Right now, it added to his bulk and meant the pesky dwarf couldn’t jostle him out of the way of the tower entrance. So, Tripp stayed where he was and he examined the carvings surrounding the door. He tried to find a pattern in them.

  He needed to be quick. Every time someone figured out the secret to getting in, the tower changed. Then, slowly as if being carved with great care by invisible masons, images would appear in the stone.

  It was always a rush as the players tried to work out how to get in. There were only dozens of people there for the first day. As word of the tower spread, hundreds of players gathered in the Bone Plains. They were all desperate to enter the monolith.

  Deals were made. Players would figure out the clue, and then they’d sell access to others. It seemed that four players could enter at any one time. More practical players took their guildmates in with them. Each player complemented the others’ skills so they had the best chance at surviving.

  Greedier players braved the tower alone, sick at the thought of sharing any loot. They arrogantly believed they could conquer it alone.

  When the new carvings appeared, the mood around the plains changed. The tension crackled. Everyone wanted to be the one to decode the symbols and carvings that changed upon each new entry.

  Tripp had gotten close the last time. He thought he’d almost figured it out, but a warlock, half-gnome, red wizard, and troll-assassin beat him to it. He had to watch in frustration as they entered the tower and the symbols eroded.

  He wouldn’t miss it this time. He’d come back to Soulboxe to relax, but he’d found himself wrapped up in the mystery of the tower.

  And he loved every second of it. He had to get in. The tower wouldn’t be here forever, and he wouldn’t miss his chance.

  So now he knelt by the doorway and he studied and stared and he willed his mind to click into gear.

  At first, he felt like an archaeologist who’d stumbled upon an Egyptian tomb. He was puzzled at the series of seemingly random pictures chipped into the stone.

  The most noticeable thing was that the doors themselves had changed. Where before they had been two oval-shaped doors made from iron, now they were a barricade of steel vines. They were knitted so tightly together that it was impossible to either see what was beyond.

  Tripp heard a cry, and he saw the crowd around him suddenly part.

  A barbarian ran through the mass of players, sword held high, and he shouted a word that Tripp didn’t understand. Blood-red light gleamed all along his blade, and as he reached the doors, he struck them with all his might.

  There was a blinding flash of light. When sword struck steel the clang was deafening, like an explosion in his earshot.

  The sound rang in Tripp’s mind. It was so loud that he couldn’t even think, so loud that it sent him into a daze. He stumbled away from the door with the chime of bells in his head, cursing the level of realism in Soulboxe.

  It took a full minute for his head to clear and even then, he still heard the bells. The players around were affected, and some stood over the barbarian, who lay bruised on the ground. They fired imaginative curses at him for his stupidity.

  The steel vine door, meanwhile, was unaffected, with not a single dent nor even a mark on its polish.

  Tripp felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Etta, smiling wide to show bovine teeth and gums, the sunlight glinting off her curved horns.

  “At least we know you can’t force the doors open,” she said.

  Tripp put his fingers in his ear and waggled them, as though that would stop the dim ringing in his head.

  Etta handed him a small glass vial with purple liquid in the bottom.

  “It’s a potion of clarity,” she said. “It’ll stop the ringing.”

  He gulped it back and the bells ceased. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. What do you make of it?”

  He studied the door again. There were markings on the archway above it, but he didn’t understand the words.

  Nu san, nu fore. A manathight da gor

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It might mean, ‘don’t try and force the doors open, you idiots,’” said Etta. “Or maybe we better head to the library in Windborne and translate it.”

  Tripp nodded. “I’ll fast travel there. Just give me a sec.”

  As well as the strange writing, there were four other carvings near the door. These were chipped into the stone around it, two on either side. There was a carving of a mask, a staff, a hammer, and a shield with a cross inside it.

  Below each of these carvings, part of the stone had been dug away to form a basin. The meaning of that was clear, at least - they’d need to put something in each basin.

  The question was, what did they need to leave? What offering would make the tower open its doors to them?

  The key was in the writing.

  “We better hurry,” he said. “Meet you at the library.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Windborne was named after the storms that battered it endlessly. Every house and every shop was set on foundations made to withstand the harshest storms. It was a terrible place to live if you loved having good hair days.

  The residents didn’t bother to paint or decorate the outside their buildings. There was no point. Whether wind, rain, or sleet, the storms loved to drag statues from ledges, and fling tiles from roofs.

  To combat this, settlers of Windborne had planted a forest around the city. This dense grouping of trees took some of the sting out of the weather. They had erected forty-feet high walls to protect the residents and their homes. Every mayor won their election by promising to build the walls higher. They swore to use better materials than the last person to hold office.

  This meant that you could see how the city had grown just by studying its walls. The foundations were clay, but the further up you looked, these turned to brick, to cement. They then changed to other, strange materials whose colors and smells spoke of magic. Tripp was sure there was artificery woven into each brick.

  “You’ve…uh...you’ve been staring at those walls for ten minutes, orc. We’ve got a phallic symbol to enter,” said Etta.

  “Sorry. I get carried away when I see stuff like that. The library is this way.”

  “I was going to ask,” she said. She nodded at his head. It took him a second to register that she meant the symbols that floated above him, like every other player. “Armorer, artificery, and…don't tell me, let me guess…mining?”

  “My skills? Those are my top three, yeah.”

  “You know this isn’t a 1920s depression-era simulator, right? Mining? Really?”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing if you’d complimented it with something offensive. Dark magic or blood curses or some kind of swordplay.”

  Tripp eyed the symbols beside Etta’s head now. There was an eye, a pair of hands with light coming from them, and a sword with a skull behind it.

  “I’m thinking you leveled the ability to see stuff. That’s a great skill, by the way. You have the wash-your-hands skill, and you learned how to stick a sword in a skull that’s already dead.”

  Etta smiled. “Deific sense, hands of light, and swordplay with an undead specialty. The cornerstone of any paladin’s breakfast. You’ll get to see them someday, if you’re lucky.”

  “How is it, being a paladin?”

  “I’d class change if I could afford it, but they make you open a new account just to do that,” she said.

  Tripp nodded. He’d read about this. “The creators of Soulboxe were obsessed with dungeons and dragons. They wanted to make a game where people would commit to role play, especially with it being in VR. If you can flit from character to character, you don’t feel any attachment to your avatar. If it’s the one you’re stuck with, then you play the role.”

  “That and charging for class changes makes them more money.”

  “Hey, they’ve gotta make it. Soulboxe saps more cash than you think.”

  “You best friends with the company accountant or something?”

  Tripp thought back to some of the chats he’d had with Lucas, co-creator of Soulboxe, over the last year. “Something like that. Anyway, they relaxed the rule a little; they let people have up to 5 class changes on their account. You’ve only got to pay if you go over that. And they have class-change Sunday every so often. Usually when a new expansion comes out.”

  “Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve been unhappy with a choice. You ever get that? So many choices that you know no matter which one you pick, you’re gonna regret it?”

  “There must be a reason you settled on paladin, though. Why would you want to change again?”

  “The oath,” said Etta. She said this and left it there, as though Tripp was supposed to know what she meant.

  “Oath?”

  “When you play as a paladin, you start with offensive and healing skills. That’s a great basis, but it comes with a price. You’ve gotta choose an oath to follow. You can pick from a few options, or you can create your own and see if the AI accepts it.”

  “What kind of oath?”

  “Stuff like the Oath of Righteous Vengeance, where you hunt certain bastardly characters. Or the Oath of Devotion where you swear your sword to the church. That's a stinker. You can’t do anything in-game that goes against their teachings or you’ll get a penalty.”

  “And what’s your oath?”

  “The standard paladin stuff; always protect people who are in need. Come on, orc. Let’s go.”

  Tripp had made the journey to Windborne library dozens of times. Many players overlooked it. They didn't realize that the developers didn’t code libraries into the game for the hell of it, or to add to the realism.

  No, there were secrets written into the books in this world, and you just had to find the right ones.

  When he and Etta headed inside the library, they found it gloomier than usual. Someone had latched shut all the windows, and the shelves were lit by lamps a safe distance away from the books. The smell was one of dust and potpourri, the stench of the dried flowers doing their best to chase away the aroma of age. Whispering came from across the room, where three players were in hushed conversation.

  “Storm’s coming,” said a voice.

  It was the librarian. He was a hobgoblin of human height with eyes like dying fire embers. His ears that stuck out so much he would take flight in one of Windborne’s stronger gusts.

  He nodded at the lamps that were burning all over the library, even though it was daylight outside.

  “Storm’s on its way, so we shut and bolt the windows. Have to light it by candlelight,” he said.

  “When are storms never not coming?” Etta answered.

  “Never not? Such a curious turn of phrase. When aren’t they coming, I think you mean?”

  “What’s the turn of phrase for ‘if you don’t stop your patronizing me, I’ll stick my sword up your ass and toast you over a fire?’

  “Guards!” cried the goblin.

  Tripp heard a gust of wind blow by him. He felt its cold tease on his face before four puffs of smoke appeared in front of them. They formed into the shape of four men who wore light iron armor and wielded swords. Painted on their breastplates were a raincloud with a tornado-like wind underneath it.

  The librarian pointed at Etta. “Escort the bull out of here. Take her to a pasture outside of the city and let her graze. She needs grass if she’s to give milk,” said the librarian. “Remove her orc friend, too.”

  “I’m a minotaur, actually,” said Etta. “And if I was a bull, you couldn’t milk me. Bulls don’t have udders, dumbass.”

  Tripp held up his hands. “Wait a second. I’ve been coming here every day, Franek. You know me, remember? The orc who comes in to read about making swords and shields? I want to check out a few books. I’m sure you can overlook this. Just like I have overlooked a certain something for you recently…”

  The librarian sighed. “You can stay, but the overgrown cow can wait in the streets and see what a storm really looks like.”

  Etta snorted, and the golden ring hooped through her nose shook and rattled.

  Tripp whispered to her. “He’s stubborn as hell. He almost banned me once for coughing too loudly. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. I’ll go buy some stuff for when we get into the tower.”

  “No problem. Oh, before I forget…”

  Tripp accessed his menu until he found an option that he rarely had cause to use, and then pressed it.

  “Oh!” said Etta. “A friend request. I have so many friends on my list, but most of them are people I met, quested with, and then never saw again. Here’s to short friendships!” she said.

  A notification floated in Tripp’s vision.

  You are now friends with Etta – Paladin – Level 29

  With that done, Etta left the library. She gave an exaggerated bullish snort before disappearing out of the doors.

  Alone, Tripp walked through the lamp-lit hallways and amongst the towering shelves. He found the language section, and it was here that the utter wealth of detail in Soulboxe hit him.

  There were hundreds of books covering too many languages to count. None of them were placeholders, either. They weren’t just decoration. He flipped through a few of them and found that each contained fully developed languages.

  It floored him to think that the developers had gone such lengths to make Soulboxe real. He guessed that the languages had been developed by Boxe, the genius AI who used to run Soulboxe. For him, creating a new language would have been as easy as a kid drawing a crayon figure on his parents’ bedroom wall. His intentions would have been just a childish, too. Boxe had a playful streak that had eventually turned dark and gotten the AI in trouble.

  The sheer wealth of books left Tripp with a problem; where the hell did he start?

  As he paced beneath the shelves and stared at the titles on the spines of the books, the narrow hallway began to fill. Players joined him, and he didn’t need the genius IQ of an AI to know why. They wanted to decipher the words written above the tower door.

  And he needed to beat them to it.

  As more players filtered through, he began to worry. One player, in particular, unnerved him. She was a tanned gnome with three purple dots on the center of her forehead. She had a leather inventory bag around her shoulder, which made a tinkling sound when she walked. Three metal symbols floated above her head; a tin potion vial, a zinc staff, and a book made of gold.

  In Soulboxe, a player could learn as many skills as they had the patience for. Their most developed three skills were displayed above them, symbolized by metal shapes.

  Tripp had a hammer , goggles, and a magnifying lens that represented his underlay skill. Underlay let him look at something and see what materials and minerals composed it.

  The gnome had a gold book above her head, and that meant she was a scholar. This was worrying because gold as the highest rank you could earn in a skill. He didn’t need to be a genius computer to know that a scholar’s skills were especially useful in a library.

  This gnome girl would use her scholar skills to find the right book before everyone else.

  Feeling anxious, Tripp tried to figure a way to beat her. There was no point trying each book in turn; it’d take him a year to get through them all.

  How could he find which language he needed and then decipher the text before the scholar?

  His idea was to speak to the librarian, who was sitting at his desk and stuffing a wedge of green tobacco into a pipe. His fingers were stained by the stuff so that his skin looked like it was turning moldy.

  “Can I help you?” Franek said.

  “I need a favor.”

  Franek stuffed another pinch of tobacco into his pipe. “I let you stay in my library even after you let a foul-mouthed bull loose. Is that not favor enough?”

  Tripp leaned closer. “Remember two days ago? You needed someone to deliver a message to Darcy? You wanted it done with way more subtlety than an innocent note needed.”

  This was a quest that Tripp had unlocked after spending hours in Windborne library. He was reading a book about sword artificery when Franek approached. He had an anxious expression and he was wringing his stained hands.

  This turned into a quest to deliver a secret note to a barmaid in a local tavern, the Frosty Giant. As much as the librarian had instructed Tripp not to look at the note, he’d figured what the hell? This was a game. Secrets were there to be uncovered.

  The note was the most nauseatingly smutty thing he’d ever read. It was an eight-line poem. It described in sickening detail what the librarian would do to the barmaid. The acts he had planned for when her husband, the barkeep, left town to buy supplies.

  Secrets were a weakness. The librarian was going to have to learn that now. If a man wanted to be invincible he didn’t need a shiny suit or armor or magic powers. He just needed to be honest with himself, to never hide away things that he felt made him weak. Most weakness began in the mind.

  Except for weakness to dragon fire, mage curses, and things like that. Those weaknesses were very, very real.

  In any case, Tripp had always lived by that rule. He always tried to be honest with the words he spoke. If you were upfront about your intentions and your limitations, nobody could hurt you. It meant that he didn’t tell white lies, he didn’t break commitments. Sometimes that was tough, but he preferred it that way.

  His words found their mark now on Franek, judging by how the librarian’s demeanor changed.

  “A favor?” he said, setting his pipe down. “Come on then. Out with it. I finish my shift soon and I have…um…business to attend to.”

  “I bet you do,” said Tripp. “Nu san, nu fore. A manathight da gor. Have you ever heard that before?”

  “Let’s see. It isn’t one of the five common languages, that’s for sure. I would remember someone speaking it. Sounds rather guttural, doesn’t it? Like a wolf coughing up a hairball. Hmm…”

  Tripp saw that the language section of the library looked like an Apple store on launch day. The place was so cramped that people were pushing into each other to squeeze through.