Chương 7: -7- Steps To Survive

Calder- Rime Rest Township Calder did his best to creep into the house despite the whipping winds and his overall lack of stealth skills, he felt like he did a good job. Slowly closing the door behind him before turning around and tiptoeing across the room. His grandpa had pulled his favorite rocking chair in front of the fireplace and was now snoring loudly in front of the dying embers. A mostly full wine bottle and barely touched plate of simple food sat beside him on a table.

Poor old bugger, I'm sure the stress of the last couple days has nearly done him in. I remember how hard it was for him when he lost my dad. Besides me, he only really has my sister and her family. I don't think he could take another loss; I really don't. He has worked so hard far too long into his old age to make sure I don't feel beholden to stay here. To try and prove to me that he doesn't need a caretaker or a helper. He's full of shit, of course.

Without help, the old bastard would freeze in a hole somewhere stuck under a tombstone "that he didn't need no wheelbarrow for." Calder chuckled quietly to himself while he peeled the gore-soaked clothes off himself and bound them tightly before simply tossing them into the hearth along with another piece of firewood. It wouldn't do for Grandpa to see them. Calder snuck back out into the cold air still stripped to his underclothes. He needed to scrub the blood off, and the snow would do for that.

He braced for the bite of the winds, knowing it would be an utter bastard, but instead, it was just a cool breeze across his exposed skin. The blood nearly flash froze to him, and it was little more inconvinient than a slightly tepid bath. Okay… I know I raised my resistances, but it shouldn't make that much of a damn difference. It has to be something to do with the tranquility. Shouldn't be that surprised the whole damn sanctuary motif is now cold and the unknowable beyond.

Calder quickly scrubbed himself down with great handfuls of snow. Slightly reveling in the fact that it was so painless and still slightly worried that he might just be deep, deep into hypothermia and the lack of discomfort was just due to him being close to death. He really didn't think it was that, though, because honestly, he hurt like an utter bastard still. Calder quickly went inside, putting on another simple set of grey clothes the town tailor had kindly made big enough to fit him.

He snuck open his father's chest as well, reverently pulling out the shawl. He quickly donned it before throwing a heavy fur-lined cloak over the top to hide it. It didn't look like much at this point, more of a tattered black cape with a half-ruined hood. But everyone in town would recognize it for the magic item it was and wonder why he suddenly felt the need to obscure his class and level. Calder really hoped there was still enough mana lingering in it for it to work since he explicitly had given up his mana.

I need to figure out what my next steps are before word gets out that I have a unique class. If I'm drafted before I am ready, I will die inside of a week on the frontlines somewhere. If the Kalderans see a unique class enemy below level 25, they will revel in snuffing me out before I can become a real problem. Best case I have another few months before they send another drafting pass through town. I need to be ready by then or have come up with some way to survive.

Hell, I don't even know how to use my damn skills yet. Alright, you big lug, plan of action. What steps do we need to take right now? Calder chuckled quietly as he leaned against the wall, entering a full solo brainstorming session. Alright, maybe not a steps, but at least a list of things I need to have in order to give myself a fighting chance if I'm tossed into the war at a still pitiable level. Armor… I need some fucking armor; there is no way I'll get anything decent.

I would be lucky if they stitched a few chain shirts together to fit me and tossed it my way… Hmm... I actually have a few good ideas for that, especially since I don't use mana. Getting the metal will be hard, hell, potentially deadly. The blacksmith should be amenable, though that old codger has been trying to get me in his shop for years. He will be less than thrilled it's as a customer instead of the pack mule of an apprentice he wanted, but Bromwick will still help… probably.

Alright, armor and at least a basic fucking understanding of what I'm doing. Make material I'll try with Dectus. As for sending a soul back… Calder felt a pang of sadness; the first thought he had was of the maiden and finally freeing her from her boredom. He knew it was the right thing to do, but in many ways she was one of his oldest friends. He forced himself to think of the largest question mark in his entire class, the tranquility shaping.

Calder frowned to himself, tempted to try and use his tranquility-shaping here and now, but a single glance at his sleeping grandfather dissuaded him. He didn't know if it would open a portal or suck the life from his surroundings. Hell, he had no idea what it actually did. With a shrug he pulled up the edges of his grandpa's worn blanket, making sure he was cozy before sneaking out into the night again. It was still early evening, and he was sure his sister Anna was worried sick about him.

He also wanted to talk to Phil and Ricktus; they were all almost certainly huddled around a table in the tavern. The wind tried to buffet him as he crunched through the deep snow down towards the town. To Calder now it felt pleasant, comforting, even a real reminder of how much he had changed in just a few days. He didn't even have to squint against the whipping winds as he gazed down the hill at the few lights below.

The jaunt was quick, the miller peeked out his window, crossbow in hand, still obviously nervous, and gave Calder a respectful if slightly fearful nod. Calder nodded back and peeked at the next stalwart building on the very edges of town ahead. Its roof and the ground around it were a bizarre slurry of stringy thin ice and light fresh snow across reinforced thick beams. Calder chuckled, the blacksmith's house always ended up looking like someone had cast an ice spell at it when he used his forge during storms.

The moment he quit and stilled his forges for the day the winds tore the melted snow into crazed lines of ice. Calder had hoped Bromwick might be working late today so he could catch him for a private conversation, but no such luck. He passed a cozy trio of houses near the blacksmith. In a town this size, of course, he knew exactly who each house belonged to. The first slightly bare one was Phil's; he was a widower, and the lack of a more nuanced touch on his home showed with peeling paint.

The next two both had grey, almost steel-colored paint and flower beds that stretched from one yard to the other. Those were Rudder and Carver's places; they were old war buddies who retired in town with their families to live as fishermen. Nice enough fellows, if a bit... haunted. Smiles that never reached the eyes, jumping at loud noises, that kind of thing. Mostly Calder avoided them not to add to their stress; they looked at him like he was a threat even if they didn't mean to.

Calder gazed ahead up the road a bit farther past another couple homes and smiled at the smoke rising from the tavern. It was a stout two-story building with a sharply steepled roof. The barrel-shaped sign flapping in the wind was mostly frozen over, but he knew what was written on it from memory.

"The Sandy Pig"—Anna's husband Ted had thought himself hilarious when he named the tavern that. Calder thought it was a bit dumb, but he wasn't going to ruin Ted's good-hearted fun. He crunched forward a few more steps before coming up short at a sudden sound to his left.

"Bwak… bwakk bwak." What in the nine hells... It's fucking blizzarding, you idiot. Rooting around the edge of a fence trying to get into someone's yard and raid their vegetable garden was one of Miss Flora's chickens. A fluffy white monstrosity that looked straight at him like he had offended its entire family line by stopping and staring. Calder shook his head, a small rain of snowflakes falling from it.

He tried to be a good neighbor, it was much better to have the town think of him as the simple gentle giant than anything else. Especially after that look of fear Ricktus had given him. So of course he needed to save the idiot chicken from the blizzard it was wandering in.

"Alright, let's not make this harder than it needs to be." Calder said in a soothing tone while creeping towards the cautious-looking avian. Its dull eyes focused on him, and it started turning like it was going to run. If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. Calder launched himself forward with quite a bit more force than he intended. He wasn't used to his enhanced strength at all yet.

The snow exploded out from where he kicked off along with a bit of dirt, and he shot over the top of the chicken. Instead of next to it. Calder surprised himself by managing to snatch the bird while he sailed over it. His landing was about what he expected, though he tumbled twice after not even coming close to landing feet first. He managed to keep the chicken protected in his inescapable bear hug. It hurt like a motherfucker.

Not the actual landing; his new defenses made him pretty sure he wouldn't even bruise from that inglorious landing. No, all the internal injuries he still had from a fight to the death 2 hours ago that he had somehow been an idiot and ignored before flinging himself after a chicken. He stood up slowly with a groan and held the chicken out at arm's length, looking it in the eyes as he walked it back to its coop a few doors down.

"You're welcome." He tossed it back into its coop and made sure the little shutter was closed all the way this time before turning back to the inn with a grumble.

"How many shots will it take for me to not feel like a horse stomped on me?" With the hope of some liquid relief in mind, he made it right up to the stairs of the tavern. He was about to carefully step past an ice-slicked section when a chill ran down his spine. That sixth sense you got whenever predatory eyes were locked onto you. He stopped blessing his ability to weather the cold as he searched for the source.

A board above him on the porch awning creaked, and Cader took a short, fast step back, launching himself painfully from the porch. At the same time a canine figure crept from around the edge of a snowbank beside the road. The nearly invisible figure on the roof above him shifted from where their form was entombed within snow just enough to aim a bow at him. Oh goddammit, another ambush… Calder held up his hands in mock surrender.

His niece Clara on the roof didn't show any mercy, releasing her blunted arrow straight at him and shouting a command to the massive canine stalking him from the side, "Demi! Sick Ur Papa!" Came in a high excited pitch. Calder laughed lightly as he managed to mostly duck the arrow, and it harmlessly bounced off the edge of his shoulder. Then he turned to face the two hundred pounds of fluff running straight at him, fangs bared and tail wagging. He knew what to expect, bending his knees slightly and bracing.

His dog had been being babysat by his niece for a couple days, so he knew he was in for a full-force reunion. Although calling it a dog was something of a stretch. His sister swore up and down the thing had to be some bastard sire of a frosted dire wolf and just a normal wolf. Honestly, if it weren't so friendly, Calder would agree. Demi hit him low, being smarter than normal. She clamped onto his pant leg and pulled, taking him by surprise and his leg right out from under him.

Calder cursed as he landed on his ass again, shooting stabbing pains through his midsection. He just laid back into the snow, not bothering to even fight back. The snarling beast happily tugged him towards the porch like he was a damned carcass, wagging the whole time. Calder finally pulled himself to his feet once he was released and reached over to roughly rub the wolf's head.

It came up nearly to his bellybutton, and he knew from experience under the thick fluffy white and grey fur was a staggeringly strong beast. Someday I'm going to get someone to actually identify you because honestly I want to know. It can't be normal to have a pet that brings back the occasional deer. Clara whispered harshly from out of sight above, "Damn, still no class." Calder just shook his head with a grumbling laugh and walked in the front door.

The moment he pulled it open, warmth and the scent of cinnamon washed across him. Demi shoved her way past his leg and bullied its way across the tightly packed tavern floor to right in front of a large heart formed from uneven chunks of cliff stone held together with some clever masonry work from his grandpa. The sandy pig was a little slower than normal around ten patrons, although the attack could certainly explain that. No one here was a stranger to war, of course.

They had been getting ground down from the west for going on thirty years now. Just slowly losing ground to an empire that seemed in no hurry to snuff them out. However, having townfolk die in town. The actual street dyed red was new. Everyone here had lost a son, daughter, or brother to this war. The damned draft was just part of everyday life. And honestly, most people wanted to help. Having a common enemy for most of your life did wonders for drawing communities together.

Ted was standing behind the shined driftwood bar he had so proudly put in place last year, filling a pair of mugs for fishermen in from the day's work. They weren't locals, so Calder didn't know them by name, but he knew the type: hardworking men who would sail down to the southern bays where the fishing was best and straight back to the capitol or one of the other few remaining cities when their holds were overflowing. Ted finally looked up from pouring himself a mug, and his eyes widened.

"Calder! By the gods, shouldn't you be resting?" Every eye in the tavern turned towards him. Even the ones he was looking for, Ricktus and Phil, waved from a corner table near the hearth. Calder gave a friendly wave back and answered his brother in law.

"Oh, I'm pretty much on the mend now! I'll catch up with you and Anna in a bit; I have to talk to Phil real quick." He tried to keep his tone neutral and pleasant, but the fishermen still looked at him warily. It couldn't have helped that he was covered in snow and had a well-worn blade at his side. Looking every bit like an intimidating wandering sell sword. He shuffled past the few other scattered tables, carefully sidestepping his way over to Phil's table.

He snatched the oversized stool near the hearth Ted had made for him on the way after one too many broken chairs and settled in without an invite. Ricktus damn near stumbled over himself to talk.

"Thanks for saving my ass, you big fucker. That was seriously…. I mean... Yeah, thanks..." he trailed off a bit, his face paling as the memories brought up more than he expected. Calder slapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him from his seat.

"Well, no one else will spar with me!" He looked at Phil.

"You don't count if you fight me; that's just bullying the weak." Phil rolled his eyes slightly but couldn't help but smile.

"You're up a lot faster than I was expecting. I bandaged you up good, but you had a few damn deep stabs."

"Grandpa used the fancy potion." Calder said with a grimace.

"Nooo…" Ricktus said after taking a big sip of ale.

"You were going to use that for another hand with the harder labor!" Calder nodded grimly and then leaned forward, lowering his voice and making it obvious that what he was about to say wasn't for everyone else in the room.

"I'm glad the worried old bastard gave it to me though…I…saw light in the tomb shortly after I was on my feet again." Their expressions hardened, especially Phil's, who was now looking him top to bottom, eyes probably picking out some of the spots he still had small bloodstains on.

"There was a Kalderan mage of some kind inside with a bound horror and a Kalderan warrior, both combat classed and searching for an entrance to the grotto. I…killed them both." He finished the last bit almost disbelieving and purposefully leaving out any mention of Dectus. Ricktus practically choked on his own spit. Phil held up a hand, silencing him.

"Were there any more you saw? And did they find anything?"

"No, just them. And when we fought…they hadn't found anything yet." Phil nodded.

"So what did you get as a class…" Phil asked with a knowing smile.

"You have your pappy's shawl on; I can't identify you, and there is no way after all that you didn't get at least what you were going for." There was an awkward pause while Calder considered how much he should tell Phil, and Ricktus practically bounced out of his seat, excited to hear what his friend had chosen. I trust Phil, he does still owe my dad one, and well, since he's dead, I think that carries on to me at least for someone like Phil. And my eager, only real friend… He would never hurt me on purpose… But…

caution at least for right now"I got a combat class… the kind that might get me hauled off to war before I'm ready and really singled out." Calder said he's really hoping Phil understood his concerns.

"Would have to be a real fucking big conscriptor to drag you off; they would need a plow horse at a minimum…" Ricktus mumbled with a cockeyed smile on his annoyingly dignified features. Phil looked thoughtful and nodded.

"Don't need to worry about me, lad; technically I'm supposed to let the army logistics know when one of three things happens as this town's guard captain." He started to count on his fingers.

"Once a full combat class individual has reached level twenty or higher and not signed up for mandatory service within four months." He took a slug of his ale and kept going with his next finger.

"Two, someone shows talents or skills that would be vitally useful to the war effort. Burgeoning mages, enchanters, that sort of thing—basically any class that can either fight or help fight against the soulbound abominations that normal weapons and skills would just piss off. That one is pretty ironclad, but. I have to see it." He gave Calder a long look.

"Thirdly, and this one is utterly immutable, has been for the last 10 years or so, and I'm sure you are familiar with it as well." He eyed the shawl with a small smirk.

"Any combat class holder of epic rarity or higher must immediately be brought to the capitol for assignment. Now, in an ideal world, they would take those talents and train them up, but we both know this isn't an ideal world." He set his mug down on the table and leaned back. Calder nodded thankfully as Phil didn't ask a single follow-up question.

"I have some work to do, guys. Phil… I appreciate it." Phil looked over with an almost sad expression.

"Boy, if you hadn't done what you did, I would have died. I couldn't have taken them all on alone. And that was unclassed. Get some levels under your belt. You both." He looked at Ricktus.

"Have six months before the next Conscriptor comes through…roughly…" Ricktus took another pull of his beer, its false confidence already starting to fill him.

"Bah, all we have to do is bloody the Kalderan's nose so badly before then that we get a writ. Boom, we aren't grunts on the frontlines anymore. We can command some special squad or a bastion force." He slapped the table with a bit too much force to punctuate his daydream. Calder smiled.

"That's…not an impossible idea…" he muttered quietly and then stood up.

"Excuse me, guys, it's kind of late, and I think I should go back and check on Grandpa." He barely even noticed their pleasant goodbyes, practically rushing out the front door. Ricktus, you sarcastic arse, a writ is a fantastic fucking idea. But for that to even be a possibility… I need to figure out how the hell to use my skills… The old cove or the tomb would be good places... Eh, who am I kidding? I'm going back to the tomb. I want to see what Make Material does to Dectus.