Overpowered Pawn - 6 - Level One: Farmer

A ruddy-faced, hairy man cut a tall and imposing figure against the starry sky. He was standing at the rooftop of one of his city lodgings, a half-finished glass of ale in hand, and though the burn down his throat should have been enough punishment, it did nothing to soothe his guilty conscience. 

“Duke Weston.” 

The voice behind him dipped his mood further. In his quest for solitude, the last thing he needed right now was company. And the last company he needed was that of Duke Borgan.

“What do you need, Alistair?” he asked.

“Must I need something to visit an old friend?” Alistair’s voice was quiet but always had that silent thrum of forbidden power, not to mention the impression that he could slice you open with a single word.

It scared Weston, though he didn't like to admit it. Duke Weston was much taller than the dark-haired man and, though old, had much more muscle from his years of Knight work. Alistair was quite short, lightly-colored, and he didn't seem like much at first sight.

Until you looked into his eyes and saw the sheer hunger brewing here. 

Ever since they were young, Geoffrey Weston has been frightened of Alistair Borgan.

Their friendship was borne of that fear, and continued due to Geoffrey's refusal to question the other man even against his own better judgment. 

“Why are you drinking alone, Geoffrey?” Duke Borgan asked. “Are none of your whores available to entertain you tonight?”

“Don't call them that,” Weston bit out. "Not in that tone, at least."

“Why not? It’s what they are.”

“It’s not all they are.” The women who kept him company deserved more respect than to be identified merely by their occupation. Many of them were mothers who had fallen into the profession after their husbands had died in war, and they required Weston's patronage to keep them off the street. He did not sleep with all of them, only the ones who genuinely desired that kind of company. His meetings with them were simply for conversation, a drinking partner, and a way to calm his loneliness and quiet the voices in his head. 

“Ah.” Alistair laughed. “A chivalrous whoremonger. You continue to impress me, Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey said nothing while taking another sip. 

The sprawl of buildings beneath him was silent, the night peaceful. It would not be like this for long. If the threats were anything to go by, soon enough, enemies would start pouring from all four corners of the Kingdom.

They had already begun alerting their allies and preparing for the war that would come. 

Especially now that their greatest weapon, Headmaster Janus, was dead. 

“Let me guess what troubles you enough that you decide to stand here drinking,” Borgan said. “Is it Janus’ death?”

The first prick of guilt hit him, and he bit out. “Janus’ death should trouble all of us. He was our greatest weapon."

“We’ll be alright. That Alexander boy is of age and has earned some skills already. He'll start training immediately.” With more than a bit of pride, Borgan added, “My boy is also getting the Knight essence tonight. He has been training since he was young, and is ready to lead this Kingdom if the time comes.”

Harry cut a sharp glance at Alistair, for what he was saying was close to treason.

Everyone knew that Alexander Tudor would be king. The current King, ***, was only a place-holder, as he was not of the King-path, but was a mere Rook-pathed individual. He was the son of the previous King, and though he'd been given the King essence several times, he'd failed each time. He'd failed to pass as a Queen, too, and as a Knight and a Bishop.

No royal had failed so many times before, so his repeated failure was almost impressive.

He could therefore only be a Rook.

King William's claim to the throne was that he was the only son of the previously assassinated King, but everyone knew that he was not fit to be King.

The second Alexander was deemed ready, William would be sidelined, and Alex would be placed on the throne.

"Alexander will lead this Kingdom," Duke Weston said, in case Alistair forgot. "Not your son."

“We’ll see,” Alistair said. “In any case, Janus’ murderer will be caught soon and sentenced to death. Everything will be alright, so you need not worry about it.”

He cocked his head when Geoffrey did not respond, continuing his drinking.

“Or is it the business with Arthur Vale that worries you?”

The second prick hurt more than the first. 

“He did not kill the Headmaster.”

“Obviously,” Alistair said. “But he was the last one to see him alive, and he left the room conveniently at the time when the headmaster was killed. Safe to say, that's enough to cast suspicion that he might be involved in the death of the headmaster.”

“So we’re ruining his life based on mere suspicion?” Geoffrey finally turned to Alistair.

“Don’t be dramatic. Detective Gael Wylan will be arriving from Soline tomorrow, and he'll be taking over the investigation. I’m sure whatever he finds will exonerate the boy, and Arthur Vale will have a perfectly mediocre life without our help. That will be good for him.” Alistair made a sound in his throat, then murmured, "Some of us do not get the luxury of mediocrity."

“Arthur is intelligent, skilled. Has been at the top of his class for years and helps other students with their work as well.  Janus and I spoke about him often and agreed he would make a great Bishop one day. Perhaps even an Archmage.”

“Plenty of qualified candidates for Bishops,” Alistair waved. “I know you have a fondness for the boy that's blinding you to reality, but you forget that he is the son of Morgan Vale and nephew of Elias Vale.”

“So we’re punishing him for the sins of his father now?"

“No, we're simply doing what's right.” Alistair Borgan raised an eyebrow. “Did we not agree as a group that Morgan Vale's spawns should never be anything more than pawns? For the safety of the Kingdom?” 

Geoffrey was silent. Alistair had a point, as usual, but it did not stop the guilt.

It seemed for the past few years the Vales had been nonstop suffering. First, it was the father who was branded a traitor and killed. The Uncle ran when he had the chance, disappearing into the night. A sickness had rendered the daughter with some peculiar idiosyncrasies and perhaps a developmental delay. The mother was stripped of her titles and relegated to a hard life as a farmer.

Geoffrey tried to help Mary Vale once in a while, but she was too proud to accept that kind of help.

Now, Arthur, though intelligent, would have to continue low-paying labor as either a farmer or an unranked assistant for the rest of his life.

No matter what Morgan Vale had done, his family did not deserve that, and Geoffrey was heartsick that he'd contributed to their suffering.

After all, Morgan had been his friend at one point.

“He’ll be fine." Alistair patted his friend's back. "I hear Arthur works at the John Wylan Asylum for the Criminally Insane, helping them make potions and take care of the sick of mind. That should be enough to earn him a good salary, and he’s clever enough that he’ll  not be homeless.”

It was a fair life, but it was nowhere close to what he deserved. On the few times they met, Geoffrey had been impressed with Arthur’s intelligence, his precociousness, and his hardworking nature. He would have been a great Bishop, and he would earn only a fraction of what he should be earning as an unclassed individual. He would also hit his ceiling much quicker.

Geoffrey also owed a debt to Arthur’s father for saving him.

So this betrayal just stunk in his gut. 

“Or are you changing your mind?” Alistair asked quietly. "Is your guilt going to lead you to side with the others?"

The threat was there in his tone, and Geoffrey drank again. For all their disagreements through the years, Duke Weston had never stood against Duke Borgan. 

He wasn't about to start now. 

“No,” he said. “I have not changed my mind."

***

Arthur and the group hit the ground running. 

Literally. 

The second his feet touched the ground, it rumbled and roared all around him.

He didn't have his pouch or any weapons. Such was the nature of the dungeon–it stripped you of everything but your clothes, so that all you could pass with were your wits.

All he got was the impression of dark, dense forest, and before he could even get his bearings, a howl sounded behind him.

Arthur didn't bother turning to see what it was.

He sprinted as fast as his feet could carry him, and the creature chased him.

It was chasing all of them.

Arthur heard shouting all around, but he kept his mind going, refusing to let himself scream despite his panic. He needed to save his energy, get to a safe place, a higher vantage point where he could properly survey the situation.

Just then, a prompt blinked in his vision, a message from the dungeon: 

DUNGEON LEVEL: FARMER

QUEST: GUARD YOUR FLOCK AND CROPS FROM WILD PREDATORS THROUGH THE NIGHT.

SKILLS ALLOTTED [0/6]

SKILLS OFFERED [0/6]

The quest coincided with his father’s recollection of the farmer’s level. This part, though, was different.

According to his father’s journal, Florian had reached the farm before any of the beasts had attacked. The group was then supposed to use their wits and common household items to protect the flock from wolves. They would need to work together for it. 

So why were the wolves chasing them now? Were they the flock?

Arthur's heart pounded, breath squeezing his chest tight. He was starting to get dizzy from running so hard, the rocks digging in through his shoes. He didn’t stop. He couldn't.

I can do more. He tuned back to his torturous military training, steeling himself. I can always do more. 

He couldn’t run forever. If it was really wolves chasing them, then he needed to get a hiding place, high up. 

Finally, he spotted a branch hanging low enough for him to use as a springboard.

Good thing he’d trained his agility up till this point. Using all his strength, he jumped and swung himself onto a branch, steadying himself before jumping off that to a higher branch. He didn’t stop there, because he could still hear the snapping jaws at his heels. He kept climbing and climbing until the snarling got far away.

One of the branches cracked under his feet and nearly gave way, but he nimbly swung himself up before it could.

When he was about twenty feet in the air, he finally stopped and glanced around.

The forest was dark, but slivers of light passed through the branches enough to illuminate what he was looking at. He saw the creatures a few miles back, large wolves, and they were gaining on the group fast. One of them grabbed a man at the back of the pack and tossed him in the air, mauling him to death while he screamed.

Arthur's stomach roiled at the sight and the scent of blood in the air. He nearly threw up, and he looked away.

It would still give him nightmares, more to add to the ones he already had. It didn't matter how often it happened, he could never get used to gruesome sights like that, maybe because, during, he never let himself get desensitized to it.

It was recommended and almost forced on them by the squad trainers, but Arthur resisted, because desensitization only made him feel shittier.

Because then it made him feel like a coward.

It made him feel like a monster.

It made him feel like he was somehow accepting what was happening as okay.

It would never be okay. There would never be a scenario where a man getting torn apart by animals or humans who acted like animals was okay.

His body was conflicted, caught between freezing and jerking into action, his mind loud with commands and memories of a darker time.  

But there was nothing he could do. He had no weapons to fight off the animals with. He couldn't save the man. He could only save himself.

Stephen.

As the sound of the man's screams subsided, Arthur twisted around, anxiety racing through him as he suddenly remembered the little boy. Where was Stephen?

What if he was already....

God. What would he tell Iris?

"Stephen!" Arthur shouted. "Stephen, where are you?"

"Here." A young voice responded, and Arthur saw that the boy had had the same idea he did, probably earlier than him, too. Because he was in a tree about a hundred meters back.

There were also a few other people in the trees. One of Toby's men, the one who was talking to Sven, was there holding onto an older man who looked terrified. His white robe marked him as a healer. Arthur also spotted a slender woman with shrewd eyes opposite them. Then a short, stocky man, and another man with ears almost as comical as Frank's.

There were a little more than a dozen of them in trees, but some were still running.

One was running back from the opposite direction. He looked about Arthur's age, but he was large, with a mop of curly red hair on his head. Three large wolves chased him, and he was making good pace, but as he approached Arthur's tree, he fell.

Shit.

Arthur's body moved before he thought about it, and he hopped to the lower branches. The other boy was also quick on his feet, but he was about to start running again until Arthur yelled at him, "Climb!"

He didn’t need to be told twice.

He kicked off the tree bark and leaped nearly ten feet in the air, onto a branch. The branch broke, but luckily, Arthur's hand was already there for the boy to grab.

His full weight nearly yanked Arthur's arm off the socket.

"Shit," Arthur swore.

Thankfully, the boy supported himself on the branch and let go of Arthur's arm to pull himself higher and up to safety.

The wolves he'd just escaped glared up at Arthur, and Arthur glared back down.

Then a wolf howled in the distance, and that sent them on their way.

They all stayed silent and in their positions until they were sure all the wolves were gone.

Arthur rolled his hurt shoulder and was relieved for a split second until he realized...

What if the wolves were headed to the farm?

What if they destroyed the flock before the group could get there? They would fail their test instantly.

Then they would be stuck in the dungeon forever.

He couldn't forget that this was a hell-difficulty dungeon. Not only was it deadly, but there was such a narrow chance of success as the dungeon actively made things harder for them. 

"We have to go," Arthur said loudly, climbing down the tree.

 All around him, people were coming down too.

As he dropped to his feet, Arthur said, “We have to follow those creatures.”

“Why would we? We don't have a death wish."

"He's right," Toby's man said. "The wolves are headed to the farm."

'How do you know, Callum?"

"Because he's not an idiot," the woman said. "Why else would they leave us alone? They're going to mess with our mission."

Ccallum peered at the group. “Which one of you is the tracker?”

“I am,” one of them announced.

"On second thought, we won't make it if we follow them,” Arthur interrupted. "We need to cut across the gorge that should be in that direction, where the wolves came from. It will be faster.”

"How do you know?"

"Because my father had a map in his journal,” Arthur admitted. "He knew a man who had already completed this dungeon. Florian."

"We knew Florian, too," Callum said. "He never mentioned a gorge."

Arthur shrugged. It had been in the diary for a reason.

There was a moment of silence before the tracker spoke up.

"He's right. If we follow the wolves, we'll never be able to catch up to them in time," he said. "It's better to risk it."

Amongst the twelve or so people left, there were confusing murmurs both of approval and refusal.

"Alright," Callum said. "We'll cut across the gorge." He nodded to the tracker. "What's your name?"

"James."

"Okay, James. Lead the way."

As James crouched to investigate the soil, Arthur figured he should also be on the lookout for some herbs in the forest, which he could use to create the Vonega cure. And a few other medicines if he had time.

Meanwhile, the beefy redhaired boy he'd helped sidled up to him.

"I'm Landon, by the way," he said by way of greeting.

"Arthur," Arthur said.

"Thank you for saving my life, Arthur."

"It's alright," Arthur was peering at the ground, wondering if he would manage to identify the plants in the dark.

"No, seriously," Landon said. "Thank you. You could have just let me die."

"That would be a shitty thing to do. It also wouldn't benefit me, unless you were gunning for the Healer," Arthur joked.  

The boy laughed. "Nah. Couldn't be a healer. Vomit makes me queasy."

Arthur spared him a look. "Not blood?"

"No, blood is fine. It's all regular...one texture, one smell, one look to it. But vomit..sometimes it's all chunky and green, sometimes it's yellow and smooth, sometimes it's–"

"Okay, I think I get it." Now Arthur felt a little queasy too. "You can rest your case."

The boy laughed again. He sure was cheerful, for being stuck in a dark forest teeming with monsters, possibly for the rest of his life. As they walked through the forest, Arthur searched for the leaves. He found and plucked a few useful ones, keeping them in his pocket. But he didn't find the one necessary for the Vonega cure, not yet anyway.

"You know my sister." Arthur spun around to find Stephen at his elbow.

"Yes," Arthur said. "Why are you here? You're not of age."

"It's my father's doing." He looked miserable. “My father owed Toby McIntryre a debt. He said if I did this, then the debt would be cleared and I would get skills that I could use for the family."

"That rotten bastard," Arthur said. "Does Iris know?"

He shook his head. "He snuck me out after we went to bed. Told me we were just going to the tavern and that I was to help him play dice. I was supposed to be the distraction while he switched the dice. I always hated doing that." He clenched his fist, looking down. "I hate this even more."

Arthur didn't know what to say to comfort the boy. He was so angry on his behalf.

Going on a dungeon raid was a stupid thing to do for most people, but at least everyone else here was an adult who'd chosen this stupid thing of their own volition.

But the child had been forced.

He knew Iris would lose her mind if she ever found out what her father did. Iris already hated the man. Arthur didn’t know much about her home life because Iris barely talked about it, but she lived around his neighborhood, and they all knew her father was a chronic gambler with a lot of debts.

The fact that he’d sold his son to cover them was absolutely deplorable and was a new low Arthur didn’t expect from him. 

Iris was protective of all her siblings, especially Stephen. Arthur didn't want to face her if anything happened to him.

“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?" The boy asked quietly, still looking at his feet.

Arthur shook his head.

"No," he said. "You won't. Just stick by me, alright?"

The boy didn't look like he believed Arthur, but he nodded anyway.

They didn't speak again until they reached the large valley, with a dearth of trees which allowed the moonlight to glow on the red sand.

There was a heavy feeling in the air that gave the group pause, but they ultimately pushed forward, walking through the valley. Arthur tried to keep himself distracted, but the image of the man getting torn apart was seared in his mind.

It reminded him of his past, or rather his future, in very ugly ways. He'd almost forgotten about the worst parts of the war, but this place dragged him right back. He hated this, but he'd lived it for years.

And he never wanted to live it again.

Arthur's foot kicked something as they walked. He glanced down.

It was a bone, half-buried in the sand. Then, when he saw another just ahead. And another.

There were bones under the sand.

"Look out!" Callum yelled, and before they knew it, the shadows moved and larger, silent wolves were racing toward them.