Chapter 4 - The Swamp Baron

  “Wake up, healer. Wake up. We are waiting to greet you, Robert Ford,” the eerily pleasant voice serenaded in his ear, or was it in his mind?

  He opened his heavy eyelids to the sight of a candlelit dining table, exquisitely crafted, with a bouquet of red roses at the center and two golden candle arrangements on either side. The table seemed to stretch forever as Robert gradually regained consciousness.

  “That’s it, healer. Open your eyes. See us now,” the voice said.

  Robert’s vision cleared, revealing two figures seated across from him on the far side of the grand dining table.

  At the head sat a slender man dressed in a red silk tunic, a golden chain with an emerald gem draped across his chest. He had long blonde hair and wore a red eyepatch over one eye. His good eye was a piercing crimson, glimmering in the candlelight as it tracked Robert’s movements. It was not the dull red of an orc’s eyes, his was bright and alive, yet Robert still felt unsettled by the terrible gaze fixed upon him as the man gave a sinister smile.

  But the man did not look right despite his regal veneer, Robert thought. Upon closer inspection, his pale skin was mottled with dark blotches, and his features were gaunt with malnourishment despite the lavish dining hall. Some type of wasting disease, possibly, Robert thought.

  The Swamp Baron, Robert presumed grimly, turning his attention to the figure beside him.

  A woman sat to the left of the man in red, her legs stretched out atop the polished redwood table in a casual fashion. She wore immaculate white leather that gleamed as though it had been treated with the finest oils, fitting tightly over her slender frame. Her sleeveless vest, covered by her crossed arms, bore an emerald brooch of a similar green to the Baron’s amulet. Robert could sense the woman’s impatient nature as she swung her crossed white boots back and forth against the tabletop.

  On her face, she wore a featureless porcelain mask with two eye holes, through which blue eyes glared back at Robert with obvious disdain. Around those eyes, visible through the openings, the skin was pink and scarred. What did I wake up to, Robert thought grimly.

  Calling upon HUD, Robert inspected the unsettling pair before him.

  [Vael Blackfen (Blood Mage, Level 33)]

  [Driana Blackfen (Necromancer, Level 30)]

  [System: Classes of dark magic are only available during random class allocation to player characters with a morality score below 10%. Dark magic classes do not utilize mana for their skills but instead draw on alternate resources based on class type.]

  “I hate him, Father. I hate his dumb face. Let me collect him, please,” the woman said, her voice sharp and childish despite the venom of her words.

  “Now, now, daughter,” the Baron replied softly. “This man is our guest. Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten your manners?”

  “Forgive my daughter, good healer,” the Baron continued, his tone that of an older man than he appeared. “She’s become... unbearable as of late. Well, ever since the recent misfortunes that have befallen our great house.”

  Robert was about to reply when the man broke into a heavy, rasping cough. It sounds like the cough of a dying man, Robert thought, as the Baron reached for a small silver bell and rang it rapidly while the fit continued to wrack his frail frame.

  “Where are my friends?” Robert finally asked as the sickly man continued to ring his small bell.

  As the Baron continued his coughing spell, Robert took in his surroundings. He was sitting in an elaborate dining hall with two ornate wooden doors to his left serving as the entrance. On the opposite wall hung a massive painting of the Baron and his large family, from what Robert could tell, its size spanning nearly the entire length of the room. Beneath him stretched a thin red carpet embroidered with intricate gold stitching that shimmered in the candlelight.

  “They’ll join us in time,” the Baron managed as his coughing subsided. He wiped his mouth with one of the white linen cloths neatly folded beside the silverware and gleaming plates, a far cry from the wooden bowls and crude utensils of Robert’s farm.

  As the lingering ring of the small bell faded, the great doors of the dining hall swung open and a black-robed servant entered swiftly, carrying a silver-covered platter. His features were hidden beneath the thick canvas of his hood as he placed the dish before the Baron. Without a word, the servant turned and slipped back through the doors.

  “Dinner is ready, my good friend,” the sickly Baron announced, his voice trembling with delight. “I hope you brought your appetite.” A dribble of black slugs slipped from between his thin lips as he spoke.

  “Don’t mess up my eggs again, you buffoon!” the masked Driana shouted toward the open doors after the servant.

  “Manners, child,” the Baron said to Driana in a controlled yet seething tone. Then he turned back to Robert, his crimson eye glinting in the candlelight. “Tell me, Robert... how is our old friend Merelda these days?”

  Robert froze. The question hit like a blade between his ribs. The Baron’s gaze lingered on him, studying every twitch of his face.

  “She’s doing well,” Robert finally said, uncertain what trap he was stepping into.

  “Liar!” Driana shrieked, rising from her seat.

  “Sit... down!” the Baron commanded, his voice rising before it broke into another rasping cough.

  “Father,” Driana hissed, “I can still smell the dead woman on him. She’s gone! You promised me I’d have her!”

  Her voice grew shrill, distorted behind the mask.

  “Where is she buried, healer?” she screamed. “I want her corpse!”

  Robert’s anger flared at the twisted talk of his dead wife. “What is she to you, child?” he shouted back at the petulant necromancer.

  “Child?” Driana sneered. “I’m nearly your age,” she said as she stepped toward him. The long, well-kept fingernails of one hand scraped against the polished table as she approached.

  Robert shoved his chair back and rose, snatching a silver fork from the table and holding it outward in a defensive stance. Driana took the challenge and lunged, only to stop dead, frozen a step away.

  Robert tried to lift his fork, but his limbs refused to move. His muscles locked, his breath caught in his chest.

  “What... are... you... doing... to me?” he managed to choke out through gritted teeth.

  Every muscle in his body ignored his command. A wave of heat surged through his core, spreading outward like wildfire beneath his skin.

  “That,” the Baron said calmly, “is the feeling of your blood rising in temperature... ever so slightly. Would you like to feel a little more?”

  Robert’s brow broke into a sweat as the heat beneath his flesh turned into searing pain. He screamed, frozen in place, as his blood began to boil.

  Then the fire subsided. The Baron released his blood magic, and Robert collapsed to the floor, trembling.

  “Release me, Father!” Driana cried as Robert convulsed, gasping for breath.

  “Sit down, Driana. Must you always embarrass me while we have guests?” the Baron said, his voice sharp with irritation.

  “You call this beggar a guest?” she whined. From beneath the table, Robert saw her white boots step back toward her chair, retaking her seat.

  Robert tried to rise when a gray, oily hand reached down to help him. He looked up and shouted in surprise.

  The hooded servant stood over him, hand outstretched, but the man Robert saw was no man at all. His face was half-rotted, patches of skull shown through what little flesh remained. His lips were gone, and the skin stretched tight and lifeless across his face. His eyes were pitch-black and unblinking, void of any life.

  Robert recoiled as the dead man hauled him upright with unnatural strength. The creature pointed toward the fallen chair and gave a low grunt, signaling for Robert to sit. He obeyed, still transfixed by the hideous undead standing before him.

  “What, you’ve never seen a ghoul before?” Driana laughed.

  Robert slid his chair back up to the table, realizing the ghoul had brought him a plate of scrambled eggs. They might have looked appetizing if not for the dead hands that had prepared them.

  “Let me tell you a tale, my good Robert,” the Baron said as he lifted the silver platter before him, revealing a tall crystal goblet filled to the brim with something crimson, some poor soul’s blood, Robert could only assume.

  “It’s a tale I hold dearly to my heart, one of the many great fables of our time. It has taught many lessons,” the Baron continued after a pause. “Once, there was a mysterious red-haired woman who stumbled upon a grand manor tended by a gracious host, an honorable man. This woman was happily invited as a guest to the great household to break bread and share stories of her travels through epic lands.”

  “But after the stories were told, after the meal was shared, the woman began to wander where she hadn’t been invited, seeing things she was not welcome to see. This, understandably, angered her honorable host, who had offered her kindness, a seat at his table, and his generous hospitality. Yet to repay this honorable man, the woman used his kindness against him, sneaking about with trickery and deceit, seeking secrets that were not hers to claim. In the end, the woman proved herself a deceiver.”

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  “And in the spirit of hospitality,” the Baron went on, “this great host decided he would teach the woman a lesson, a lesson in the proper ways of being a gracious guest and of maintaining civility in a time known for depravity.”

  “But the generous host’s lesson was unwanted, and the deceiver lashed out in defiance. In her unrighteous fury, to spite an honorable man’s generosity, the deceiver struck down the host’s beloved wife before vanishing into the darkness, like some specter of old.”

  “So what became of our honorable host?” the Baron continued. “Did he simply accept his wife’s death, accept the stain upon his honor after breaking bread and sharing stories with a deceiver? For it was he who had invited the woman into his home in the first place.”

  “No,” he said in a quiet voice. “In his good wisdom, the host sent two of his sons to hunt down the deceiver and return her to him, so that justice could be served. But the woman traveled with ghosts, and she could not be found unless she wished to be seen.”

  “So what is an honorable host to do in such a case? A debt was owed, and the debt had to be paid... He did the only thing he could do of course, seek his payment elsewhere. So he sent his sons to the woman’s next of kin, a husband, a humble farmer, to pay for his wife’s debt in full. To the honorable host’s surprise, the man stood alone, abandoned by the deceiver and unaware of the debts she had drawn around him.”

  “And when the time for collection came due, the honorable host’s sons went to claim the farmer... only to be intercepted by the deceiver herself.”

  “For she was a ruthless specter,” the Baron said, his voice tightening. “And the two sons were never heard from again.”

  “So again I ask, what is an honorable host to do? Now with a dead wife, now with two dead sons, does he lay down and die? Does he cower in his manor, forever glancing over his shoulder for the red-haired deceiver?”

  “No, of course not. The honorable host did not cower, he did not step aside. The honorable host made it his life’s mission to teach the woman, his once-honored guest, a lesson she so direly required. To do so, he rallied the rest of his family to his manor to begin a grand hunt, a righteous expedition to restore honor to his house and bring to heel the wickedness of the deceiver.”

  “But the deceiver had other ideas,” the Baron continued. “For she was the devil herself and had already returned to haunt the manor from which she once fled. She brought chaos and destruction back with her to the very place where she had once shared stories and broken bread with an honorable host.”

  The Baron paused.

  “The deceiver butchered the rest of the honorable host’s family before his eyes, taking one of those eyes as her trophy and stealing the face of his favorite daughter before vanishing into the night forever.”

  Good God, Merelda, Robert thought grimly.

  The Baron rose slowly from his seat, his hand trembling as he lifted the crystal goblet. He drank the crimson liquid in one hungry gulp, then turned his single red eye back to Robert. Before Robert’s eyes, the dark blotches on the Baron’s pale skin began to fade, his complexion smoothing as youthful vitality returned to his once-withered face.

  The Baron set the crystal goblet gently upon the polished wooden table. “I’m sure you can surmise the characters in my tale, Robert Ford of Shearford. So imagine my surprise when the husband of the Butcher of Blackfen herself walks onto my doorstep.

  A sinister smile crept across the Baron’s face as Robert shot to his feet, hurling the plate of eggs across the table as he bolted for the door, when a familiar voice rang out inside his mind.

  Sleep...

  Robert awoke to find the world upside down. His blurry vision sharpened into focus, revealing the Baron’s masked daughter standing in a doorway, staring at him with her faceless glare.

  “Hurry up, dog,” she called to someone behind him.

  Robert felt a sharp pull at his wrists as he swung in place, realizing he was hanging from the ceiling by his ankles.

  Robert squirmed, but his wrists and ankles were bound tight with thick rope.

  “Release me, witch!” someone shouted beside him with a guttural voice.

  Robert turned his head towards the voice, scanning the small stone chamber, a cell somewhere beneath the manor judging by the damp walls and metal doorway. Beside him hung a large, gray-skinned humanoid figure.

  An orc? he thought, confused.

  It wasn’t one of the brute variants like Orzath, the massive orc they had faced in Stormskeep, but a slimmer, though still muscular beast, roughly Varg’s size, swinging beside him. Its distinct red eyes burned with fury, and its pointed ears twitched as it shouted after Driana, who was growing impatient with whoever was tightening the restraints around Robert’s wrists.

  “Do it now,” the orc growled through his sharp teeth, “and I’ll make sure Overlord Var’Drok spares this land till last.”

  Driana answered the orc’s threat with an exaggerated laugh, striding toward the beast without fear as it thrashed against its bindings.

  “Silly little orc,” she said, her tone dripping with mockery. “My father may be allergic to your blood, but I assure you, I am not.”

  The orc lunged forward on the ropes, snapping its jaws inches from her mask, but Driana didn’t flinch.

  “If I were you,” she hissed, “I’d learn some manners.”

  With sudden fury, she drew a slim silver dagger from her waist and drove it into the orc’s gut again and again. Black blood splattered across her porcelain mask as she kept stabbing, each motion faster and more frenzied than the last.

  “Tell your overlord this!” she shrieked, continuing to stab until a dark figure emerged behind Robert. It’s the black-cloaked ghoul, he thought. It moved in silence, wrapping its decayed arms around the frenzied necromancer and pulling her back from the convulsing orc, whose blood now poured in thick black streams across the stone floor.

  “Okay, okay, dog,” Driana said, finally relenting from her onslaught against the orc. She wiped her blade against the ghoul’s robe, then turned toward the exit.

  “Make sure the healer is cleaned up for tonight. I want him looking his best when we have our little reunion with his friends.”

  She winked at Robert through her blood-splattered white mask, then exited the cell with brisk, confident steps.

  The orc groaned beside Robert as they both dangled, their feet bound to the stone ceiling by metal rings anchored above. Robert looked toward the door as the ghoul returned, dropping a large sack onto the table across from them by the doorway. Tools spilled out, rusted and bloodstained remnants of previous torture sessions, he thought.

  Robert glanced back at the orc and noticed the wounds on his abdomen slowly closing. He’s healing, Robert thought, watching in disbelief. Some kind of regenerative ability, he thought as he inspected the orc.

  [Brukk (Orc Gladiator, Level 29)]

  The ghoul stumbled through the pile of rusted tools on the table until it settled on a small serrated knife. It gripped the handle, testing its weight, then turned toward Robert.

  They stared at each other for a long moment, the ghoul’s black, lifeless eyes seeming to look straight through him. Robert’s stomach twisted as he struggled to maintain eye contact with the hideous thing.

  Breaking the stare, the ghoul moved behind him.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Robert said in a panic. “Your master is insane…”

  His plea stopped short when he felt the cold blade pressed into his bound hands. He grasped it in confusion as the ghoul walked back around in a silent motion. Without a word, it left the chamber, the heavy door creaking open and remaining ajar before the ghoul’s footsteps faded down the dim hallway.

  What in cursed hell... Robert thought, struggling to maneuver the small blade behind his back to find the hilt.

  Not wanting to draw attention from whoever might be down the hall, Robert began sawing through the thick rope binding his wrists as quietly as he could. Beside him, the orc was regaining consciousness, his stab wounds closing completely.

  “Get back here, witch,” the orc murmured, his deep voice rough as he stirred. “I’m not finished with you,” he growled.

  Robert glanced toward him, continuing to cut through the rope, the faint sound of fraying fibers filling the small chamber. He met the orc’s piercing red eyes.

  “Hey, Brukk,” Robert whispered. “Want to get out of this madhouse?”

  The orc didn’t respond, so Robert continued, “I’m a healer, not a warrior. The odds of me overcoming these monsters are next to zero. I’ll end up back here gutted beside you in an hour,” he said as the rope around his wrists finally snapped free.

  “I don’t make deals with priests,” the orc growled. “I’d rather volunteer for the beheading ritual.” He spat a thick stream of black blood across the room in protest.

  Robert reached upward, sawing through the rope binding his ankles to the ceiling.

  “Look,” he said, keeping his voice low, “I’m not sure what orcs have against healers, but if we don’t work together, you’ll get your beheading ritual after all. Only it will be at the hands of that faceless nightmare who just stabbed you to pieces.”

  Robert’s ankles came free, and he crashed hard onto the stone floor. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, and he gasped as he crawled toward the table of tools, using it to pull himself upright.

  “Well,” he said between breaths, “shall I leave you to your fate in this house of horrors, so you can die with your strange sense of pride? Or shall I cut you down so you can help me find my friends and escape?”

  Robert could see the mix of rage and inner conflict twisting across the orc’s gray, scowled face.

  “Fine, priest,” the upside-down orc growled. “But once we kill these humans, we go our separate ways and never speak of this alliance again. For both our sakes.”

  His voice dripped with seething anger, clearly disgusted by the deal he had just made.

  “Good enough for me,” Robert said as he quickly began slicing through the ropes that suspended the big orc.

  When the last rope snapped under Robert’s blade, the orc dropped hard onto the stone floor, then rose effortlessly to his clawed feet in a back leap. The orc moves with the strength of ten men, Robert thought.

  Brukk moved toward Robert, towering over him before licking one of his gray, clawed hands with a lizard-like tongue, then extended it toward Robert.

  Ugh, Robert thought, hesitating briefly before doing the same. He clasped the massive hand, the orc’s grip crushingly tight around his.

  “Never a word of this,” the orc growled.

  “Alright,” Robert said, pulling his hand free. “Just cool your temper a bit, and let’s move.”

  Robert slowly opened the cell door, the metal latches creaking with age. Across from them was another cell, unlit, its door wide open. Something inside caught the faint torchlight from their chamber.

  Is that... Alice’s helm? he thought. It was resting on the stone bed of the cell. In front of it, laying across the floor, was his staff.

  Why would the ghoul help us? he wondered. Is this some sick game of the Baron’s?

  He peered cautiously up and down the long stone hall. To their left was a dead end, lit only by a single metal torch bracketed to the wall. To the right, the corridor stretched toward a closed arched wooden door. Cells lined both sides of the hall, made from a mix of wood and iron. Near the far door sat what looked like a wooden chair, and in it, a mummified corpse, long dead and slumped lifelessly in place.

  How long the sentry had been there, Robert could only guess.

  Robert glanced back at the large orc behind him. Brukk had taken no weapon from the table of tools and wore only a pair of black linen breeches.

  “Brukk, hold here a minute,” Robert whispered. “Let me grab my staff, then we make for the door at the end of the dungeon.”

  The menacing orc gave a silent nod, stretching his arms and legs in preparation for battle.

  Varg is not going to like this alliance, Robert thought as he slipped into a crouch and dashed across the hall to the opposite cell.

  Inside, he found the steel helm resting on the stone bed. He quickly dropped it over his head, hoping its enchantment would shield him from any more of the Baron’s mental games. Then he reached for his staff, relief washing over him as his fingers closed around the familiar oak. He felt his power stir and realign within him as he grasped it.

  Robert looked back toward the orc, who waited for him by the door, his massive frame filling the doorway. Robert gave him a thumbs-up, but the orc only stared back, confused.

  “Let’s move,” Robert whispered as quietly as he could. Then, he turned the corner and stepped into the hall.

  His vision was narrow through the helm’s slitted eye holes, but it was enough to make out the unmistakable silhouette ahead. The mummified corpse had risen from its chair and was now sprinting toward them, its limbs jerking like a twisted marionette on strings as the dead thing charged in eerie silence.