Wick

The Past

"The strong live long but the bold get the gold." -The Sprawler's Code

Wick clutched the odd glass amulet resting under his shirt. It was the only token of proof his father had braved the treacherous Labyrinth. The amulet was surprisingly heavy, its weight filling Wick with both pride and sorrow. His father's Skill and the amulet were the only things that could be considered a legacy.

His father had called him Wick, short for Wicked because he always seemed to find himself in the thick of trouble. One time, his father joked while resting in the middle of an easy dungeon expedition, "I can't ever tell if you start the trouble or if the trouble finds you. And you've got a wicked heart to boot, son. All you think about is chasing gold. You know, trouble with you is like the dragon and the egg. Which one came first? I guess only time will tell."

Wick's response had only been a bright-eyed stare down the long tunnel of the dungeon. "I would love to be a dragon. They have hoards of gold."

The comment got a full belly laugh from his father. It was the last time Wick had heard that laugh full of so much abandon and joy. He missed it. After that, his father's laughs only came in wheezes and blood.

That had been six months ago, before his father's return from the Labyrinth missing an arm and full of terror. Wick had been forced to portal into a new and more remote town every week until they ran out of funds. His father had died asleep and left Wick alone in this backwater pisshole of a port city.

He pushed the memories down deep in his empty belly as he kept his gaze on the wide streets of Outlast. Wick hadn't eaten all day, but he didn't mind the hunger. It kept him sharp, alert. If things went well, he'd treat himself to food from his hidden stash.

The sun had passed over the titanic shadow of Grey Mountain that towered behind the city. To the untrained eye, not much was happening under the midday light -- merchants cheating the sailors into overpaying for their wares, young men flirting with young women and failing. These were honest things.

To Wick, the freshly cobbled streets of the small city were full of dark activity.

Between buildings and under low canopies were the other orphans. They littered the streets like piles of swept dirt, clogging the shadowed crevices of the city. Many were in groups of three or four. Some stood alone, separate from the others. But Wick knew those were just scouts for the groups.

A few of the orphans tried their hand at begging. None of them succeeded. They were too much a part of Outlast's scenery, like the market signs or dockside bells ringing to alert incoming ships. Basically, they were ignored. That was to be expected for a refugee city like this.

The orphans here probably didn't even know what a real city looked like or that they had institutions which housed homeless and parentless children. Wick and his father had traveled to some of the most beautiful cities in the country for the guild. If he showed these children a toilet, they might have lapped up the clean water like a parched dog. But he couldn't blame them for not knowing that they lived in the dirt.

His eyes focused on a particular group of five orphans. They were the strongest of the orphan factions because they were the oldest, and therefore the biggest. And since they were the biggest, they were the most likely to get food to keep themselves big.

From the looks of them, Wick guessed most were about eight or nine years old. So, a year or two younger than him. They were ahead of him on the street, only about ten paces away. Wick was certain they didn't know he was there.

The group's leader was a girl with pale-green hair the color of seaweed. That means she has some nymph blood in her, Wick thought. Pale green means either her mother or father was one of the Mar, the oceanids.

While most of the other orphans' eyes flicked nervously across the street like a flock of birds looking for the first worm, hers were steady and wide, taking in the entire scene all at once.

A month earlier, Wick had heard one of the orphans call her Pebbles. It clearly wasn't her real name. But it was what she was called. None of the orphans shared something as intimate as their real names. Or maybe she was forced to choose a name since her parents weren't around.

Three large boys, all with steel-grey hair of various lengths, stood behind her. Each were bigger than both Wick and Pebbles, but they were clearly waiting for the girl's signal.

She nodded to the fifth and final member of their group, who Wick guessed was her younger brother. He too had green hair, though more forest-green than her pale seaweed. Unlike the other four in his group, he was diminutive and frail. His limbs were thin and he didn't walk much. The small boy acted as the group's scout.

It's some sort of chronic illness, Wick concluded without much compassion. Reminds me of how the older Sprawlers looked when they dove too deep in the dungeons. Exposing themselves to noxious gases tripped from traps or lingering diseases from the rotten corpses of monsters seeped in their bones and thinned their breaths.

Wick didn't feel any sort of connection with the other orphans of the city. It wasn't because he had been around the country and seen things they hadn't. It was because he simply didn't have room in his heart to care. All he wanted was to get out of Outlast and join the Sprawler's Guild, like his father before him.

Of course, portaling the wormhole to a city with a guild would require more money than he had. Much more.

After that, he could figure things out while making money as a Sprawler, dungeoneering the mines. He didn't know how yet, but Wick would make more money than his dad. Maybe he'd be able to afford to go to the Skillia before he turned sixteen and enter his mandatory military service as an officer rather than a grunt. Maybe if his dad had had that kind of money, he could have afforded high-tiered equipment before entering the Labyrinth.

Then he might be still alive.

Either way, Wick needed to get that money first for the wormhole. Then he'd use the wormhole to get far away from Outlast. To do that, he needed Pebbles' crew to carry out their clumsy plan.

Of course, it was a risk. Wick had kept himself far from the watchful gazes of the other orphans for six months, which had been a hard thing to do. They had been nervous about his presence at first. Many even tried to recruit him. But he turned them down. Except for his father, people couldn't be trusted. The only thing you could trust was the sharpness of your mind and the weight of good coin.

Money kept you fed. Money kept you warm. And if his dad had had more of it, money would have kept him alive.

A sailor Wick hadn't seen before walked by the alley. It looked like the guy hadn't noticed Wick was tucked neatly under one of the canopy shadows. This was the moment. Wick would be making himself known in a way he wasn't completely comfortable, but the risk would be worth it.

"The strong live long," Wick muttered under his breath, the words giving him strength. "But the bold get the gold."

At the sight of the man, Pebbles’ younger brother made a silent coughing motion which acted as an awkward signal. The girl nodded to the three shaggy grey-haired boys behind her. She held a knife in a reverse grip, ready for a slashing motion.

One of the boys bumped into the sailor, jostling the young man's purse tied to his waist. The other two shaggy boys blocked the man's path and wore apologetic expressions. "We're sorry, sir! Our brother is a big old oaf."

Wick suppressed a chuckle at the performance. The boys weren't going to have a career on stage any time soon, but it did leave the naive-looking sailor bumbling in place.

Pebbles walked fluidly as a stream down the cobblestone street behind the surprised sailor. Without her noticing, Wick breathed out slowly and trailed behind her footsteps like a living shadow. Pebbles' hand moved once when she was half a foot away from the sailor, the knife gliding across his pouch.

Their plan was cliché and clumsy, but they would have gotten away with it. That is, if Wick hadn't been there.

Wick pushed Pebbles on her back and yelled in the most outraged, noble voice he could muster. "Sir! This girl here just tried to rob you!"

The purse fell with a heavy thud on the street, copper and iron coins spilling out. Wick could practically feel every orphan's gaze on the iron coins. He gulped at the square pennies and kept his eyes from growing wide as a shield. The last thing he wanted to look like was what he actually was, a greedy little orphan.

Pebbles and her friends shot Wick a viperous glance before sprinting off in several directions. The look of murder on her face burned in his mind for a moment before he dismissed the thought.

He noticed the scout of the group had already disappeared as well. From the looks on their faces, Wick knew he would be a target. He had known the risks. It was time to see it through.

As a Sprawler, his father had taught him dungeoneering skills, not how to fight people. The anger of a few orphans was a danger he was willing to take. Wick had learned to not be seen long before he found himself lurking in the shadows of Outlast. It would have to be enough.

He and his dad had never been rich. Iron pennies were about as wealthy as they had ever gotten, what with maintaining their equipment and guild fees. They had bronze pennies once or twice, but never more. Even so, they always had iron in the dozens before his father died. Now, a few on the street made him drool.

The sailor seemed too shocked by what had happened to say anything. He was young, probably early twenties, and had the naive, chubby face of someone who had a peaceful childhood.

Perfect, Wick thought.

He immediately collapsed to his knees to pick up the scattered coins. He could have palmed a few of them, but his dad had taught him to hate thieves. "If you're going to take someone's money," his father had once lectured, "do it honestly, like the merchants do. Dungeoneers do not steal."

Wick had held back from pointing out that the only difference between a thief and a merchant was a matter of law, but the lesson had stayed with him even now. If I can't steal, then everything else is fair game, he thought.

Although it pained him to do so, Wick handed the pouch back to the sailor with all the coins inside. He held back a wince.

"Thanks, kid," said the man. His eyes flicked between darkened alleys nervously. "My brothers told me to avoid going into the city itself, but it was a new port and I was curious. Well, I'm off now. Should be heading back straight to the ship. Lingering around here seems to be a bad idea."

Wick didn't give two plumin's hoots about the sailor's curiosity. Still, he put on the nicest smile he could and wrung his hands sheepishly for maximum effect. He stared straight into the man's eyes. "I'm glad I stopped those other orphans, sir. I may be hungry like them, but stealin' ain't right."

He made sure to put a special emphasis on 'other orphans', which gave the sailor pause. The young man held Wick with a curious glance, his face twisting into confusion. Despite being an actual orphan, Wick did not look like one. His clothes weren't the weathered and tattered tunics favored by the street urchins of Outlast.

Instead, he wore a simple shirt and overalls under an oiled leather jacket with many pockets.

Wick's words and his outfit must have thrown the sailor for a loop because he asked, "You're an orphan? With the overalls and jacket, I thought you were one of the Sprawlers. I didn't think you Spades and Picks had a guild out this far from the capital."

They don't, Wick thought, upset at the reminder. He kept his patience in check, still holding his smile. He threw in a bit of a sad puppy-dog look in there for good measure. This part was critical. Wick's heart raced in anticipation.

Luckily, the man seemed to be as dumb as they came.

"Dad got jumped by a bunch of bandits in town," Wick lied easily, expanding his performance. "He took most of them down, but one got away with all our coin."

The sailor seemed to take in Wick's story with more caution than before.

Wick had planned on this, and reached inside his jacket, pulling out a small iron shield that rested comfortably in his palm. Embedded in the shield were a pickax and spade crossed at the center, the symbol of the international dungeoneering guild, the Sprawlers.

The sailor's eyes widened and Wick wrung his hands some more. This was what he was waiting for. He said, "So you can see, I'm stuck here and can't even afford a portal back to Glimmerrest."

He let that sink in while he watched the man's face go from shock to comprehension to guilt at having doubted his story. Wick pressed. "I'm sorry, sir. I shouldn't bother you with my story. It's just seeing another traveler like my dad... You remind me so much of hi--"

The sailor rested his hand gently on Wick's shoulder, tears coming to his eyes. And even though he was probably only a decade older than Wick, the man said, "It's okay, son. I can't give you much, but us travelers gotta stick together. Am I right?"

Wick turned his gaze down away from the sailor's sight and tried not to barf. The man might have thought he was crying. Wick wasn't a good enough actor to cry on command. He just didn't want the sailor to see the smile on his face.