The Legacy Builder (The Chronicles Of Lincoln Hart Book 1) Read online

  The Legacy Builder

  The Chronicles Of Lincoln Hart - Book 1

  Ember Lane

  Copyright © 2018 by Ember Lane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  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

  About the Author

  LitRPG Links

  1

  Arbiter Finequill

  The creature was about four feet high and was pacing up and down the cramped cell on its hind legs while appearing to ponder a conundrum. It had little, black eyes that gave away no hint about its mood and whiskers dotted each side of its snout. Its face was rat-like in every way, if you discounted the gray-and-white ringed horns that curled out from just above its perky, little ears. Finequill was its name, and Lincoln couldn’t help but think that the ruby-red quill in its paw was indeed rather fine.

  “What did you say?” Finequill asked, his nose twitching with inquiry.

  “I said, ‘I want to be a builder.’”

  Lincoln’s words told Finequill that’s he wanted, but his manner betrayed a conflicted heart. Though he’d said the answer quite emphatically, his body squirmed slightly as if he was unsure, and his eyes creased in their corners almost hinting to Finequill that he might really want to become a warrior.

  Finequill was wearing a brown shop coat that hung all the way to his open-pawed boots, and he had a rather stained shirt tucked under it, likely no more than a dirty vest. The cell Lincoln had spawned in was equally filthy. Dirty straw littered its planked wood floor, and smudges of red stained its sharp gray-stone walls. One of which had a serving hatch and door breaking up the bloodied stone. The door was made of iron, heavy iron, which had once been painted but was now just a smattering of rust blisters. It was the type of door that looked quite capable of imprisoning a giant. In every way the room resembled a cell and not the game’s starting point. Lincoln wondered if something had gone wrong, if there was some glitch in the game’s programming.

  Finequill looked down at his roster.

  “Why?” he asked, clearly testing Lincoln, clearly looking for those hints that he didn’t really want to be a builder. Finequill glowered at him with growing impatience. “It’s late, and builders take longer to process. Warriors are simple: Here’s your sack; here’s a knife, pointed end—stabby, stabby. Off you go. Builders, not so simple. Are you sure you’re sure?”

  “I want to build things. Where am I?” Lincoln asked, through gritted teeth. He knew that where was the Land of Barakdor, but he was hoping for a more localized idea.

  “Build things…” Finequill muttered, ignoring Lincoln’s question. “There’s questing and battling—you could be a quester. Things are heating up around here; the king needs warriors…and questers—loads of questers. How about questing?” He grinned a mousy grin, possibly using some Charisma on Lincoln. “If you build it, they won’t come, and it’ll only get burned down.”

  Lincoln knew why Finequill had switched tack to questing. Questors were almost certainly easy to process too. All they needed was a knife (stabby-stabby), a magic map (or a fake one—either got rid of them), and a promise of gold, jewels, and magical artifacts, and they were good to go.

  Questers were easy. Warriors were easy. Builders…

  “Are you telling me that this game has started right in the middle of a war?” Lincoln asked, looking up from the cell’s bloodstained bed.

  “Game, what game?” Finequill queried, a look of surprise crossing his furry face. He chuckled and walked toward the iron door, lurking by it for just a second. “Builder? You sure about that? Last chance.”

  “Builder,” Lincoln confirmed, though he really did have to squeeze out the words.

  Finequill opened the door and shuffled out, closing it behind him. That small act alone let in a stench so foul that Lincoln nearly gagged. Once he’d eventually stopped retching, he looked down at his clothes: a burlap tunic laced at the front, a pair of burlap pants, and some lace-up boots were their sum. Okay, he thought, basic, itchy noob gear; he had to live with that, for now. Though certainly not for the few dozen years he was going to be here—wherever here was. He hoped it wasn’t winter.

  Jumping up, he tested out his new body. He was a similar build to his earth self. His hair was scruffy, much like it had been lately, much like he’d been since... Lincoln hadn’t taken very good care of himself recently, not since Joan’s death, anyway. He held that thought of her for a moment before he reluctantly let it go. “Builder,” he whispered to himself, as if that would help him come to terms with his choice.

  The shutter on the hatch snapped back. “Builder?” Finequill questioned again.

  “Yes,” Lincoln said, his teeth now even more gritted than before. “Builder!”

  Now that he was in-game it was hard enough to stick with his choice, without the mouse questioning it every thirty seconds. He looked back at the open hatch. Finequill’s face was no longer there. A light spilled into Lincoln’s cell, more a flickering glow, like a candle. Surely he hadn’t spawned at night? He walked over to the hatch, stooped down, and looked out.

  In the room beyond his cell, Finequill was sitting at a grand desk hunched over an open ledger with his quill dancing erratically across its pages. The candlelight bloomed around the mouse just touching laden shelves behind his desk. Scrolls, more ledgers, and a number of sacks all jostled for the tight space. A sole chair was parked at the other side of the desk, and a few feet beyond that, a heavy, wooden front door stood central to two smaller, barred windows.

  “Ceratog,” Finequill muttered as he scribbled. “You’re wondering what type of creature I am, and I’m a ceratog. In general, ceratogs are born with an affinity for Earth Magic, but I lucked out. Mind you, it’s more prevalent in the fairer sex; their horns are sleeker so it's probably focused better or something. No magic—that’s why I’m stuck here dealing with you lot.”

  “What’s with all the bars? Am I in prison?”

  Finequill let out a squeaky, screechy laugh that soon turned into a rasping cough. “Good one,” he muttered, getting back to his scribing.

  “No, really?”

  “The bars and heavy doors are to keep the others out, not you in. Sometimes killing you lot once is just not enough. Many of you don’t learn.”

  “Learn?” This seemed a little too realistic to be a game.

  Finequill looked around at him. “That this is our land, not yours.”

  “And here is?” Lincoln ventured again.

  Finequill put his quill back in its inkpot, smacked his thin lips together and muttered, “There, now you’re a builder.” He leaned back on his chair and scrunched his eyes up as if he was trying to bring Lincoln into better focus. “I have to say, you don’t look like an ‘Alexa.’ Isn’t that a woman’s name?”

  Lincoln scra
tched his head and narrowed his eyes. “Alexa? No, no, I’m not. Are you talking about Alexa Drey?”

  Finequill looked down at his ledger. “Yes, Alexa Drey. Not you?”

  “No. I’m Lincoln; Lincoln Hart. Alexa Drey boarded the ship with me, but she wasn’t called to the VR pods. I left her in the reception room.”

  “So, you went out of turn.” Finequill sighed. “You went out of turn, and you want to be a builder. Why is the last one always the most difficult? Mrs. Finequill will make my life a misery if I’m not back in time tonight. She cooks hot pot when the moon’s at its fullest. A grand treat indeed.” He pulled down a scroll from the shelf behind him and unrolled it, glancing up at Lincoln. “And it’s poultices and potions night at The Half-Baked Gnome. We go there after,” he explained, as though those words were all that were needed. His paw pointed down at the scroll. “Lincoln Hart, there you are. Hmm, so what happened to Alexa Drey?”

  “Like I said, she didn’t get called. We were in this reception room on board the ship, I got called, she didn’t.”

  “Do you mind being called ‘Alexa’?” Finequill asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s all done. Alexa Drey, builder.” He put down the scroll and picked up the ledger, pointing to the middle of one of its pages. “See.”

  “But I’m not her, and I’m not going to go around being called Alexa for the entire time I’m in stasis.”

  “It’s not a bad name,” Finequill pleaded.

  “Please change it.”

  Finequill let out a huge sigh this time. “If I must.” He placed the ledger on the table and picked up his quill. He made quite the deal of crossing out Alexa Drey’s name. “Hart, without an E,” he muttered.

  “Without an E,” Lincoln affirmed.

  “Builder.”

  “Builder.”

  “Very well. I just hope that Alexa Drey has decided not to play. She won’t be able to spawn here now.”

  Lincoln’s heart skipped a beat. Had this ceratog just messed up Alexa’s game? The poor girl had never played VR before. He’d thought that remarkably foolish, seeing as this one would last a while.

  “But she’ll be alright?”

  “Friend of yours?” Finequill asked, as he scribbled furiously in the ledger.

  “No, yes, kind of. We met in the departure lounge. Three of us got on the Grav Buster together, well five really. Did Pog get here all right?”

  “The little boy? Yes, sent him to a family.”

  Lincoln nodded. “Good, good,” he muttered. “He’s still a boy?” Lincoln had assumed he’d take on a full-grown man’s avatar, or elf, or goblin, whatever.

  “Of course,” Finequill replied. “He has to mature and age at exactly the same rate as he will in the pod.” He chuckled. “You can’t go in as a boy and wake up as a man without going through all the parts in the middle. It’d drive you insane. The pods can slow down aging, but they can’t stop adolescence. He’ll grow until he’s a fully functional man, and then he’ll stop and be continually in his prime. Not a bad trip, eh?” Finequill winked at Lincoln. “Nice little boy,” he muttered as an afterthought.

  “Yes,” Lincoln replied. “But Alexa Drey? What will happen to her?”

  Finequill shrugged his little shoulders. “Spawn somewhere else, I guess. There, we’re done. Now, I just need to run through a few things with you.” He looked across at the hatch. “Please, come out, take a seat. It’s not the nicest in there. Folks tend to appear covered in blood with their guts hanging out, or smeared with other folks' parts and the like. Takes a while for the soul to catch up with the body and rebuild itself, scars and that.”

  Lincoln straightened up and pulled the heavy iron door open, then stretched his arms to alleviate the onset of the cramp he would have normally suffered after sitting for so long, and then he finally walked out. The stench of the place was a little stronger in Finequill’s office, much like walking along an open sewer. He sat on the sole chair opposite Finequill’s desk.

  “Right,” Finequill said. “Starter bag.” He reached around and plucked a brown sack from the shelf behind him, dumping it on the table. “Are you familiar with bags of holding?”

  “Yes,” Lincoln said, assuming they worked the way of other bags he’d used in VR games. “Number of slots?”

  “Twenty, you can fit twenty different things in, now inventory.” Finequill opened his ledger again and plucked his quill from its pot. “Now, let’s check everything’s there. Hover away, please.”

  Lincoln grabbed the sack from the table and hovered his hand over its throat. A system prompt came up in his mind’s eye.

  Arbiter Finequill has given you a sack of holding, open inventory to see contents.

  The message started flashing and then vanished, leaving a tab labeled Inventory, blinking red. Lincoln accepted the prompt.

  “How much is a pint of ale around here?” Lincoln asked.

  “Five bronze in the local.”

  “Ten bronze to a silver, ten silver to a gold?”

  Finequill eyed him suspiciously. “Have you played here before?”

  “No, but it's not my first game either.”

  So, Lincoln thought. Twenty ales cost one gold. Using a universal ale standard of five dollars a pint (just to make it straightforward) then one gold was a $100 and a silver coin was ten. Fine, at least the exchange rate was easily workable, provided ale wasn’t incredibly precious or as common as water. Though in a city, fresh water might be scarcer than fresh ale. For now, it’d give him at least a clue if he was getting ripped off.

  “Lodging token?” Lincoln asked, spying it on the inventory.

  “For the Orc ‘n Goblin. You get one night’s stay to get used to this place. Guaranteed safety, no robbery or swindling.” Finequill smirked. “It’s nice…ish and only up the road. I’m locking up soon anyway. I’ll take you there for a free ale; you’ll not be able to drink your token’s worth of the swill.”

  “I thought you needed to get...”

  “Back to Mrs. Finequill?” He inclined his little head. “Free ale, Lincoln, free ale. Mrs. Finequill will understand.” He coughed and looked away. Though he didn’t know her, Lincoln decided Mrs. Finequill would almost certainly mind.

  Lincoln got up, but Finequill sent him a look that said no, and so he sat back down. The ceratog pulled another piece of paper from his desk. “Do’s and don’ts, now, pay attention these might keep you out of trouble and out of there,” he shot a look at the cell, “until you get used to the place.” Finequill cleared his throat. “Rabbits, hares, turtles, rats, mice, basically any small creature, please, and I beg you, please, do not pounce on them and rip them to pieces with your bare hands and then expect to find some coins or any random loot, or gain XP. It doesn’t work like that here.”

  “What do you get?”

  “Blood and guts all over you and a spell in the city jail until you can prove you’re not a nut.”

  “Got it,” Lincoln said. So, mobs acted differently here, he thought. “What about outside the city limits?”

  “You’ll know a mob when you see one, trust me. That is if you get your Perception skill. Here though, mobs tend to have a function, like protecting things, setting traps, robbing, that sort of thing. Take, for instance, your little peaceful village that you’re going to build.”

  “Yes,” Lincoln said, perking up.

  “When a horde of bandits come and ransack it, you’ll get some XP for killing them. Enemies—mobs have to be enemies—and bunnies, well, they’re just bunnies.”

  “Got it.”

  “Unless they’ve got razor-sharp fangs and talons for claws. Then they’re mobs.” Finequill looked up at Lincoln, his whiskers twitching as he appeared to try and contain his mirth. “Yes, well.” He sighed and looked back at the script. “NPCs, all non-player characters are to be treated with respect. It’s our world and not yours, and we will be here long after you get bored. This is only one trip for you lot; we endure way beyond.”

/>   “Agreed,” Lincoln said. Inside, he was over the moon. It would mean Joan’s legacy would live on forever, and that was why he’d decided to be a builder. He was going to create something more than just a city that beats up on its neighbors. He was going to create her legacy.

  “The following types of creatures,” Finequill continued, “have been declared enemies of the land: paladins, goblins, werewolves, in fact were anything—to include bears, monkeys, parrots, spiders etc. etc. Demons—all types, and gnomes—these can be killed on sight. Any carcasses handed in to the king’s guard will be rewarded. Mind you,” Finequill looked up and added, “watch out for small dwarves, they’re always disguising themselves as gnomes to get a bit of compensation. Folks these days...” Finequill sighed. “They’ll do anything to make a fast bronze.”

  “Okay.” Lincoln was beginning to wonder whether Finequill was odd, or the land was.

  “The following types of creatures are nearing extinction and as such protected: unicorns, dragons, muskrats, albatrosses, elephants and ceratogs.”

  “Ceratogs?” Lincoln asked.

  Finequill smirked. “Ceratogs, we’re precious. Lastly, it’s autumn. Please don’t go around shouting, ‘Winter’s coming.’ It’s getting a bit old.”

  “Got it,” Lincoln said, though for the life of him, he couldn’t work out why he would.

  Finequill started tidying his desk. “Now, I’ll just close up for the night and then take you to the tavern.” As he said that, the shelves began to magically clear. Finequill’s scrolls and ledger vanished, and his quill sunk into the table. Each sack disappeared with a pop. “There, all cleared up. Can’t be too careful around here; thieves and picklocks everywhere.”