Gunrod the Barbarian: A GameLit LitRPG Fantasy Read online

  Rex Crowe

  Gunrod the Barbarian

  Book 1 of the Gunrod series

  Copyright © 2021 by Rex Crowe

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  Cover art by MiblArt

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  Preface

  1. Secrets

  2. The Cube

  3. Choose Your Class

  4. The Mountain

  5. Gunrod Wulfstone

  6. Bogs and Sands

  7. The Pale-Faced Man

  8. Something in the Trees

  9. Elor

  10. Shadow Beings

  11. The Road

  12. The Old Woman

  13. Roast Mutton

  14. The Gate

  15. The Castle

  16. Leveling

  17. Shopping

  18. The Most Forward-Thinking City on This Planet

  19. Assistant Director of the Institute for Societal Progress

  20. Slayer of Tyrants

  21. The Oracle

  22. Clouds of War

  23. Darkness

  24. The Prince

  25. The Witch of Nevendor

  26. Valley of Shadows

  27. The Head

  28. The Heavens Tremble

  29. Conquering Heroes

  30. Barbarians and Elves

  31. The Famous Four

  32. The Little Town

  Epilogue

  Thank You for Reading

  Preface

  The following is a LitRPG fantasy adventure story. In case some readers aren’t familiar with the LitRPG genre, the ‘RPG’ refers to ‘role playing games,’ which include table-top games (Dungeons and Dragons being the prototypical example) and video games. The idea is that the story takes place in a world based on role playing game mechanics. So, for example, characters have to gain points to ‘level up.’ You’ll see.

  One other note: the people in the fantasy world of this story speak their own languages. Occasionally, a few words from these languages appear in the text, but they are most often represented by English.

  1

  Secrets

  A pair of eyes shone in the darkness.

  The moon had retreated behind clouds, allowing the night to thicken over the desolate moor. The wind was moaning, and there was a chill in the air. The eyes burned red.

  It would have been enough to terrify anyone, seeing those eyes at night in a place such as this. And with good reason, too: they belonged to an enormous wolf. No one did see them, however, as none of the local inhabitants ever dared to wander the moor at night.

  The wolf sat on a small hill overlooking the dark landscape, its ears erect and pointing forward. It had lingered there for a long time, alternately whining and lifting its nose towards a nearby ridge that stood inky black against the cloudy sky.

  Eventually, a breeze rolled over the hill and stirred the beast’s thick fur. It raised its snout and caught a scent. For a moment it sniffed and snorted eagerly. Then, with a low growl, it sprang forward and ran towards the ridge.

  In that same moment, a man was walking in the opposite direction, with the ridge behind him. As if the cover of night wasn’t enough, he was wrapped in a cloak that hooded his head and draped his shoulders. He carried a staff, though he didn’t really need it to make his way; his eyesight was extraordinarily good — so good that he could see quite well in the dark. Besides, he’d walked this ground many times.

  The moon suddenly peered out from behind the clouds, throwing watery light onto the landscape of dry grass and granite. Here and there, the dilapidated remains of Neolithic stone huts reflected the lunar glow. Some of the man’s features were also revealed: a grey-tinged beard was visible under his hood, as well as a broad face with high cheekbones and bright green eyes. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and the hilt of a sword glinted in his belt. At first glance, you might place him in Medieval times.

  He walked fast.

  “Nearly there,” he thought, looking ahead at the moonlit tors. The strange outcroppings of granite stood in front of him like massive sentinels.

  Suddenly the wolf came tearing into the moonlight, out from the shadows of the tors. It was running straight at him, panting and working its powerful limbs as hard as it could. The man stopped and watched the beast, bracing himself for impact.

  When it finally reached him, it jumped up with its front paws out, almost knocking the man over. It was trying to lick his face. Dropping back down on all fours, it whined and wagged its tail emphatically, leaning into the man’s legs as he chuckled and patted it.

  “I missed you, too, Devin. There’s a good boy.”

  Devin looked up at him with a big smile and then started sniffing his clothes.

  “I’ve been off in a strange place, far away from here. Come on! Let’s go see Patrick.” The man started walking briskly towards the tors. Devin trotted alongside him, still smiling broadly, his tongue hanging out.

  “Did you guard the manor while I was away? Of course, I know you did.”

  About an hour later, the pair approached a stone wall with an iron gate that stood open. Although the night was too dark for a normal person to see, the man looked beyond the gate and saw an old house. Most of its three stories were draped in ivy, but here and there a lattice window peeked through the leafy veil. The roof rose to a steep point with high chimneys soaring beyond it. A stone archway rose over the gate; it was inscribed with the words Cope Hall.

  As they approached the gate, Devin ran ahead excitedly, tearing up stone steps and barking all the way to the door. The man noticed a gentle light shining through the library window.

  As he started up the steps, he heard Patrick, the lord of the manor, talking to Devin. “Be quiet, you brute. Do you want to wake everybody? Your master’s home, is he? Eh? Is Aidan home? Y—es, I know, I know.”

  “Patrick,” Aidan said as he came to the door. “It’s good to see you.”

  “Welcome back, Pendragon.” They shook hands.

  Patrick was a tall, clean-shaven, and rather severe-looking elderly man. As always, he was wearing an old-fashioned tweed suit that made him look like an Edwardian country gentleman. He backed away from the door to make way for Aidan. “We thought you were coming; Devin’s been restless since morning.”

  Aidan let out a long breath as he sat down in a chair to unlace his boots. Now that he was inside, he suddenly realized how tired he was.

  “A lot’s been happening,” Patrick said. “I’ve something important to tell you. Will you join me in the library?”

  “I’ll be in straight away.”

  “Oh! You’re back, Sir!” a female voice said a moment later.

  Aidan looked up and saw Edith. She was a woman of about 30 who lived in Cope Hall and worked there as a maid, though she didn’t like to call it that.

  “I’m back indeed,” Aidan said. “It’s nice to see you, Edith.”

  “I’m sure everyone’s going to be very happy you’re back, Sir. Things are getting worse, I’m afraid.”

>   “So Patrick tells me.”

  “Are you hungry? I made some soup this afternoon. I can heat some up, if you like.”

  “Edith, what time is it?” he said, pulling off a boot and looking at her.

  Edith pulled a smartphone out of her apron pocket and checked the time. “It’s half past one,” she said, sounding slightly embarrassed.

  “You didn’t wait up for me, did you?”

  “Oh no, Sir,” she lied, and her face colored. She hated how she always blushed at the worst possible times!

  “Well, I’d love some soup. I’ll have it in the library.”

  “Alright, Sir.” She smiled girlishly and practically floated to the kitchen.

  Aidan walked into the library to find Patrick sitting on a tweed chair with a book on his knee. He was staring meditatively at the reflection of the bookshelves in the dark window.

  “I must say, Patrick, your strategy is very, very clever,” Aidan said, taking a seat in another chair.

  Patrick looked at Aidan as if he were a madman. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your strategy, you know — for self-preservation. If we’re ever assailed in our inner sanctum —”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about … Pendragon,” Patrick interrupted, agitated by the idea of the enemy storming their secret headquarters.

  “Camouflage,” Aidan said, pointing at Patrick’s tweed suit.

  “Eh?”

  “Like the tawny owl, you’ve blended into your surroundings. If your suit were just a shade darker, I wouldn’t have been able to spot you among the furniture.”

  “Humph,” Patrick said. “If they do attack us here, or anywhere else, I shall die fighting.”

  Aidan smiled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I know you would, Patrick. I was only joking.”

  Patrick shook his head and looked up at the ceiling. “How he can joke about things such as that is beyond me,” he told the ceiling.

  “Humor is never out of place. Now, what is it you wanted to tell me?”

  As the men were talking, Devin had appeared in the door and quietly walked into the room. He sat beside Aidan’s chair and looked back and forth at the two men, smiling.

  “It’s Penelope’s son,” Patrick was saying. “He’s back, and quite grown up — approaching 30, I believe. He ought to have joined the order by now — or at least known of our existence. But nothing’s as it ought to be. He’s … Well, he is not behaving like a Wulfstone.”

  “I suppose he isn’t technically a Wulfstone, is he? Still —”

  “But he is technically a Wulfstone! At least in the sense that he’s the child of a Wulfstone — and the last one of the Tavyton line.”

  “Quite right. But remind me again what his name is.”

  “Nosely. Ernest Nosely.”

  “Oh, dear. Yes, I remember now.”

  “It is an unfortunate name. But all the same, he has the potential to be much more than his name would suggest.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

  “But as I say, nothing’s turning out right. He’s come back specifically to join … them.”

  “I see. Well, we knew it was coming, didn’t we? When is he starting?”

  “A few days’ time.”

  Edith had come into the library carrying a tray with soup, bread, and a glass of water.

  “Thank you, Edith,” Aidan said. “You can set it down on the table.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  Devin stopped smiling and watched the tray as Edith set it down and left the room. He sniffed the air in the direction of the soup, looked guiltily at Aidan, and then walked over to the fireplace, where there was a sheepskin rug that he believed had been put there specifically for him. He made himself comfortable on it.

  “Such a shame what happened to Penelope,” Patrick said. “She would have taught him about us gradually, prepared him … but there’s no use in thinking about that.”

  “You don’t think we could talk to him, tell him about the order, start to explain the true nature of things?”

  Patrick shook his head somberly. “It’s out of the question. He isn’t ready. He’s been asleep all his life. We can’t suddenly rouse him now; these things take time. If we talked to him and tried to explain things, he’d think we were mad. He’d run away as fast as he could; and he’d still join the other side.”

  “And then we’d have exposed ourselves,” Aidan said.

  “Exactly.”

  “In that case, some other form of intervention is necessary. And it needs to be something dramatic enough to alter his perception in a relatively short time.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  Aidan stood up and slowly walked towards the mantlepiece, thinking. Devin rolled onto his back and looked at Aidan.

  “You know,” Aidan said, “it has occurred to me before that we should send him to one of the enchanted worlds. Toss him into the sea, as it were.” He chuckled. “That’s how I started. It’s bloody hard, but it works. He’d start acting like a Wulfstone very quickly, I promise you.”

  “I gather you’re thinking of Esla; that would be the obvious choice.”

  “Precisely.”

  Patrick nodded. “He would progress much more quickly that way; the idea does have that advantage. But it might simply kill him, and what good would that do?”

  Aidan took in a breath and exhaled. “It might kill him. But the situation is already critical right here in our world — for everyone, including the young Wulfstone.”

  “Of course it is. I know that. But we can’t make him go, anyway, even if it is a good idea. He would have to decide it for himself, as you know. So that puts us back where we started.”

  “Not quite. We can’t make him go … but perhaps we can point him in the right direction.” Aidan paused for a moment, letting Patrick prepare for what he was about to say. He knew it was going to be controversial. “You said earlier how it was a shame Penelope couldn’t talk to her son. Well … you know, the dead sometimes send messages to living relations … by way of omens or visions or dreams.”

  As Aidan expected, Patrick didn’t like where this was going. He swallowed and touched the book that was still on his lap, nervously drumming his fingers on the cover. He disliked talk of ghosts, partly because Cope Hall — his ancestral home — had a way of taking on a decidedly spooky aspect when one dwelled on such subjects. Especially at night when one was about to go to bed. He simply said, “Caroline isn’t going to like this.”

  “I know,” said Aidan. “I don’t like it either. But she’ll do it. She loved Penelope —”

  “Of course! Everybody loved Penelope. But that doesn’t mean she wants to …” he lowered his voice “… disturb Penelope’s shade.”

  Aidan smiled and walked towards the table where his soup was getting cold. “I was going to say, she loved Penelope so she must care for Penelope’s son. And besides, there’s so much at stake … She’ll do it.” He sat down and picked up a piece of bread.

  “Of course she’ll do it, if you ask her; you’re the Pendragon. She won’t be happy about it, though. She doesn’t approve of séances. But I suppose it’ll be worth it, if it works. Isn’t that right, Devin?”

  Devin had come over and put his head on Patrick’s lap, making a whining sound. “Alright, old boy, alright,” Patrick said, patting Devin’s head. “Don’t worry about it. Everything will be sorted out soon, one way or another.”

  2

  The Cube

  Everyone was dead. The entire town had been liquidated. Not in a messy way, mind you. The town itself was still there, looking as charming as ever. But the quaint little railway station was empty, the old stone houses were as still as tombstones, and silence pervaded the streets.

  Ernest Nosely floated over his old neighborhood, surveying the rooftops from above. There was no movement, no sound except for a mild wind that carried the fragrant scent of the surrounding countryside.

  Tracin
g his old route to school, he flew over Victoria Park and noticed the trees and vegetation were gone, too. It seemed anything organic had been just … annihilated.

  He sailed past the Tavyton Public Library to the corner store where he bought comics as a kid. It was somehow reassuring to see it, so he floated down to the ground to look at the storefront. It hadn’t changed. His eyes rested on a faded vintage poster from Heavy Metal magazine hanging in the window.

  But he suddenly became self-conscious. Was someone watching him? He looked over his shoulder, then up and down the street. All was silent and still.

  Flying back up above the buildings, where it felt safer, he continued floating towards his old school. By the time he reached it, the feeling had grown stronger. He wasn’t alone. Some other entity — an intelligence, if not a physical body — was present. It had been studying the emptiness with satisfaction, apparently gloating over the fine work it had done. Ernest had intruded upon its solitude. He wasn’t part of its plan; everything was supposed to be dead.

  He floated past the school and continued drifting over Woodland Road, watching the ground move by below him. Then, with a jolt of fear, he suddenly realized where he was heading. Everything made sense the instant he looked up and saw it; now he understood what was going on.

  The Institute for Societal Progress loomed over all the other buildings. A giant cube of black glass and steel, it was as foreign to Tavyton’s skyline as an alien spaceship. It was the Institute — or “the Cube,” as Ernest called it — that had made everyone disappear.

  He’d always hated the Cube. Not that he necessarily believed all the lurid rumors about it. The place just creeped him out, for some reason. Now, however, it was beyond creepy; an intense hatred of life radiated from behind its shiny surface.

  And whatever was in there was watching him with malevolence; he could feel it.

  Ernest flailed his arms and twisted his body, trying to change direction, but he’d lost control of his flight. As he continued to drift towards the Cube, he became painfully aware of two things: his own helplessness and the awful power of the Institute.