Grand Game 264: A Perverted Trial (Patreon)

The casual invite to Anriq had been a test, of course.

I couldn’t deceive him with lies nor bind him by magic, which left only one option: winning his trust with the truth. Determining how far I could trust him had been the true purpose of my act of disinterest. So far, the werewolf was proving to be exactly what he appeared—an earnest young man who had run afoul of his pack.

Still, there were a lot of unanswered questions surrounding Anriq.

Namely, how deeply were the werewolves under the Triumvirate’s spell? Why had Anriq run away? What had the hags wanted from him? And most importantly, how did he feel about the ancients?

Would he betray me at the first opportunity?

Or was he a potential ally?

All these thoughts and more ran through my mind as we waded north through the saltmarsh. I couldn’t afford to tarry in the grove any longer. There were just over three hours left on my last disease protection crystal—not that I cared to share that information with Anriq—and so despite the manifold mysteries remaining to be solved in the marsh, I reluctantly headed out.

During the two-hour journey, I plied Anriq with questions, some subtle, others less so. He answered everything more forthrightly than I expected, but on some subjects, he was surprisingly cagey.

✵ ✵ ✵

“So, what are werewolves?” I asked, deciding to begin my ‘interrogation’ with an innocuous-seeming question about which, admittedly, I was more than a little curious. Who better to ask than a werewolf himself? “You appear human—most of the time, at least.”

Anriq chuckled from beside me. “You won’t believe how many times I get asked that.”

I cast my new companion a sidelong glance. He seemed more at ease in the open marsh than he’d been in the grove and kept pace easily with me. If anything, I was the one slowing him down. Before we’d set out, I’d given him some rations. The youth had gulped them down in short order, accelerating his regeneration, and now all signs of the wounds he’d suffered while in hags’ clutches had vanished.

“Quite simply, we are players who carry the were-trait,” Anriq continued. “Some begin the Game bearing the trait; others earn it later.” He shrugged. “Sometimes all it takes is a bite from another were-player. Other times, the requirements can be more onerous. Only the Adjudicator understands why.”

“Then, werewolves are not the only weres. There are other types too?”

“Oh yes.”

“Hmm,” I mused, considering the possibilities. “And becoming a werewolf has nothing to do with your Class?”

“Not at all,” Anriq said. “Although, there are some Classes that are were-specific—such as my own.”

I glanced at the youth again. His comment reminded me I’d not yet inspected him fully. “Can I analyze you?”

“Go ahead,” Anriq replied, but despite the werewolf’s easy acquiescence, his gaze grew wary.

Reaching out with my mind, I sent probing tendrils of will toward the werewolf.

The target is Anriq, a level 102 were-rampager and human. He bears a Mark of Greater Dark, a Mark of Lesser Shadow, and a Mark of Wolf pack-brother.

Warning: this player has been branded a criminal by the sector’s ruling faction, the Triumvirate. Aiding him in any manner may result in charges being brought against you.

My eyebrows rose, surprised both by the youth’s comparatively low level and the Adjudicator’s warning. I suspected it was the criminal brand that had Anriq worried, but I chose to ignore it entirely. The Triumvirate were not my enemies, but nor was I inclined to further their agendas.

“You’re Darksworn?” I guessed, considering the strength of his Dark Mark.

Anriq nodded, his tension easing at my lack of reaction to the analyze. “The were-rampager is a melee-based Class and quite popular amongst werewolves. It enhances our already powerful beast forms even further, making weapons and armor superfluous.”

My eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Most of your pack is Darksworn, too, then?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean we—they—are a Dark faction. The werewolves serve the Triumvirate. No one else.”

“Is that so?” I said, glancing at him sharply. “Are you sworn to one of the Triumvirate then?” Analyze had not revealed Anriq to be marked by any Power, but I didn’t place as much faith in the ability as I once had. The youth’s Mark could be hidden.

“I’m not,” Anriq denied. “The Triumvirate considers every werewolf to be a follower.” His lips twisted. “But they have not chosen to ‘honor’ any besides Dathe with the bond of a Sworn. It’s through Dathe that they enforce their control over the pack.”

I held Anriq’s gaze, weighing him carefully. I sensed no untruth in the youth’s words, but he could simply be a better liar than I credited. If he served a Power, any Power, there was no way I could trust him. But if he didn’t…

“Which of the Triumvirate is Dathe sworn to?” I asked finally.

“Rampel.”

I nodded, unsurprised. “What else can you tell me about Dathe?”

“He is cruel,” Anriq answered promptly. “Sadistic. Evil.”

“Strong words,” I murmured.

The youth reared back in affront. “You don’t know him! You would feel the same if you’ve seen even a tenth of what Dathe’s done.”

“Alright, I’ll take your word for it,” I said, not wanting to rile him further. “How long has Dathe had the Torc?”

“Decades, or so says pack gossip. He won it from the previous pack leader over a century ago.”

I pursed my lips. “So Dathe is not the first werewolf leader to possess it?” Just how long had the Triumvirate kept the werewolves on a leash?

Anriq shook his head. “No. The pack has been around for centuries, and ever since anyone can remember, the Torc has always been held by the pack leader. Any werewolf may challenge the alpha for the right to possess it. Dathe himself has killed dozens of contenders during his reign.” His face turned glum. “But there haven’t been any new challengers in years. No one can defeat Dathe.”

“What’s the challenge?” I asked idly.

“Some sort of ritualized combat,” Anriq replied. “I’ve heard some of the elders refer to it as the Combat Trial.”

I drew breath sharply. “Are you sure?” I whispered.

He glanced at me oddly, noting my intense gaze. “That’s what the elders call it anyway.”

That name can’t be a coincidence, I thought, coming to a full halt. It has to be another of Atiras’ Wolf Trials. “This Trial… where does it take place?”

“Within the pack’s lair—the ruined keep of the lycan guard. There is a room in the keep’ basement; the only time it’s used is during the challenge.” He paused. “There are strong enchantments about the chamber. Amongst other things, it keeps the room in pristine condition.”

“Where is this keep?”

“On the southern edge of the mash. You can’t miss it.”

The fortress along the shoreline, I thought, realizing of which building he spoke. “And the victor’s prize is the Torc?”

Anriq nodded mutely.

“The loser just hands it over willingly?” I asked skeptically.

Anriq snorted. “No, the trials are to the death—final death. I’m not sure how the Trial’s enchantments work, but they stop any defeated contenders from ever arising again.”

The penalty for failure in the Mind Trials had been final death, too. Now, I was sure of it. The Combat Trials were another of Atiras’ Trials.

I have to find this chamber.

On the tail end of the thought, a Game message dropped into my mind.

On behalf of Wolf, the Adjudicator has allocated you a new task: A Perverted Trial. You have gained information on the location of another of Atiras’ Trials. If your source is correct, the Triumvirate have manipulated the Wolf Trials to serve their own ends. Wolf is incensed by this perversion of the ancient ways and requires you to end their vile practices.

Objective 1: Explore the sea fortress and confirm the Combat Trial’s location. Objective 2: Wrench control of the werewolf pack from the Triumvirate. Objective 3: Punish any pack leaders complicit in the pack’s subjugation.

I dismissed the Game message. Even without its prompting, I had ample reason to find the Trial.

“Can only werewolves enter the Combat Trial?” I asked as I resumed wading through the marsh.

“Of course—” Anriq began, then broke off. “You know, now that you mention it, I’m not sure.” He peered at me. “It may be that the elders consider anyone marked by Wolf to be a suitable candidate.”

I nodded, hoping that was the case.

“Don’t get your heart set on wearing the Torc, though,” he warned.

I glanced at him. “Why not?”

“For one, the Torc is soulbound. Dealing final death to Dathe is the only way you’ll get it, and no one has come close to succeeding at that. For another, not even Dante can wear the bloody thing.”

I frowned. The Torc’s soulbound properties came as no surprise. For such a powerful artifact, it was not unexpected. But that the pack alpha couldn’t use it caught me by surprise. “Why can’t he use it?

“Oh, Dathe can use it alright. It’s just unwearable.” Anriq shifted uneasily. “No pack leader has ever worn the Torc. It’s commonly believed among the pack that the Triumvirate tinkered with the relic to keep the alpha from running off with it. The damn thing works, but it can’t be worn—or moved.”

My frown deepened. “So, where does Dathe keep it?”

“In a magical chest crafted by the Triumvirate.” He pulled out a slim key. Where he’d been hiding it, I had no idea. “The chest itself is immovable and can only be opened by this.”

My eyes widened. “Is that the mysterious ‘it’?”

Grinning, the werewolf nodded.

“You stole the key from Dathe?” I guessed.

Anriq’s grin widened.

I chuckled, then guffawed. “Anriq, I think I’m beginning to like you. Come, tell me everything, and leave nothing out.”

✵ ✵ ✵

Three hours later, Anriq and I stood at the edge of the saltmarsh district. I had delayed my departure from the region to complete my questioning. Given Anriq’s status as a criminal, that seemed safer than venturing with him into the plague quarter’s more populous areas.

I had learned most of what I’d wanted to know from the werewolf, except when it came to the marshmen. On that subject, Anriq had been surprisingly closed mouth, repeatedly stating their secrets were not his to share. Eventually, I abandoned the topic entirely and questioned him on other things.

Anriq, it turned out, had been the hags’ prisoner for months. The sea witches had been experimenting on him in an attempt to divine the secrets of his regeneration. He had fallen foul of them while wandering the marsh. On the run from Dathe and his cronies, the young werewolf had been alone, without help, and easy prey for the hags.

Surprisingly, Anriq had not stinted on sharing information on the werewolf pack itself. Given the specific details the youth had shared, I no longer harbored any doubts about his loyalties.

Anriq hated Dathe’s and his masters. He’d fled the pack to escape the alpha’s harsh rule, but Dathe, no fool, had convinced the triumvirate knights to declare Anriq a criminal, effectively trapping the youth in the saltmarsh—the one place in the city that other players rarely ventured.

But life alone on the saltmarsh was not easy, and though he did not ask it, I could tell from the werewolf’s imploring looks that he desperately wanted out—which left me with a difficult decision to make. My disease protection enchantment had nearly run its course, and it was time to go.

The question was: did I leave alone?

“What now?” Anriq asked, unconsciously echoing my own sentiments.

Turning about, I faced the youth squarely. “I have one last question for you.”

“Yes?” he asked eagerly.

I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to know. “You’ve accepted my lead awfully quickly. You’ve not questioned me once since we left the grove; you’ve followed me unhesitatingly; and you’ve answered all my queries more fully than I’d any right to expect.” I paused. “Why?”

Anriq shrugged. “You’re an alpha.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to go on, but when he didn’t, I exclaimed, “That can’t be all there is to it! You must have more reasons than that!”

Anriq remained silent for so long I didn’t think he would answer. “You’re an alpha,” he finally repeated. “But I get the impression you’ve not been one for long. Correct?”

I frowned, unsure what he was getting at but willing to hear him out. “That’s true.”

“That explains your confusion. Wolf and scion though you are, you don’t yet comprehend Pack,” Anriq said.

I wanted to be offended, but there was no judgment in the youth’s tone, only dry statement of fact.

“To be part of a pack…” Anriq’s gaze grew distant. “… is to be complete. There is strength in a pack. Comfort. Order, too. Its call is fierce—nearly irresistibly so at times. There have been many nights when I’ve laid awake, regretting my decision to leave my pack mates. Even hating Dathe as I do, and even knowing the punishment awaiting me on my return, I’ve nearly gone back—simply to belong again.”

He met my gaze. “No wolf can walk alone forever. Not you. Not me. You’re an alpha, and in that, there is hope for me to find a pack again—one untainted by Dathe. Do you understand now?”

I nodded slowly. What Anriq described, I’d felt myself. Not to the same extent the youth had, but enough so to understand the allure he described.

Taking a deep breath, I turned around. “Come on then. It’s time we got going.”

Anriq didn’t move.

I glanced over my shoulder. Hope, desperation, and fear vied on the werewolf’s face. “I— I… can’t leave,” he said. “Nexus is too dangerous for me. If the knights find me, they will—”

“I know,” I said. “But I intend on getting you out of the city, and I think I know someone who can help. Will you trust me?”

For a drawn-out moment, Anriq said nothing. Then, he climbed up the bank bordering the saltmarsh. “Yes,” he whispered fervently.