Loremaster - A Progression Fantasy Adventure, page 1
LOREMASTER
Ascension of a Street Rat
Book 1
M. E. ROBINSON
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
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Chapter One
Rowan was angry.
Although there were a number of reasons for his current emotional state, the primary cause was probably the dagger that was currently jutting from his chest. It stuck out from between his ribs, blood staining his once clean, brown shirt.
Okay, that’s a lie, Rowan admitted. It wasn’t clean. He grimaced as he felt the dagger move within him. He had been tempted to take it out, but the sensation of steel against bone and the sudden gush of blood had been enough to discourage that. His health had been poor enough before having a dagger plunged into him. He didn’t need to go and make it worse.
Feeling the blood escaping in streams down his torso, Rowan forced himself to continue moving, fighting through the pain in his chest. If he didn’t find a healer soon, then he was finished. Unfortunately, healers in Taureen weren’t too keen to cater to alley rats such as himself, nor were they easily convinced to work for free.
That’s something to worry about when it comes up, his inner voice told him. If you don’t get seen too soon, then you won’t have to worry about anything at all. Except for how an alley rat is going to pay for passage to the underworld.
“That’s fair,” Rowan muttered to no one in particular. Somehow, he still retained the sense to know how crazy he sounded, talking to the air, but his mind was fast moving beyond the ability to care.
Staggering slightly, he leaned against the wall for support. The end of the alley that had once seemed so near was now impossibly far away, the exit now retreating further from his vision with each stumbling step as darkness encroached on the edges of his vision. The nearest healer's house was a block away. It was a short distance under normal circumstances, but it might have well been in Fyrinth for all the good it did to Rowan now.
Chuckling darkly, Rowan laughed at himself. The situation was ridiculous, but all too common in Taureen. No one would question why an unwashed street-dweller was found dead. The guard would report it as yet another gang-related killing, and the populace would be thankful that another ‘menace’ was gone from the streets. No one would care, much less bother to find out, that Rowan wasn’t a part of any gangs—not officially anyways. All that mattered was his status, or lack thereof.
Feeling his consciousness fading, Rowan stumbled, his hand leaving a bloody streak along the wall as he fell bodily to the rough cobblestones of the alley below, twisting just enough as he fell to avoid plunging the knife in any deeper. Hopefully, some kind soul would see fit to leave a silver Dirrin over his eyes... hell, even copper Cirts would do. He had never put much stock into the afterlife before, but now that death loomed large, he suddenly found himself concerned.
Eyes closing, Rowan sighed in regret, though the sound that emerged was no more than a whispered gurgle as blood filled his throat. It had not been a long life, nor had it been a happy one. But he was still sad to see it go. Nostalgic almost.
It was funny; until today, his only ambition had been to escape the streets of Taureen. But now that he lay dying, all his dreams seemed to be circling him, like leaves spiraling a storm drain, solemnly informing him that, with his passing, none of them would be accomplished. As he lay dying, one dream in particular stood out—the one that had been with him the longest, and warmed even the coldest nights with its idealistic promises.
He had always wanted to be an adventurer.
It was a foolish, childish dream. One which even those few he almost considered as friends in these unforgiving streets would have laughed uproariously at had he ever mentioned it to them. Still, his mind was the one place where the hardships of the streets could not reach. There, he was free to imagine a different life. An adventurer’s life. Bravely going where others dared not and enacting justice with his sword wherever and whenever he saw fit. Or perhaps he would be a mage, using the secrets of the arcane to wield powers normal men could only dream of.
But they were dreams without substance, a way to escape his day-to-day fight for survival. If only for a moment. Hell, there had even been a time he’d dreamed of life as an accountant, living safely in a home with as much food as he needed.
Unfortunately, it seemed that none of those fantasies would come to pass. The bleeding showed no signs of stopping, while the pain had now completely disappeared, which meant that his life was soon to follow. His dreams which had once seemed so lofty, even if far enough out of reach to be nearly impossible, were now truly impossible.
Sorry. Next time, I’ll do better, Rowan promised the swirling images of futures lost. His vision was now completely dark, only the dimmest of sensations remaining in his fingertips. Pointlessly, he clawed at the dirty cobblestones, attempting to pull himself out of the alley and to freedom, but he could no longer tell if his body was even listening.
As the blood pooled around his body, his dreams and consciousness ebbed away along with his vitality. Each potential future disappeared one heartbeat at a time, until only one mental image remained, leaving only the still form of a former alley rat, lying prone in a filth-strewn alley as he awaited death.
Twenty-four hours earlier…
The city stretched out below, a vision of amber and gold. Taureen, the most beautiful jewel in the emperor’s crown. Pride of the southern reaches of the Valendian Empire.
Rowan snorted. He had seen plenty of jewels in his fifteen years as a thief, and the expanse of dusty sandstone below was no jewel. There was no veneer to hide the dirty underbelly here.
Beggars sat at corners, their empty sleeves and toothless gums flapping at anyone who would listen. Urchins darted between the legs of pedestrians, their nimble hands reaching for purses, jewelry, or anything else in reach. Merchants hawked their overpriced wares, each competing to outdo their fellows as they appealed to those who might have the coin to purchase their merchandise.
The shouts of the guards, hurling insults and threats at the riffraff that stood in the shadows at every corner, were all but ignored, a nod to the regularity at which they were hurled. Taureen’s finest, a bunch of pigs in uniform. Half were working for nobles or other forces, while the other half would listen to the highest bidder at the time. Corrupt assholes, the lot of them, Rowan figured.
“Oi, you! Get down from there!”
A new sound joined the cacophony below, this one directed at Rowan himself. Not eager to earn the ire of the guard, Rowan rolled backwards, disappearing from the guard’s sight as he retreated from the roof of the building that he was sitting on.
Without waiting for the guard to come up, Rowan retreated, staying low as he sped towards the other side of the roof and vaulted down. A soft puff of dust announced his arrival on the street, earning him only the faintest of glances from the passersby before they moved on. So long as he was not carrying a weapon or being chased by a guard, they had no reason to care. Rowan took advantage of this fact to blend in, disappearing into the crowd of human flesh as the guard emerged from the alley behind.
For a moment, Rowan considered his next move, brushing his hair out of his face yet again. The shoulder length locks were messy, any trace of their original auburn color lost under the dirt and grime. Really, he should have cut it long ago with how dangerous it was to have long hair in a street fight, but his hair was his only vanity, and there was no way he could trust anyone to get close to him with a blade to give him a proper cut. So his hair grew long, and he cut it only when the strands became too knotted to untangle.
Returning his mind back to the matter at hand, Rowan scanned the street. He had not seen any good targets today, at least none that were immediately obvious, but the day was young, and the wealthy preferred to stay out of the blazing heat that radiated from the midday sun.
Ideally, he would have liked to look for marks over in the west square, but the Pakir gang had gone there today, and he had no desire to get beaten up just for breathing the wrong air. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have bothered with picking pockets as he had done so often in years past. But no crews had courted him for his services in the past week, and his available funds were dwindling fast. Protection fees added up in this line of work, and the coins he ‘earned’ rarely remained his for long. He still needed to eat, so the southern market would have to do.
A soft groan escaped Rowan’s lips, and he glanced upwards. The sun was hotter than usual today, and even after nearly two decades of living here, his skin did not appreciate extended exposure to the sun. Although it was currently bronzed, a few more hours would cause that bronze to peel back and expose the raw pink flesh below—not an experience he desired.
With no marks or clouds in sight, Rowan turned, heading for the slums. There was no point wasting time or energy right now. There would be plenty of fat merchants and drunken craftsmen to rob later tonight. For now, he would hide out at the old amphitheater. He would have to pay attention, but at least there would be shade and protection from Pakir’s gang.
The old amphitheater was a large stone structure, worn down from centuries spent exposed to the elements. A large sheet was draped over one part of the structure’s interior, providing shade to the small crowd sitting at makeshift desks below.
Slipping inside, Rowan found a ‘desk’—an upturned crate with half its side missing, but a surface to lean against if nothing else. Sitting on the threadbare mat that offered a small barrier between his rear and the dusty floor of the amphitheater, he leaned forward, careful to avoid the splintered edges of the crate as he rested his forearms atop it.
At the front of the class, an older orc woman stood on a low wooden stage, her voice carrying through the theatre as she explained basic literacy to the street trash and hood rats in attendance.
No one knew how old the orc matron was, nor did they know her name. They referred to her as Matron Redfang, and woe be to any who called her otherwise. From what Rowan had gathered, all anyone knew was that she had appeared in the city two decades prior and, not long after, had started teaching free classes for commoners in the abandoned amphitheater.
While Rowan did not necessarily think that the classes themselves were all that useful—having little use for proper language or mathematics—the orc matron’s ability to keep the peace within her domain was legendary, and that was a very useful perk of attending. Guards, rival gangs, other street rats, no one disturbed the peace of the matron’s classroom, which made it the perfect place to hide out for a few hours. Particularly for loners such as himself. If he got to learn a few things in the meantime, well, that was just a bonus. Outside the amphitheater, he usually paid far more for far less.
“Rowan!” Matron Redfang’s commanding shout caused Rowan to look up. “Can you tell me why it is better to use full words, rather than contractions, when one is conversing with members of the upper class?”
It was a familiar question, one that she had asked before, and one she would ask again in the future. Still, as her ‘star pupil’—a title earned by dint of actually showing up—Rowan could not let her down.
“Abbreviating words is seen as lower class… uneducated,” he responded, loud enough for the rest of the amphitheater to hear him. His words resounded off the stone walls as he spoke, sounding much more impressive than they normally did.
Ignoring the effect of the architecture on his voice, Rowan forged on, making sure to ‘enunciate’ each word as the matron insisted. “When speaking with those who have received proper educations, the more correct your pronunciation and the less you resort to street slang, the more seriously you will be taken. This is especially important when dealing with officers of the guard, many of whom are from upper-class families.”
This last part was the most important, and many heads snapped to attention at the mention of the guards. Nodding slowly, the matron repeated Rowan’s words, using her audience’s newfound attention to pound some knowledge into them.
Satisfied that his part was done, Rowan leaned back in his chair, only half paying attention. There might be new material covered later, when those who had only entered to escape the afternoon heat finally left, but for now, it would be the basics and little else. He had time though, and years of picking pockets had taught him the value of patience. He could bear to wait.
It was early evening when Rowan finally emerged from the amphitheater, the matron dismissing them with a curt word and no hint of a smile. She never smiled. Still, Rowan appreciated her for her contribution to keeping him safe, and he departed with a slightly better disposition than he had entered with.
Now that the sun was starting to dip in the sky, the workers were finishing their day, and Rowan’s own work could begin. Darting into an alley, he checked to make sure that no one was around before jumping up onto a pile of crates. Gauging the wall in front of him, he leapt upwards, his fingers latching onto a protruding brick as he hauled himself up the wall and onto the rooftops.
The streets of Taureen bustled with life, wealthy and poor alike united in their common cause as they made for taverns, pubs, and drinking holes, as well as a few more unsavory establishments located further in.
Eyes keen, Rowan observed the throngs of people, searching for a good mark. He had not been too successful in recent days, Pakir’s boys having muscled him out of the more lucrative territories and the guards keeping him away from the wealthy districts. If he did not find a good target tonight, he would be going to sleep hungry—hardly a new experience for a street rat such as himself, but still not one he ever enjoyed.
As he watched, a disturbance rippled through the throng of people below.
In the middle of the street, the crowd parted, making way for a party of five, their eyes bright and their expressions placid as they moved forwards, acting as if it was completely natural for the masses to make way for them like a school of fish before a shark.
Seeing their attire, Rowan felt that it was natural. Armor gleamed dully in the sunlight, the once polished gleam now dulled by the dust and blood that coated it. Weapons hung at their sides, each person employing a different killing tool of choice. On their chests, a golden badge was pinned, one that commanded respect in the eyes of those watching.
They were adventurers, and high-ranking ones at that if the golden color of the badges on their chests were anything to go by. It was only natural for ordinary people to give way to them.
At the forefront of the party, their leader, a man with a sword on each hip, strode forward. An enormous beast was slung over his shoulder, its leathery skin pierced with numerous wounds that gave evidence to how it had died. Given its size and the thickness of its hide, it would be impossible for any normal person to carry. Only a seasoned adventurer, one who had absorbed mana from countless slain monsters, could carry a burden such as this.
“Evening, sirs,” a guard greeted them as they passed. Though his insignia denoted him as a sergeant, in charge of several men, his stance was straight and his tone respectful as he addressed the adventurers.
