge, gathering into one creature that
will then burst into the Fires of the Abyss, claiming
and consuming the victim from within if
the task is not performed.
“Well, shit,” Gerik said.
“Shit,” I agreed, truly meaning every word. “So, I’m like a Molotov cocktail waiting to happen?”
“This blurred man said you had a month? And, what was it he wanted?”
“A month, yeah. And he didn’t say what I was supposed to have. Just that it was something Salena gave me. I can’t think she ever gave me anything, unless you count grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“I can’t see this blurred man going through all this for a grilled cheese sandwich, no.”
“Gerik, he made it sound like he was the one who killed Salena. That this,” I touched one of the fox tattoos, “is what he did to her.”
Gerik nodded, leaning back against one of the finely-carved walls. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed. Now and then a whirl of wind would speed through the tunnel, sweeping billows of dust up from the floor. I put my shirt back on. Finally, Gerik opened his eyes and stood away from the wall.
“We have to find this man before your time is up,” he said. “If we kill this bastard, it should cause his geas to fade. It’s sad, though, that we only have the one month.”
“Right? I hope that’s enough time to find him.”
“There’s that, but there are other factors. The first is that we must strengthen you. Make you stronger. We need to continue through this dungeon, have you gain more experience, raise your levels for the coming fight.” Gerik was walking away with long strides, heading deeper into the dungeon and the waiting monsters. I hurried after him. He was right. I had to be stronger.
When I caught up to him, I could see that he was seething. He reminded me of a hunting dog.
He said, “The other reason I wish we had more time is simple. Salena’s friendship marked a period of calm in my life. To be honest, most of my years are nothing but screams and scars. That witch was a time of laughter. Of peace. If this blurred man is the one who killed Salena, then I want his death to be painfully hard, and for it to take far longer than any month.” He kept walking with those long strides of his. It was difficult to keep pace.
I could hear something howling from somewhere in the tunnels ahead.
I could hear something howling from inside Gerik, too.