Fugitive Status, Part 4: Bloodhounds

The quest had been listed as a 'normal' difficulty, but I was starting to think that was exaggerated as I watched the group of bandits from overhead. Perched in a mangrove-like tree, Karalti peering over my shoulder, I noted that at least five of the twelve guys down there were passed out drunk. That, and they were all Level 2.

"Man... I don't even know if we'll get any EXP from killing these guys." I groaned inwardly, careful not to make noise aloud. "They're fucking garbage tier."

"I'm borrrrrred." Karalti yawned, flashing needle-sharp fangs. "Are these bad men?"

"Yeah. But they’re not as tough as I need them to be."  I'd been hoping for enemies around Level 5 or so. These bandits had some weapons and some armor, but they - and their camp - looked even more destitute than the family driving the sacked wagon. Other than the pile of shiny new ploughs, their gear was rusted and tattered. "Still, even if we don't level up from fighting these guys, we might be able to get some things to sell."

"Hurt man said there's food for us! In the village!" Karalti didn't know what a village was, but she'd apparently read something from my mind about them. Her tail wriggled as she leaned forward a little more. "Food and comfy sleeps! I wanna sleep with Hector!"

"Phrasing, Tidbit." Carefully, I picked my way back down the tree, and slithered back through the marshy brush to where I'd left Cutthroat. She was busy licking herself, grooming the blood and mud from her feathers.

"Okay, girls. Time to rain down some death and destruction." I saddled up, bracing the Spear of Nine Spheres by my leg. This supposedly-magical, legendary tier polearm was sitting at alarmingly low integrity, but it was still the best - and currently only - weapon I had. I’d lost most of my gear during the escape from the Eyrie. "Karalti, you need to be careful, okay? Watch out for arrows and bolts."

"Don’t worry! Karalti fast!" The dragon squeaked with determination.

I pushed the hood of my cloak back, and spurred Cutthroat. "C'mon, let's do this!"

Somehow, Cutthroat knew exactly what I intended, because she surged forward eagerly: head low, eyes fixed ahead on the distant camp. The bandits had salvaged some old Spanish Horses to use as a fence - wooden frames wreathed with crude barbed wire, which did exactly nothing as three tons of bellowing dinosaur crashed through the barricades and dragged them into their small campfire.

"By the Lady's tits-!" A dirty, pug-faced man shrieked in alarm - a second before Cutthroat impaled him through the neck on both sides with her claw-arms.

"Sorry, ‘scuse me, coming through!" I used the hookwing's back as a vault, Jumping ten feet into the air and landing spear-first on one of the unconscious drunk guys.

[You deal 155 damage! HP: 0/60. You have killed Ilian Deserter! You gain 5 EXP!]

Well... fuck. 5 EXP per bandit? Talk about minimum wage. While they fumbled for weapons, I boosted myself with Mantle of Night, then charged in with the spear. Shadows gathered around the weapon, my arms and face as I sprinted for the biggest cluster.

"It's a reaper!" A bloodcurdling yell split the air. “The reaper’s come for us!”

I might as well have been - because Whirlwind Butcher took out five of the remaining bandits. The first supernaturally-quick blow slashed open a man's neck, spraying his comrade in blood just before his arm fell off. The air around me whispered as ghostly afterimages of the Spear materialized, sending bodies crumpling to the ground. They didn't stand a chance. Poorly armored and five levels lower than me, they dropped like flies.

"Man, this doesn't feel fair." I whirled at the sound of a heavy WHUMPH striking the ground - and saw Cutthroat slam a man down into the ruins of the campfire. I'd killed six and she'd taken down three. The other three were nowhere to be seen - they'd run for their lives into the night. The fight was over in less than four minutes.

[You have defeated Ilian deserters! You gain 30 EXP! Karalti gains 30 EXP! Cutthroat gains 17 EXP!]

[Quest Updated: Spoils of War.]

"Woah. Big smells!" Karalti's head poked out from the back of my hood, gaping at the carnage.

"Yeah, big smells. But you know... I don't really feel good about this." I blinked a couple of times, pushing my helmet up so I could scratch my head. Gingerly, I wandered over to one of the bandit corpses, and paused for a second as the man vanished in a cloud of pixelated ash. There was a small bag left on the ground. "Still, let's see what we've got here... oh. 'Used Petticoat, Stolen'. Okay, I suddenly feel a whole lot better."

"Bad men?" Karalti squirmed out of my collar, wrapping her tail around my neck

"Definitely not great men."

I went around the camp, looting the various bags left behind by the dead. I scored some coins, potatoes and other staples, a few herbs. All the gear was worthless, save for a few pieces of leather I was able to salvage by ripping them up. "Okay... now we've got all of that, let's head back and claim that big hit of EXP. Then I guess we just have to find another ailing traveler, and you'll get your first level."

"Ooo. What does THAT mean?" Karalti hopped along the ground like a reptilian kangaroo, sliding to a halt just before she bumped into Cutthroat. The hookwing, nosing around the fire, turned to snort a blast of hot air into the little dragon's face.

"It means you get stronger, Tidbit." Resigned, I stuffed everything I wanted into my inventory and trudged back over. "You know... I think I'm going to accept that offer of a bed and a hot meal. I don't know about you, but I'm already tired of this fugitive shit."

"Plushy bed!" Karalti chirped approvingly, batting at a piece of smoldering charcoal with her foreclaws.

[You have failed Quest: Spoils of War.]

“Wh…WHAT?” For a second, I thought I’d misheard Navigail. Confused, I threw up the Quests panel in my HUD. Sure enough, the quest subtitle had a big red X next to it. Confusion was replaced by anger as I opened it. “Why? How the fuck did we fail the quest? Read out the changes!”

[Quest Log: Spoils of War. The bandits who robbed the wagon were slain, but Phillippe of Ser Lureau and his family perished to agents of the Mata Argis.]

“The WHAT?” I blinked a few times, the anger morphing to disbelief – and a prickle of fear. What the fuck was the Mata Argis? And why the hell would they murder the couple and their children? I opened the ArchemiWiki and thought the name to see what the system would pull up:

[While no longer a theocratic state, Ilia’s religious authorities – the church of Kyrie and the church of Liric – still wield a great deal of power and influence within and possibly outside of the country’s borders. One tool used to exercise that power are the mysterious Mata Argis, the ‘Eyes of the Mother’ – an organization who answers only to the Primera of the church of Kyrie. Officially, the Mata Argis serve as the Primera’s personal guard, but over the course of history, Mata Argis agents are rumored to have been deployed as spies, inquisitors, and even assassins.]

A nasty, cold sensation crawled up along the back of my neck. Someone smarter than I was would probably have just gotten on their mount and bolted for the hills, but I needed to see what was happening at that wagon.

"Hector?" Karalti’s eyes were wide with sudden fear. “What’s wrong?”

“The family we helped, they’ve been killed. I have to do some recon. Karalti, you need to stay here with Cutthroat. No arguing this time.” I took Cutthroat by the reins, and led her over to a dark area under the trees. “I’ll check in with you once I’m about to come back. But you need to stay HERE. If the bandits come back, stay hidden. Let Cutthroat handle them.”

The big hookwing snorted, but she was tuckered out from the slaughterfest and contentedly flumped to the ground. I thought about tying her, then decided not to in case the five remaining bandits returned.

“…Oki.” Karalti’s voice was small and scared now. She slunk over to Cutthroat and burrowed in underneath one of her hook arms, cheeping softly. “Karalti stay with mama.”

The hookwing made a surprisingly gentle croaking sound, and began to nibble and groom the top of Karalti’s head with her front teeth.

I nodded to her, then padded off. Once I was sure Cutthroat was staying put, I broke into a jog, slowing and dropping to a stealthier crawl when I was about fifty yards from the side of the road, sticking to small, scrubby trees and tumbled piles of stone. They dotted this abandoned roadside field, and offered good concealment as I slowly made my way back to the rise where I’d directed Karalti to meet me before. But before started up, I paused to let my eyes adjust – and zoomed in on the prone form of a man in matte-black armor who was already in position there, peering through a set of binoculars at the moonlit road. Focusing on him bought up a tooltip: [Mercenary]. There was a red skull beside his name, indicating he was a higher level than I was – but not by a whole lot.

My nostrils flared as I pulled one of the few useful things I’d been able to loot from the bandits: a long, straight iron dirk. I concentrated on the Mark of Matir as I slowly crawled into position – then triggered Mantle of Night and Shadow Dance. My body blurred into brief invisibility, boosting forward until I was on top of the guy.

As much as I hated it, I’d been taught how to kill quietly – and had been good at it, when I’d had to be. Before the mercenary could so much as squeak, I was on his back, one hand keeping his jaw clamped shut, the other plunging into the side of his neck above the collar of his armor. He sputtered and flopped under my weight, but only for a few seconds as I waggled the knife up and down, then pulled it free. Blood sprayed out to the side with three or four powerful, squirting pumps, which died off as the Mercenary did.

[Fatal blow: you gain 68 EXP.]

[You earned a new Achievement: In Cold Blood.]

That was more like it. I grimly looted the twitching corpse, pulling several silver coins, the binoculars, and a better, sharper dagger into my inventory.

Caroline, Phillippe, and the girls were dead, their limp bodies lined up against the side of the wagon. A normal person probably wouldn’t have been able to see them, half-hidden in the shadows. The next thing I spotted were hookwings. Six of them, all of them bred for war. They were almost as big as Cutthroat and just as black, their sooty feathers fluttering in the breeze. They were squatted in the grassy ditches to either side of the road, poised for ambush with riders flattened low to their backs. Four of the men carried repeating crossbows and sabers. The other two carried what looked to me like small RPG launchers. I zoomed my unnaturally sharp vision, weaving my head and widening my eyes like an eagle until I could see the ‘rockets’. They were tightly bundled nets. Capture devices.

My heart sunk. These guys were one-hundred percent here for me and Karalti. They’d followed us here, somehow. But how in the fuck had they found our trail? We’d traveled about fifty miles over two days, without a dragon in sight.

The answer swept down from the sky about fifteen minutes later. A bird-like creature the size of a hang glider circled the wagon on sooty wings, gyring over the road before coming in to land. It looked like some cross between gryphon and a pterodactyl – a long, toothy beak, powerful feathered wings with clawed knuckles, and short hind legs. It came to land on its feet and wing joints, folding them neatly so that it could walk on all four limbs.

Quazi

Quazi (kwah-zee) are an apex predator native to the deserts of Dakhdir and the arid steppe of central-eastern Vlachia. Intelligent, long-lived, and prized for their role as war steed, these avian dinosaurs are the primary mount of Archemian aerial cavalry. Like hookwings, quazi come in many different breeds: some are suited for battle, while others are bred for racing, sport, or long-distance travel.

I frowned and dismissed the ArchemiWiki tooltip, sliding back into the concealment of the shadows while the rider dismounted from the [Quazi]’s back. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see them well: a swirl of black robes, the glint of moonlight off metal, and then the rider was concealed by his mount’s bulk.

Whatever they were going to do down there, waiting around to find out was a bad idea. For all I knew, they had some kind of tracking spell on me, and Robes McGee was about to wave a hand and unmask my position. Heart pounding, I forced myself to retreat slowly and quietly down the hill. Only once I was sure I was out of earshot did I start to run.

I didn’t stop until I reached the still-silent bandit camp. Karalti and Cutthroat were sleeping, the hatchling curled into the hookwing’s flank. Cutthroat’s head reared as I skidded to a halt, tracking me as I flew around the camp in search of any evidence we might have left behind.

“No more roads,” I said, unceremoniously scooping a smelly pile of [Hookwing Feces] into a bag and shoving the whole thing in my Inventory. “No more fucking roads. They’ve fucking tracked us somehow.”

Cutthroat cocked her head in confusion at my agitation. I stalked over to her, ignoring the expected growl, and crouched down beside Karalti. “C’mon, Tidbit. We have to go.”

“Mmm? But I’m so sleepy.” Karalti yawned, flashing rows of tiny milk-white teeth, and squinted at me blearily.

“I know. But the bad men are here. I need to take you somewhere safe.”

The little dragon grumbled, but obligingly slithered under my cloak, clinging to the front of my armor harness like a bat. “Hector? Why are the bad men trying to catch me?”

The fatigue and confusion in her voice caused my chest to pang – and my anger at Baldr and Skyr Arnaud to harden into something cold, determined, and dangerous. “Greed, Tidbit. Pure unadulterated greed.”