One more turn a turn bas.., p.1
One More Turn: A Turn-Based LitRPG Dungeon Adventure, page 1
ONE MORE TURN
BOOK 1
D. H. DUNN
CONTENTS
Summary
Shadow Alley Press Mailing List
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
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The Adventure Continues…
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
SUMMARY
They took his sister, his team, and his freedom. Now he’s got one more turn to steal it all back.
Treasure hunter and outlaw Tarn Arisfal is ready to admit his life sentence is inescapable. Though desperate to reunite with his team of expert misfits and rescue his sister, after 97 escape attempts the glacier prison has proven to be the one puzzle Tarn can’t solve.
Then the last thing he expected happened—they let him go. Only he must rescue the ruling Arch Mage, the man responsible for abducting his sister and having him imprisoned in the first place.
Now Tarn’s luck has turned, and with his team by his side, he must navigate a bizarre time-frozen dungeon where magic forces all combat into turn-based, tactical battles.
Tarn must plan his moves carefully, or his next turn could be his last!
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CHAPTER ONE
“Something’s not right here.”
Tarn Arisfal frowned, looking across the crowded mess hall of the Baltoro Prison. Carved into the side of an arctic mountainside, with twin massive glaciers slowly passing on either side, the fabled jail of the Arch Mage’s most hated enemies was crushed between both ice and tension. Cracked, decaying stone walls and sputtering ineffective fires perfectly matched an overcrowded space run by corrupt leadership.
‘Not right’ would describe Baltoro on its best day.
“Ye’re just getting cynical, lad.” Rykin chuckled, enough gravel in his laugh to pave a road back to the capital. His eyes framed by bushy, gray eyebrows, the old guard looked over the board at Tarn. One gloved finger was placed carefully upon his ambassador piece. “I think you’re trying to distract me, so you can finally win a match.”
“Maybe,” Tarn said, smiling across the table at Rykin, the many pieces of King’s Squares arrayed before them on the small table. Tarn rolled one defeated game piece in his hand, clasped between calloused thumbs and fingers. “Or maybe your age is finally showing.”
The old man placed his piece down at last, worry crossing his brow as he gazed along with Tarn into the mass of prisoners, shuffling along with their meals. Rykin returned his hand to its frequent resting place, massaging the stump where the left used to be.
Picking up his own pawn, Tarn tried to focus on the board. Though the old man’s words had a ring of truth to them, the reassurance they offered was a dangerous temptation. Tarn trusted his instincts. The mess was quieter than normal, the murmurs seeming a bit lower and more subdued. He watched as the prisoners shuffled past, cold hands holding colder food. Not one would make eye contact with him.
Most prisoners would get chaffed from their mates for even speaking with a Baltoro guard, let alone sitting and playing a game with one. But, as the simple crimson circle branded on his forehead reminded him, even in the Arch Mage’s prison Tarn was no ordinary prisoner.
Most of the two hundred-odd inmates within Baltoro’s freezing confines were imprisoned here for crimes against the ‘Old Bastard’ – Arch Mage Lurim the First. The magically empowered, seemingly immortal ruler of the realm. A few others had even stolen from him, as Tarn did.
Yet no one else had led a team into the royal stronghold, breached the mystic vaults, and even been in a position to steal Lurim’s Scythe-staff itself. No other hand had held a knife against the ancient mage’s throat. For that, Tarn should have been incinerated on the spot. Yet he was not, and every man, guard, or prisoner, inside Baltoro, knew it. Tarn Arisfal had stared down the most feared man in a thousand miles and lived.
And he had no idea why.
“There,” Tarn said, nodding casually at a guard standing next to the far exit into the kitchen. After two years inside the icebox, he knew every guard this place had. “That guy. Who’s that?”
He didn’t need to remind Rykin to look with disinterest over in the corner. A veteran of several Blood Summer wars against orcs, Rykin was as seasoned and cool as they came. The old man may have lost an arm in his final battle, but to Tarn, Rykin had lost none of his savvy. Sadly, the high warden of the Baltoro seemed to share little of Tarn’s confidence in the veteran.
Tarn supposed that was why no one cared that Rykin spent most of his time playing King’s Squares with him.
“Yer right,” Rykin muttered. “Never seen him before. Perhaps he could be a new transfer. Sky knows, High Warden Gorford has been making a lot of changes lately. Might be nothing.”
Might. Perhaps. Could be. Those were words that could get you killed if you believed in them too much, and Tarn damn well knew it.
“Keep playing,” Tarn muttered, placing his pawn closer to Rykin’s base. A strong play, even if he was distracted. “Don’t want to look like we’re paying too much attention.”
“Then we’ll have to set up a new round,” Rykin chuckled, deftly placing his siege tower in a striking position against Tarn’s last remaining castle. “I’ve got you in four moves, lad. You can play it out if you like, of course. Won’t change it.”
“What? How did you-,” Tarn stammered, his eyes shifting back to the board, moving from piece to piece. As he worked out the next possible moves in his head, he chewed the bottom of his lip in frustration. “How did you get me so off guard, old man? I was sure I had you in six moves.”
“I keep telling you,” Rykin laughed. “Yer too aggressive, lad. You need to think more during your turns, Tarn. You need to understand what’s really going on.”
Rykin paused, his eyes darting to his left. Tarn followed his gaze, noting the ‘perhaps new’ guard was now angling towards them, one gloved hand held tight. A weapon? Observing with practiced care, Tarn noted the smoothness of the man’s skin and the fear in his eyes.
“Whatever’s happening,” Tarn muttered, slowly guiding the tower piece into his hand, its sharp point rubbing against his thumb. “I think this is going down now.”
“Ready if you are,” Rykin muttered, his head down as if he were transfixed on the game.
The man walked towards them, taking his time, meandering between tables bursting with eating prisoners. Yet the fear in his eyes told the story, his destination was still clear. He suddenly lunged forward, feigning as if he had tripped in the crowd. Tarn caught the shape of something in his hand, an object thrusting toward his heart.
Tarn rolled with the man’s movement, feeling something soft land in his chest, rather than the quick bite of a blade that he had expected. Wrapping his arm across the guard’s throat, Tarn pushed the sharp tip of the tower game piece up into the man’s chin.
Rykin leaped to his feet, feigning surprise. The old guard’s broad and solid profile provided Tarn with the visual shelter and seconds he’d need to question his surprising assailant.
Tarn glanced down at the floor, past his attacker’s fearful eyes. A small black bag lay at his feet, leather with a laced top, slightly open. Inside he could see the glimmer of colored stones.
Gems? What’s going on here? Tarn kept the confusion off his face, instead favoring the man with a grimace borne of years of repressed anger.
“Who?” He whispered to his would-be attacker. “Who sent you, and what is this?” He could feel the adrenaline pulse through him like lightning, burning through his limbs as if he were back raiding temples and tombs with his old team today. It was years ago, yet no time at all.
The man looked up at him, terror in his eyes. He looked no older than Tarn. Late twenties or early thirties at most, yet this man’s road had been different. These eyes were of a man from the capitol, a man used to safety and comfort. He wasn’t here because he wanted to be, he was here because he had to be.
“I can’t,” he rasped. “I was supposed to give you – please, they’ve got my brother-”
Tarn pushed the game piece further, applying just enough pressure to show he was serious. Part of h
A lesson his sister Sinah knew well. His mind flashed for just a second back to that moment in the Arch Mage’s palace. Hand at the wizard’s throat, feeling the old man’s laugh as he looked across the room at Sinah, magically frozen and hung on the wall like a damn trophy.
They’ve got his brother. In another life, this guy is you.
Hands trembling, Tarn pulled the game piece away. The man sputtered and coughed, hands running to his throat as he dropped to his knees. Tarn knew they had another heartbeat or two until this drew attention. Even in the daily chaotic scene of the prison mess hall, they’d be noticed soon.
“Okay,” Tarn whispered. “Then tell me what’s going on. Maybe there’s a way we can help you.”
Hands fumbling for the pouch, the man stared up at Tarn, gratitude in his eyes.
“Erto,” he said, holding the bag with two shaking hands. “My name’s Erto. They only told me to give you this. I – I don’t even know what’s in the pouch!”
Holding the bag with one hand, Tarn shook one of the gems out. As blue as glacier ice, the raw, uncut stone landed on the exposed skin of his palm. With a small flare of azure light, the crystal throbbed, instantly matching time with his pulse, and began sinking into his flesh.
Tarn’s body went stiff as words suddenly appeared across his thoughts as if being written inside his mind.
<<<>>>
// Subject attuning begun.
// Class analysis: Captain, Level 1
// Class synchronizing: in progress
// Current resonance: 0 of 24 for next level
// Warning: No still-time detected
// Available abili-
<<<>>>
With an effort, Tarn pulled the gem from his hand. The text cleared from his mind in an instant, but a small impression had formed within the skin upon his palm. Heart pounding, he tossed the darkening crystal back into the small pouch.
“What the hell,” he gasped, staring back at Erto. “What the hell are these things?”
“I don’t know,” Erto replied, still coughing. His expression was fluid, relief mixing with worry. His eyes darted around the room, the blood draining from his face. “They only told me to give them to you.”
Tarn followed his gaze, seeing it land on two men standing by the door on the south wall. He casually nodded in that direction to Rykin, who nodded back. They were dressed as prisoners but just as new here as Erto.
The south door was always locked, and triple-barred from the other side. That was the level of security Baltoro applied only to the tunnel that led down to the glacier, and possible escape. No one would last long on the Cairn plains, but that didn’t keep men from trying.
Men like Tarn, who had managed to get through that door twice in his two years. He supposed if the guards hadn’t gotten him, he’d be rotting on some glacier.
The newcomers were scanning the crowd, looking for someone. Or an opportunity, he thought. They'd know where to look if they were here for him or Rykin.. Something further is about to go down.
“You with them?” Tarn asked, narrowing his eyes. “I’d answer quickly. What are you here for?”
“I-I told you I don’t know.” Erto’s voice trembled. “They brought me here, those two. I had a sack over my head for most of the trip. I barely know where I am. You’ve got to- “
“Okay, okay.” Tarn put his hands up, stopping Erto in mid-babble. The poor man knew nothing, he was just another pawn on someone’s game board. One that was likely to be sacrificed.
“Here’s what I think,” Tarn said calmly, making eye contact with Rykin. “The three of us are going over there to those two, and we’re going to find out what’s going on. Nice and quiet.”
“I don’t – look I’m not a guard. I need to- “
“Calm down, lad” Rykin’s big hand fell on the man’s shoulder, slowly pulling him to his feet. “What ye need t’do is listen. Tarn’s a good man, ye can be sure of that. He and I will look after ye.”
Around them the other prisoners continued to mull through the chamber, heads down, staring at their meals. Beaten, with life frozen out of them, they simply existed. Half the guards had the same look on their faces, the same weight inside their eyes.
But several guards did not. Unfamiliar faces scanned the room with alert stares. Hands were loose and open, ready to grab weapons. Whatever this game was, the board was set, Tarn could feel it. They were just waiting for someone to make the first move.
That’s going to be me.
“We’re leaving,” Tarn spoke calmly, palming the game piece and propping its pointed tip between his ring and middle finger. “Erto, we’re going to move from our table now. You are going to walk with Rykin and I, and do not get separated.”
Eyes wide, Erto’s head swiveled back and forth as he realized he was just a tool that had already served its purpose. The man’s hands trembled; his breath shook in his chest. Everything about him screamed a problem.
“Listen to me.” Tarn kept his voice steady, holding the terrified man’s gaze. “Whatever they told you about me, well it’s probably true. But right now, we’re your best chance to stay alive. Stay with us, and I’ll protect you.”
I’ll protect you. He had said those words before. He hoped they would be truer today than the last time he had promised them.
Erto took a deep breath, then nodded. He still had the look of a man who had just been condemned, but at least he was calmer. Tarn gave one side glance to Rykin, who raised a single bushy eyebrow to signal his readiness.
Tarn felt a brief rush of adrenaline run through him, quickening his pulse and sharpening his reflexes. Whoever these guys were, whatever their opening gambit was, it was time to trigger it. His every muscle was tensed, and his pulse ran like the wind.
For the first time in years, he had a plan, a goal, and a drive. It was like being reborn.
The instant Tarn left his seat, the man to the left of the door moved. Like a blur, he went down and low into a nearby prisoner, knocking the surprised inmate backward, where he collided with another unexpecting prisoner. That man’s wooden plate fell from his hands, sailing across the slick, frozen floor as the lunch gruel flew into the air.
Predictably, that was all it took. Within heartbeats, the room was a maelstrom of shouting, fists being thrown, and metal trays slamming into faces.
Gritting his teeth, Tarn grabbed Erto’s shoulder and pushed into the melee. It was a good plan, an easy distraction. A riot was always a moment away inside Baltoro. The prison was too crowded, the walls too cold, and the food too scarce. Innocent men both behind bars and guarding them, all of them prisoners in a way, and all under extreme stress.
But a distraction from what?
The sound of prisoners and guards clashing had a familiar cadence to it, but this one too felt wrong. There should be a stronger response. Coming alongside Tarn, Rykin reached for his weapon and found it missing from his belt.
“The devil?” He cried. “My mace! Tarn, what’s going on here?”
“I don’t know,” said Tarn, peering into the crowd. “But someone’s moving us around, and I don’t trust it.”
The melee was focused on the center of the room, where a mass of food and projectiles were thrown back and forth. Toward the edges, several of the older prisoners made their way back to the safety of their cells, eyes wild with concern.
