Chapter 23: Chapter 23.

The fool of a man had ignored my advice.

“T-They could talk,” he said with fear in his voice. “I heard them speak to each other. I barely escaped with my life!”

I always thought that fools were lucky, and he was both. According to the commander, if the undead could talk, they weren’t zombies. When the stars aligned, something worse would rise from the dead. And this time, there were six of them.

I stood up to leave. “Well, I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”

The commander scoffed. “What? To clean up your mess?”

“My mess? I didn’t bring them back from the dead.”

“No, but you did kill them.”

“So? They were going to kill me and my friends. You would have done the same thing.”

“I would, certainly. But afterwards I’d have stuck around to make sure that they stayed dead.”

“You’ll need more help than I could give,” I said, and showed him my amber colored number. “I would just get in the way. And these men you have here, they’ll be a snack for what awaits them down below.”

“Sure, it’ll be dangerous. But every one of my men won’t run and hide.”

I groaned. Nobody tells me I’m a coward. “Alright, I’ll help. But first I need to buy some things.”

“Good. I sent word to the Silvers, but it may take some time before everyone is ready. Check back later in a moon or two.”

I nodded, grabbed my gear and exited the office. A moon or two gave [Backtrack] time to come off cooldown, and time for me buy upgrades. I wasn’t sure what I could buy, but with eighty crowns to spend I was certain I could find something worthwhile. If nothing else, I craved a juicy steak. And another cup of coffee.

The men in the courtyard eyed me warily, but didn’t say anything. I wondered what commander Brent might have told them about me. Did they think he was letting a murderer back out on the street? He didn’t exactly verify it was Stefan and his men at the crypts. Only that I was telling the truth about the dead rising.

I walked out the brotherhood fortress, heading west to the market. I needed a proper scabbard for my sword. It looked odd for the sword to be stuck to my tower shield like it was magnetic, or glued on.

Everywhere I looked, citizens were cutting down bamboo trees. Leaves of red and orange carpeted the ground. Smell of burned leaves hung in the air.

A woman with a child of about six years of age was sitting by the side of the road. I couldn’t help but look. Both had big expressive eyes, like sparkling emeralds. Faces like cats. Black fur. She wore a red shawl over her head. A beggar, and she wasn’t the only one. Poverty was indiscriminate no matter the world, or race. It tugged at my heartstrings. My daughter would have been seven.

The woman pulled her child closer to her as I walked near. Did I look so intimidating? The child wasn’t afraid. I reached into the satchel to take out a crown. The woman ducked lower, pulled her feet in, looked ready to flee. I handed a large coin to the child, and kept walking.

A few streets over, I ducked into the cobbler’s shop, and was greeted by smells of leather and clanking of a small hammer. Shoes of all shapes and sizes clogged the shelves. Each one had a tag listing the price.

Behind the counter was a short, stout man. Next to him on the wall, all manner of tools used in shoe making hung neatly in rows. Also, a shelf out of customers’ reach with magic items, four pairs: three boots, and sandals ranging from 20 to 100 crowns.

He glanced up over his dusty spectacles, grumbled. “I don’t do charity work.”

Did I look so disheveled? I needed a shave and a bath, that was true. I probably smelled something fierce.

“I need a serious pair of boots that will last,” I told him.

“Gold and silver only, I don’t trade in scraps and junk.”

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I reached into the satchel, pulled out a fistful of crowns, dropped them on the counter. “Tall, up to the knee.”

He stopped working, glanced at my feet, walked about the store to pick out a few items. Back at the counter, he placed a pair of boots, a few patches of cloth, and a small ceramic vial.

“Not that you’d listen, nobody does,” he said in a gloomy tone. “But ... dry the foot-wraps every moon, oil the boots monthly. And they will last. Five crowns.”

The boots looked rugged, just the way I wanted. And they’d be even better once I reinforced them with steel plates. I tried on the boots with the foot-wraps. They fit perfect. I was so impressed, that I decided not to haggle the price. I slid five crowns to the side from the pile, and returned the rest into the coin purse inside the satchel.

“Thank you,” I said.

He smiled politely, returned to his work without saying a word.

Next stop, scabbard. I walked down the street appreciating my new boots. The leather straps and buckles kept them in place without my foot sliding about. They were as comfortable as walking on clouds. I took a minute to re-shape the greaves over the boots.

At the weapon-smith, I found what I was looking for. I bought two scabbards of proper shape, one for me, and one for Dandee. Simple, rugged, made out of bamboo. Thirty silver each. Both came with a belt.

The selection of magic weapons was meager. Swords, spears and axes that stayed sharp and hit true. And for the price being asked, I didn’t quite see the value. Better magic items must have been sold elsewhere, and not open for public.

Most importantly, I bought another sixty-three pounds of steel in the form of foot long bars. They weighed seven pounds and cost eighty silver each. I bought nine of them.

So as not to have to carry that much weight, I melded half them and animated the clump next to my tower shield. It looked odd, but I didn’t care. I kept my arm at the shield and assumed most people thought I was holding it up.

Finally, I also bought a bag of bamboo charcoal, three t-bone steaks, a bag of roasted coffee beans, and a glass bottle of milk cream. Pastries too. But, I wasn’t done. I still had another 63 crowns.

There was one item I was desperate to have. I felt loaded up like a mule, but in many video games I had played back on Earth, inventory was never an issue.

I went searching about the market place, and asked about for magical bags. People directed me to a small but fancy shop to the north of the market square. As I walked north, the streets got cleaner, and no beggars were in sight. Patrols were frequent too. A few of them looked at me cautiously, and followed my movement for a time.

I found the place by the shingle hanging outside the door showing a sack. The bell at the door dinged as I entered, and a gnome looked up at me from a book he was reading at the counter. His face turned into a frown. At the front of the shop were ordinary bags, but it were the ones behind the gnome that I was interested in.

I walked up closer and his frown deepened. I ignored him. The prices were something else. The cheapest was a burlap sack at 20. Then satchels, and backpacks of various sizes. The bigger they were, the more expensive they got. All the way to a thousand crowns for something the size of a small fridge.

I pointed at the one for fifty crowns, ordinary in size. “How big is that?”

“A yard in every direction,” he said.

“And the weight?”

“Half.”

That was just enough for what I had in mind. Though more would have been better.

“Good.”

I counted out five stacks of ten on the counter, and the gnome’s mood improved with every stack. He was smiling by the fifth. He took down the backpack and I tested the dimensions and weight. It was just as advertised.

He nodded. “Pleasure doing business with you. Come again.”

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