Overpowered Pawn - 4 - A Desperate Choice

Arthur snuck out near midnight.

It took two carriages and a donkey to get to his destination. It was deep in the Weston lands, a place he used to call home. 

They said stars in the Weston sky were plentiful, far more than anywhere else in the Kingdom of Maradon. 

Some said it was because far more gods had their eyes on Weston, for it was the land of the goodhearted and honorable. Others said it was the opposite, that the gods kept their eyes on Weston to ensure that they were carrying out adequate punishment for some unknown misdeed they had committed in the past.

It was hard to believe in that second theory, though, because Weston had been blessed with the most fertile lands in Maradon.  Despite that, the Westons had very little political power and the fewest Bishops, Knights, and Rook mages. 

That was because, during the great split, the Weston lands had retained the most Pawn dungeons and the least of any other type. Perhaps that was why they had the most fertile lands: they had the most skilled farmers. What they lacked in magical, physical, and political power, they made up for with a dedicated workforce.

The Westons worked harder than anyone else and took great honor in that. They were happy with their lot and did not seek higher political prominence. 

Or so it was said. 

Yet, deep in the trenches near the wheatfields, behind the darker alleys and the cracked brick walls, a silent rebellion was brewing. 

Arthur swept through the empty cobbled streets late at night, his cloaked figure stark against the moonlight and his ever-present pouch bouncing on his hip. He wasn’t too concerned that he would be spotted. This late, he would likely be mistaken for a miscreant or a messenger. Either way, most people would avoid him.

He walked quickly, though, his feet making nary a sound on the ground, taking turn after turn, until he approached the swinging wooden door of the dimly lit tavern. 

As he pushed the door open, the sounds of an ill-tuned flute streamed out, mingling with the murmurs of conversations and the occasional drunken laughter. There were about two dozen people here in various states of drunkenness. Some were loud and boisterous, and others quiet and brooding. It didn’t matter as long as they paid their fare and didn’t break any tables on their way out. 

In the shadowy corner, Arthur spotted the man he was looking for. Or rather, the man spotted him first. 

The sharp gaze seemed to shoot right through him, and he had the experience of being [PERCEIVED AND EVALUATED], a semi-common skill for a high-ranked Knight to have. 

Alan Munchauser was a disgraced warrior-mage who was once said to be one of the best and most honorable Knights in the King’s Royal army.  He’d served the nation for many years and had been a hero to all.

Most thought he would eventually earn the rank of a marshal or a Knight Supreme, if not earn a title and land.

But he'd never gotten that far, because he'd had the misfortune of being placed in Morgan Vale's squad, and the entire team had been dismissed, and some hanged as punishment for his rebellion.

Alan had barely escaped hanging by the skin of his teeth, but even mere friendship with Morgan Vale caused him to be shunned and ousted from the troops, without compensation. In one fell swoop, thanks to Arthur’s father’s selfish decisions, Alan had lost everything. 

Alan was honorable enough to try not to hold it against Arthur, but it didn’t stop him from glaring as Arthur approached. 

“What are you doing here, Arthur?” he grumbled as Arthur slid into the seat opposite him.

“Same as you,” Arthur retorted flippantly. “Drinking my troubles away.”

“You’re not the type to turn to drinking.”

“You don’t know what type I am.” While Alan Munchauser had been a longtime friend of the family–and Arthur had known him practically his whole life–the older man had distanced himself in recent years.

Not that Arthur held it against him, considering how badly Alan had been screwed over.

But it had hurt once upon a time, and it stung to see the man that you’d largely considered an Uncle treat you like a pariah.

It was something that Arthur had gotten used to. 

At some point in the future, Arthur would discover how much Alan had regretted avoiding the family and how that guilt had slowly eaten at him until he’d done something drastic to save Arthur’s mother’s life. By then, though, it was too late, and Alan's guilt and regret had eventually killed him too. 

Arthur planned on using that guilt and regret now while he still could.  

The barmaid, a rounded woman with generous white skin spilling over her top and tired brown eyes, approached them with an arched brow. 

“Mead,” Arthur said, and she held out her hand for a coin. After he passed it to her, she gave a clipped nod and walked away. Alan’s eyes remained on him. 

“So,” Arthur said casually. “How have you been? It was Melissa’s birthday a few months ago. She thought you would show up, but I told her you wouldn’t, because you'd probably be busy. I think she knew that last part was a lie."

Pain nearly rippled across Alan's face, but he immediately schooled it back into blankness. 

“Sage has been keeping up with his sword lessons,” Arthur continued. “He’s not very good at them, and he refuses to take my advice because I'm not you. I’m not a great swordmaster, and even if I was, he wouldn’t listen to me anyway.”

Alan still said nothing. 

“My mother sometimes forgets not to set your plate on the Ansing Holiday,” he said. “Force of habit. She cooks extra food for you, too, just in case you decide to show up. Of course, I know you won’t show up. You’re too much of a coward.”

“Enough,” Alan said. “Careful with the disrespect, son. I still have it in me to take you over my knee right now.”

“I know,” Arthur remembered being spanked many times for his smart mouth as a child. Munchauser had been very strict, and as a proud Weston warrior, he saw it as his duty to instill humility and propriety in his young charges. He’d been a man who valued honesty, loyalty, and duty above all else.

It was sad to see what he’d become. 

Everything had been stripped from him, his honor, his men, his purpose. He lived with anger and guilt, and combined, they were eating him alive. He drank to forget, and the drinking brought about even more shame, which made him drink even more.

Now, he was a shadow of his former self.

The mead finally arrived, sloshing over when it was slammed on the table. Without looking at Arthur, the barmaid walked away. Alan eyed the cup, but Arthur didn't touch the drink. He, too, had developed a pretty severe alcohol dependency in the future, during the war, and he preferred not to have a repeat of that.

One drink might not do it, but he didn’t want to take the risk. 

He decided to get to the point.

“I need to speak to Toby McIntyre.”

Alan stiffened. “Why?”

“Because he’ll be raiding a pawn dungeon tonight and I want to join in.” Pawn dungeons were the only dungeons that could be raided by more than two raiders at a time, so almost no one raided them alone. That would be suicide.

Ideally, there would be six raiders in the dungeon at a time, with each raider dedicated to gaining all the relevant skills from a given level, to earn their class.

Usually, though, there were way more than six, because it was expected that only a few would make it.

Alan's eyes widened. Shock reverberated in the silence covered up by the constant conversation surrounding them. 

“What?”

“I didn’t get chosen today,” Arthur continued. “None of the Noble Houses of Magi picked me.”

“So? Try again next year.”

“I won’t get the chance. Someone is trying to frame me for the murder of Janus.”

“The Archmage?”

Arthur nodded, and Alan let out a loud bark of laughter. 

“Who would believe a scrawny thing like you would kill the headmaster?”

“Exactly.” But also, ouch. “In any case, I need to raid the dungeons immediately. It’s the only way I can get more power to protect my family.”

“It’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

“I’m going to die anyway. We all are.” War was brewing in all four corners of Maradon, and it was getting closer and closer to home. After the bombing of Jameson’s Wharf, in just a few months, the draft would begin, and history would soon repeat itself. “I need power.”

Alan's expression tightened. “That was precisely what your father used to say to you, before he doomed all of us.”

“I’m not my father.” Heat escaped into his tone.

“You sure act like him sometimes.” He sighed. “Listen, I'll talk to Duke Weston. See what he can do.”

“He’ll say no.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” That scenario had already played out in the past, and it hadn’t gone in Arthur’s favor. He leaned in. “I already know where Toby and his men are. I know they’re in the room at the back of this very bar. I know you work with them now. If I go and try to introduce myself without you there, they will kill me on sight. Only if I go with you will they listen to my request. So it’s your choice. Either you make the introductions, or I go alone.”

Alan narrowed his eyes. “Are you threatening me with your own death, boy?”

“Yes. And you’ll be the one who has to break the news to my mother.”

Alan visibly paled at that. That certainly got him more worried than anything else Toby had said. It was clear that was the real threat.

Toby held his gaze, and the two were at a standoff.

Alan suddenly cursed and pushed his chair back, getting to his feet. He stumbled a little, but waved Arthur off when he tried to help him.

“Let’s go, you brat. “ He snarled and started to walk away, but Arthur stopped him.

“Wait.” 

“What now?”

Before the other man could turn around, Arthur used his quick fingers to slip a potion into the mead that had been brought for him. By the time Alan looked, Arthur was already picking up the tankard and handing it over. 

“I'm not drinking this. You might as well take it and not let it go to waste. Consider it a thank you.”

Alan eyed the drink suspiciously. He probably knew it was a bad idea to drink more, but the hunger in his eyes was clear evidence that he couldn’t resist. He grabbed it and downed everything in one go before slamming the tankard back down on the wood. Then he cursed under his breath the whole way as he stumbled to a narrow hallway at the back of the room, pushing open a wooden door. 

The room was dark, lit by only two lanterns in the center, illuminating a round table where half a dozen men were seated. Tankards littered the table. 

They all looked up as Alan and Arthur walked in, and their hands naturally traveled to the weapons–throwing daggers, swords, the like–cinched at their sides. 

“Well, well,” A man with dirty blonde hair, a scar etched into his cheek, and silver eyes glittering with menace, spoke first. “What do we have here?”

He was Toby McIntyre, the leader of the Weston Rebels, who were a group seemingly forged on an ideal of Weston independence. In reality, they mostly acted as thugs for hire.

“Have you brought fresh meat for me, Alan?” Toby called out. “You know I don’t like to eat before a big raid.”

Alan shared a look with Arthur, a look that spoke to the fact that he very much didn’t want to be doing this. 

Arthur decided to make it easier on him and introduce himself. 

“I’m–”

“I know who you are,” Toby cut him off. “The Great Traitor’s son.”

“Yes.” In any other space, the term would have been said as an insult. But Toby had a soft, almost fraternal quality to his tone. “I also know who you are, and know you well enough not to waste your time. So I’ll get straight to the point. I know you’ll be raiding a Pawn Dungeon tonight. And I want to join you.”

“Ah.” The word sounded harmless enough, but as Toby leaned forward, there was a threat in the silky note of his voice. “And pray tell, how do you know that?”

The words were marked with the schwing in the corner, drawing Arthur’s attention to a very large man cleaning his broadsword. The man smiled at Arthur, revealing that he had almost no teeth left in his mouth. 

Arthur attempted an awkward smile in return. 

“Simple," Arthur returned his attention to Toby. "I know Duke Weston gave you possession of one of his dungeons.” It had been a way for the Duke to apologize for never acknowledging Toby, who was really his oldest illegitimate son, in public. “I also know that you routinely collect funds from others for the privilege of raiding these dungeons once every year. Tonight would be the best night to do it as it is an equinox where luck is highest.” Arthur’s father had noted that more people had success raiding dungeons on Equinox's, although he wasn't sure why. It was also for that reason that Chosen Ceremonies happened on this day. “So I figured you’d want to take advantage of that.”

Toby looked impressed. “Smart. I like smart people. The problem, however, is that you’ve waited too late. All the positions are already full.”

“The pawn dungeons can be raided by more than one person at a time.”

“Yes, but there is a limit, and we’re already at it. If I took you, I’d have to drop someone else who has already paid me handsomely for the 'privilege', as you put it, and what kind of businessman would that make me?”

“A resourceful one. Some of your own men will be raiding this dungeon, won’t they? They'll need a healer."

“Are you a healer?”

“No, but I’m the next best thing. I have qualifications as a medic, work experience, and I'm an expert herbologist."

“You’re a kid.” A dark-haired man with a high-pitched voice said.

“I’ve been studying herbology and potions practically all my life. I know the antidote to at least a hundred different poisons, and I can make them from even seemingly mundane materials. I can also point out which fruit would be best to eat. That will come in handy in the first few levels of the dungeon, and for a hell-difficulty dungeon, you need all the help you can get.”

Toby cocked his head. “And what level would you like to attain skills from? What class do you want?"

"Medic," he said easily. 

“Ooh. That's a difficult one. We already have a few people in our group who want medical magic.”

“I’m better than them.”

“You don’t even know who they are.”

“I don’t need to,” Arthur said. “I’m better.” He’d guarantee it.

Toby watched him for a few more seconds as the man seated to his left, with food in his scraggly grey beard, chuckled. He blew some of the smoke from his pipe and said, “ I like the gumption of this kid.”

“Me too,” Toby said. “But I'd like to test just how much gumption he has.”

Arthur’s nerves multiplied. “I don’t understand.”

“I wanna know if you’re like your father, and willing to do anything for your beliefs, or if you’re more like Alan here.” Toby reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tube with a glistening purple potion.

“You know what this is.”

Arthur nodded. He didn’t know exactly what it was by looking at it, but he had a few good guesses.

“Do you think you can find a cure to this poison in a few minutes?”

“Sure."

“Good.” He said. He cocked his head. “If you truly want to get into the dungeon, you have to prove you can cut it. Drink the poison and find a cure for it.”

A few men laughed, and Alan protested, “Now Toby…”

“The Pawn dungeon is no joke, Munchauser,” he said. “If the boy is really up to risking his life, then he must prove to me that he has what it takes. I’m not wasting space and putting my men at risk for nothing. I’m also not going to risk his life for nothing either.”

Arthur stared at Toby. "I can make the cure. There's no need for me to drink the poison first."

"There's need if I say there's need," Toby said and watched with his eyes glittering. 

Arthur raised his eyebrow. He saw this for what it was. A bullying tactic, a dare, a way to get rid of him and have their fun at the same time.

Darn. What were his options here? 

If the poison was what he thought it was, then there was a relatively simple cure. He always carried his pouch of herbs with him everywhere, and he had something that would work to counter this. 

Still, he didn’t want to have to drink it first. 

Perhaps if Arthur had more time, he would have bothered negotiating. But considering this was the only solid plan he had, and he only had a few minutes to convince them, he figured that he didn’t have time for that. 

He stepped forward and took the tube from Toby’s hand.

It was probably not deadly anyway. Probably. 

Alan released a choked sound. “Arthur, surely you’re not thinking of–”

It was too late. He tipped the tube over and drank. 

***

From the Journal of Morgan Vale, Baron of Porthandy, Great Knight Supreme, The King’s Hand.

A Pawn Dungeon is the only dungeon that can be raided by more than two people at a time. I assume it’s because teamwork is a measure of being a good pawn. Who knows with this crazy world?

In any case, the hell-difficulty pawn dungeon is practically impossible to raid alone and requires a team for even a chance of success.

One thing confuses me: The pawn dungeon only has six levels, and each level only provides six skills for the entire group (i.e, no two people in the group can get the same skill, and once the skill is taken off the board by someone, it's no longer available to anyone else). So in total, only thirty-six skills can be obtained from a pawn dungeon, at best. Each person has six skill slots that need to be filled to earn their class.

So if each person were to fill up their skill slot, then only six people would leave the dungeon with their class. So why does the dungeon allow for sixteen participants at a time?

Of course, it could be that everyone is meant to grab one or two skills to leave enough for everyone, but then they wouldn't have a class. And human nature would never allow the general public to be that selfless.

I believe, based on the dungeon's behavior, that the dungeon prioritizes those already getting the skills and wants the six chosen people to leave the dungeon with filled-up slots.  

So, what is meant to happen to the rest?