Imperial Legion
Author: J.A. Hunter
Date: 2017-11-17 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Science Fiction; Fiction; Magic; Science Fiction Fantasy; Adventure; Role Playing Games; dragons; Unfinished
Description: December, 2042 The Imperial Legion marches, and war looms on the horizon… Jack Mitchel and his misfit crew of rebels never wanted a fight with the Empire, but the time for diplomacy has passed. Ruthless tech-genius Robert Osmark is coming, and trailing behind him is a vast army determined to wipe the Crimson Alliance from the face of Eldgard. Impossibly, Jack has united the warring Murk Elf clans under his banner, but even with their aid, the Alliance is still badly outnumbered, and Osmark has some nasty tricks up his sleeves. And while the long-awaited battle unfolds, an ancient evil stirs in
Publisher: Shadow Alley Press, Inc.
Rights: James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press

Contents

Summary

James Hunter's Mailing List

ONE_ Ambush

TWO_ Supplies

THREE_ Emergency Message

FOUR_ Imperial Trickery

FIVE_ Change of Plans

SIX_ Ravenkirk

SEVEN_ Defenses

EIGHT_ Unexpected Guests

NINE_ Royal Favor

TEN_ Battle Royale

ELEVEN_ The Dungeon-Hearted

TWELVE_ Encroaching Darkness

THIRTEEN_ The Frozen Warrens

FOURTEEN_ Dungeon Dive

FIFTEEN_ Black Conclave

SIXTEEN_ Gate Hound

SEVENTEEN_ Down for the Count

EIGHTEEN_ Goodbyes

NINETEEN_ Shut-eye

TWENTY_ Revelations

TWENTY-ONE_ Final Preparations

TWENTY-TWO_ Infiltrate

TWENTY-THREE_ Chaos

TWENTY-FOUR_ Face-off

TWENTY-FIVE_ Calm Before the Storm

TWENTY-SIX_ Wake-up Call

TWENTY-SEVEN_ Opening Salvo

TWENTY-EIGHT_ Round Two

TWENTY-NINE_ House to House

THIRTY_ Automatons

THIRTY-ONE_ The Horde

THIRTY-TWO_ Divine Intervention

THIRTY-THREE_ Familiar Faces

THIRTY-FOUR_ Stealth Attack

THIRTY-FIVE_ Celebration

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

VGO Reading Order

Other Works by James A. Hunter

Books from Shadow Alley Press

About the Author
litRPG on Facebook

Even More litRPG on Facebook

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright

Summary

December, 2042

The Imperial Legion marches, and war looms on the horizon …

Jack Mitchel and his misfit crew of rebels never wanted a fight with the Empire, but the time for diplomacy has passed.

Ruthless tech-genius Robert Osmark is coming, and trailing behind him is a vast army determined to wipe the Crimson Alliance from the face of Eldgard. Impossibly, Jack has united the warring Murk Elf clans under his banner, but even with their aid, the Alliance is still badly outnumbered, and Osmark has some nasty tricks up his sleeves.

And while the long-awaited battle unfolds, an ancient evil stirs in the heart of Viridian Gate Online—one that will change the game forever.

James Hunter's Mailing List

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ONE_

Ambush

I sat crouched behind a thick shrub, the fingers of my left hand pressed into the dirt, my right hand wrapped around the shaft of my warhammer. Ready. Waiting. A leafy elm rose up on my left, just one of the hundreds of trees dotting the landscape. Towering sugar maples, with burnt orange leaves, and gnarled birch trees obscured the skyline. Those trees, bathed in the yellow glow of midmorning light, cast deep pools of shade over the cobblestone road gracefully winding through the Timberland Grove just south of New Viridia.

It was beautiful—the kind of place you see on the cover of nature magazines—made even more so by the birds chirping contently and squirrels chittering away without a care in the world.

“Bloody hells, Jack,” Cutter whispered from my right, nudging me with his elbow as though I might not hear him. “How much longer are we gonna wait here, eh? It’s clear they aren’t coming. Bad bloody info is what it is. Let’s just get back to Rowanheath, already. Staying this close to the capital gives me the willies. Besides, I’m sick to death of this forest. No ale. No mead. No food. No one to gamble with. No thank you, that’s what I say.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s not bad intel, Cutter,” I said in a muted hush, hoping I was right. Considering how much prep work we had left to do back in Rowanheath, waiting out here on an Imperial caravan would be a tremendous pain in the neck and a huge waste of time if they didn’t show. But they’d come, I knew it in my gut. “It’ll be here,” I muttered, almost as much for me as for him. “Just be patient.” I edged a tad closer to the road, nudging aside a thick branch obscuring my view.

He slipped closer, until his shoulder was practically pressing into mine. “Not bloody likely,” he grumbled. I glanced at him, but the only thing I could see was a hazy blur in the air marking his position. He might’ve been lazy and whiny, but his Stealth ability was through the roof—the guy was effectively invisible when he wanted to be. “This’ll be the fifth caravan we’ve raided in four days,” he continued. “If this Osmark bloke’s as smart as everyone says, then surely, he’ll wise up and change the supply routes. He’d be a moron not to.”

“Or, perhaps,” Amara said from my left, shooting Cutter a hard-eyed scowl, “they’ll just hire better guards. Much easier. And assuming they do hire better guards, perhaps we should keep our mouths shut so as not to tip them off, yes? Just a thought, master thief.”

Naturally, that sent Cutter to mumbling softly under his breath, just loud enough for me to catch a few words. Ungrateful, pigheaded know-it-all.

A soft snort from my right made me grin. Forge. He, at least, had a good attitude about the demanding raid schedule.

The creak of a wagon wheel cut through the otherwise still forest, silencing Forge’s laughter and Cutter’s grumbling in a heartbeat. I shot a glance at a green-skinned Risi—sporting heavy leathers and swirling black tribal tattoos—tucked away in the foliage across the road from me. Marack, the current leader of the Wolf’s Fangs, a group loosely aligned with the Rebellion. Very loosely. I’d seen their handiwork on a couple of occasions, and despite what they claimed, they weren’t freedom fighters. No, they were bandits, looking to capitalize on the war and line their own pockets.

Not exactly the kind of people I liked surrounding myself with, but there were precious few raiding forces who knew the West Viridia side of the Eldgard continent the way the Wolf’s Fangs did. I tapped at my ear, then jerked a thumb toward the road. Incoming. The surly, taciturn bandit simply nodded then slipped away, vanishing into the woods without a trace or a sound. A moment later a shaggy black wolf with beady yellow eyes and oversized jaws filled with far too many teeth, materialized from the tree line. Then, in a flash, it disappeared into the undergrowth.

Following its master.

I shivered. Devil was far from a friendly pet, but those wolves were downright mean. Devil liked to eat. The wolves, on the other hand, seemed interested in nothing else.

The creaking grew louder, accompanied by the clop of hooves on stone, the rustle of leather and fabric, and the soft murmur of voices. The first wagon rounded the bend, pulling into view. It was nothing special, just a clunky wooden box perched on spindly wheels and covered by a yellowing canvas tarp stretched tight over bows of wood. A driver, clad in heavy chainmail, sat on a small bench in front, flapping leather reins as a pair of chocolate draft horses plodded along, their hooves ringing against the stone.

Though the wagon was relatively plain, I knew in an instant this was it. The Imperial Brand—an eagle clutching a lightning bolt—made that abundantly clear. A pair of stern-looking NPC [Legionnaires] flanked the wagon, marching along in lockstep, hands resting on razor-sharp swords. They were stony-faced men, wearing crested centurion helmets and segmented lorica armor covered by white surcoats, likewise decorated with the Imperial Brand. I raised a closed fist, hold, and waited as the cart rolled past us and a second one came into view.

Imperial caravans usually came in groups of four wagons, so splitting the convoy at the blind in the road was the best option.

The next wagon in line was much like the first—same plain wood, same canvas, a nearly identical dour-faced driver, and Imperial guards—but the group of mercenaries trailing behind the wagon was a whole different story. That was new. There were ten of them, none wearing standard uniforms, all boasting a host of different armor and weapon types. I eyed them as they scanned the woods, and realized these weren’t hired sellswords at all. The Imperials hired out Mercs from Harrowick on occasion, but these were players—and high-level ones from the look of their gear.

I glanced over one shoulder and saw Amara staring at Cutter with a cocked eyebrow, I told you so written all over her face. If this weren’t so serious, I’d have laughed.

I turned back, muscles tensing, sweat beading on my brow as I prepared to move. The front edge of the next wagon in line flashed into view, and I thrust my free hand up, unleashing a violet Umbra Bolt, which streaked through the air like a cruise missile. Instantly, the Legionnaires and their new guards were crying out warnings as they drew weapons and braced for an attack. But they didn’t stand much of a chance, not unless there were a lot more guards tagging along at the rear of the caravan.

Aside from my immediate team—Cutter, Amara, and Forge—there were twenty-five elite Murk Elf Rangers spread out through the trees, and another twenty-five members of the Wolf’s Fangs, not counting their pets. Plus, Devil loitered in the trees a hundred feet away, ready to burn any Imperials that tried to retreat for New Viridia.

I whipped one hand forward, conjuring Umbra Bog beneath the heavily armed players sandwiched between the wagons. The cobblestone ground faded and disappeared as inky black tendrils erupted from the earth, flailing wildly in the air, wrapping around arms, legs, and torsos with equal ease. One female Accipiter in light brown armor shot into the air, her wings beating down, kicking up swirls of dust and avoiding the grasping tendrils of shadow power by inches.

Not that it mattered.

Three simian forms—two as large as chimpanzees, the third, Nikko, nearly as big as a gorilla—burst from the trees on giant outstretched raven’s wings, sacking her like a trio of linebackers. Down the Accipiter fell, the deadly Void Watcher Apes clinging to her. In the same instant, I cast my deadly AoE spell, Plague Burst. My left hand flashed through the air in a complex series of gestures: flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, hand curling into a fist as raw power trickled into my palm.

The spell had a ten-second cast time, so for the moment, there was nothing I could do but wait and watch.

Forge and Amara shot out from the tree cover next to me, dashing toward the nearest set of Legionnaires. Amara vaulted high into the air, conjuring a spectral bow of jade light from thin air and spraying the guards with summoned arrows that cut into their HP like a hot knife through butter.

Forge shoulder-checked a stunned guard out of his way, then laid into the wagon itself, his meaty double-bladed axe cleaving through wood, destroying one of the wheels and shattering the axle. No way was that wagon going anywhere. More rebels were pouring from the trees every second—Murk Elf Hunters in their terrifying bone masks, leather-clad Wodes, and hulking Risi. The ring of steel on steel and the cries of battle carried over the forest, silencing all the formerly chirping birds and chattering squirrels.

Finally, I completed the complicated hand motions, and a rancid yellow fog bled from the air like an infected wound, swirling around the trapped players pinned down between the two wagons. Choking screams filled the air as the toxic mist clawed at exposed flesh and burrowed into open mouths. The Umbra Bog and Plague Burst combo was deadly, and had served me exceptionally well over the past several weeks. A Dawn Elf in elegant blue robes toppled, her eyes bulging in their sockets as she died. One down, more to follow.

But then—before the plague could claim more victims—a burst of golden light exploded from the center of the assembled warriors as a clarion prayer rose in the air like the chiming of a bell.

A Dispel Magic spell.

Standing in the middle of the group was a woman clad in shining plate mail, wielding a jewel-studded scepter. Yep, they had a Cleric of Light with them. Perfect.

The golden blaze, emanating from the Cleric, burned through the yellow plague cloud like sunlight through the morning fog. But just as Umbra Bog started to fade, the chant ceased, abruptly cut short as Cutter appeared from the shadows and ran a black blade across the Cleric’s throat, earning a Critical Hit and ending the prayer before it could undo all of my hard work. The Cleric was wounded, but not dead; Cutter’s second blade darted out, sinking into her kidney all the way to the hilt.

I winced, knowing just how bad that had to hurt.

The Cleric dropped to her knees, a grimace of pain contorting her face. Cutter pulled the knife free with a flick of his wrist and slammed it into the side of her throat, putting her down for good. She toppled forward, bleeding out, eyes already glazing over in death.

Cutter, though, was already moving on, hurling a fan of smoky conjured blades at a nearby Stormsinger in emerald robes trimmed in gold. The blades sliced deep, silencing a deadly spell before it could leave the man’s lips. The Umbra Bog still had about twenty seconds left before it disappeared, and I didn’t want to waste another moment, so I triggered Shadow Stride with an effort of will. The world around me shuddered and faltered as color faded and monochromatic light, occasionally interrupted by swirls of bright purple, exploded around me.

I grinned, appreciating the quiet of the Shadowverse.

I stood and slipped through the bushes with ease, ambling toward the group, going slowly since I had nearly a minute before my time in this place would lapse. I eyed the rest of the battle, which was unfolding nicely. My Void Watcher chimps were brutalizing the poor Accipiter woman, their claws gouging down deep while their blunt teeth tore at vulnerable flesh. Amara was frozen mid-lunge, a summoned spear of black ebony thrust out, impaling a Legionnaire guard right through his heart.

I felt a twinge of guilt about that. Killing NPCs was unavoidable, but I tried not to do it whenever possible. Pwning a fellow traveler was one thing since we’d respawn in eight hours, but NPCs weren’t so fortunate. Their deaths were final. But sometimes their deaths were also unavoidable.

I walked directly through Forge, who was frozen in place by the lead wagon, and stepped into the crowd of paid guards, searching for a good mark.

All these players looked tough, of course, but a bunch of them were standard brawlers and fighters, easy to take care of with spells and ranged attacks. They had two, however, who looked like support classes or maybe glass-cannon casters, and those types could be dangerous. I eyeballed each in turn.

The first wore baggy trousers and soft-soled shoes but no shirt or body armor. His head was shaved, save for a small black top-knot, and his chest and arms were covered in brand-like tattoos, burned directly into his skin. The second wore plain brown robes and carried a rune-covered staff, which glowed with a spectral light. I had no idea what class tattoo-guy was—probably a monk by the look of his gear and topknot—but the other looked like a straight healer.

That was my mark.

I slipped up behind him, dropped into a low crouch, activating Stealth, and raised my warhammer. I breathed in deeply, watching the countdown timer in the corner of my vision twirl away, then stepped from the Shadowverse. Motion and sound crashed down all around me as the world resumed its usual ebb and flow, but for the poor Cleric in front of me, it was game over. I swung my warhammer with all my strength, triggering Savage Blow just before the blunt head smashed into the back of the healer’s unarmored skull.

A sickening crack rang through the air, and the Cleric folded like a bad hand of cards. Critical Hit. The player was dead before he even hit the ground. With my high level, killer gear, Backstab multiplier, and Savage Blow skill, few people could withstand an attack like that.

I spun, darting toward the tattooed man, but as I turned a wrecking ball of raw force smashed into my chest, lifting me from my feet and batting me into the trees lining the road. I slammed into a thick oak and slid onto my butt, coughing and wheezing as I struggled upright. Wow, I hadn’t been ready for that. The attack had chopped off a sixth of my HP in a single hit; I was lucky not to get slammed with a debuff.

My Umbra Bog had finally expired, and the remaining PCs were storming off; one pair confronted Forge, lashing out with huge swords, while another two charged Amara—an act they’d soon regret, I had no doubt. A few more turned on Cutter, trying to pin the agile thief down with little success.

But tattoo-man? He was coming straight for me.

TWO_

Supplies

I scrambled to my feet and thrust one hand forward, conjuring a column of purple shadow flame as thick as a telephone pole. But the tattooed monk just kept walking toward me. Instead of trying to evade like a normal, rational person, his fingers flashed out, tapping a small tattoo on his chest. The brand fizzled, flared, and disappeared as a massive wall of orange light erupted in front of him. The purple flames splashed uselessly over the spell barrier, then rebounded back toward me.

In a blink, shadow flames washed over me, singeing my eyebrows, burning my skin, and knocking off another sixth of my life points.

I stumbled back a step, abruptly cutting off the spell, letting the flames gutter and die as I fished a Health-Regen potion from my belt. I popped the cork with my thumb and downed the drink in one long pull, before tossing it aside. The tattooed warrior’s shield flickered and disappeared, but he was already tapping another black mark—this one adorning the inside of his forearm. Another flash and the brand vanished as the warrior threw out one hand, unleashing a barrage of golden, summoned arrows.

I dove right and rolled up to a knee, conjuring Dark Shield. A purple dome roared into life, biting deeply into my already diminished Spirit bar. Thankfully, though, I’d been quick enough, and the monk’s arrows exploded uselessly against the barrier, sparks flying on impact. I dismissed the spell with a flick of my hand and struggled to my feet, but the tattooed monk was already on me, his fists flashing out with inhuman speed. I swung my hammer, narrowly deflecting the first blow, then used my spiked vambrace to bat away another incoming jab.

Still, though, the man was too quick for me. I was back on my heels and didn’t see the incoming front kick until it was too late to do anything about it. His cloth-covered foot slammed into my stomach like a sledgehammer, knocking me back a handful of steps as a debuff popped up in the corner of my vision:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Stunning Blow: You have sustained a stunning blow! Attack damage -15%; Stamina Regeneration reduced by 30%; movement speed reduced by 35%; duration, 1 minute.

<<<>>>

Wow, that was brutal. Even unarmed this guy could hit harder than most fighters. He feinted left, then shot right with a roundhouse kick, his leg whistling toward my head at breakneck speed. I triggered Shadow Stride half a second before the attack landed, which was a good thing since the blow probably would’ve shattered my skull like fine china. His leg crept to a halt, the man balanced precariously on one foot as blacks and grays invaded the landscape.

Obviously, this guy was built for speed and ferocity, but chances were his defenses were crap. If I could manage to get a solid shot in, it would probably take him down for good, and as fast as he was, he wasn’t faster than Shadow Stride. I slipped around him, dropping into a crouch as I prepared to smash his head from his shoulders like a major leaguer hitting for the stands. I hefted my warhammer and took a few practice swings, the weapon phasing harmlessly through his head. Then, satisfied, I slipped from the Shadowverse and lashed out.

I triggered both Savage Blow and Black Caress, ensuring this attack would do maximum damage—absolutely vital since I had that Stunning Blow debuff dragging down my attack damage—but, somehow, he was already on the move. His fingers flashed out, tapping another black brand. My weapon landed with a colossal thud, and instead of dropping the monk like a load of bricks, the hammer reverberated in my hands as though I’d just hit a steel plate instead of the unarmored back of a man’s head.

I reeled, my hammer quivering in my grasp, and my eyes widened in pure shock. The monk’s skin was now a bright silver as though every inch of him had been transformed into metal. He grinned as though he knew exactly what I’d been thinking, then darted forward, throwing a lightning-fast hook that caught me across the jaw and sent me sprawling onto the cobblestone road. Devil, need some help ASAP, I sent through my mental link with the Shadow Drake, who was rampaging just out of sight.

Instead of finishing me, the monk stood tall and crossed heavily muscled arms, staring down at me with smug contempt. “After all the talk I’ve heard about the great Grim Jack Shadowstrider,” he said, “I was expecting more. You’re slow. Weak. Predictable. Your class gives you some significant advantages against someone who has never gamed, but against someone like me? Unimpressive.”

“Oh yeah,” I said, struggling onto my elbows. “And who are you?”

“Jay Taylor—I’m Emperor Osmark’s new right-hand man. He’s gonna pay me well once he hears how easily I took you down.” An arrogant sneer spread across his metallic features.

I scrambled back and pushed myself to my feet, bringing my weapon up in front of me. “You know, Jay,” I said, hoping to buy a little time, “it’s not my class that makes me strong. It’s that I use my head and depend on my friends.”

“Too bad you don’t have any friends around,” he said, his lips pulling back into a snarl as he dropped into a martial arts stance, his fists up, his weight settled squarely over his back leg.

“That’s only because you aren’t looking closely enough,” I replied with a grin, glancing over his shoulder to the tree line.

His eyes flared wide and he spun on one heel, fingers slamming home against a small scimitar burned into his shoulder. A smoky, onyx version of the weapon appeared in his outthrust hands, but he was far too late. Devil’s vicious, burning gaze stared out from between a pair of thick elms with broad leaves, smoke wafting up from his nostrils in twin plumes. The monk gasped, bolted left, then shot in with his conjured sword. He should’ve run, but apparently, he was overconfident in his unique abilities. The blade whistled through the air, but Devil simply lunged out, his mouth thrown wide.

The monk’s weapon clanged against a bony ridge of black spikes jutting up from Devil’s skull, doing next to no damage. In the same instant, however, Devil clamped down on the monk’s shoulder and neck, and even his gleaming metal skin seemed completely useless against the crushing power of Devil’s jaws. The tattooed man shrieked—one part rage, one part shock, one part hurt—as Devil jerked away, taking out a huge swath of flesh and two-thirds of the man’s HP. The monk groped at his belt, no doubt searching for a Regen potion.

I wasn’t going to let him get to it.

I flipped my hammer, so the spike faced out, and slammed the weapon into his arm, triggering Black Caress once more. Bone snapped, metal flesh dimpled and broke under the force of the attack, and a burst of raw life essence trickled up through the hammer and into my body, reinvigorating me like a shot of good coffee. More of his already limited HP vanished as the monk dropped to his knees, eyes hazy, likely from some debuff. I pulled back, twirling my hammer in a tight arc, but before I could finish him off, Devil struck again, as fast as a cobra.

His mouth closed over the man’s head, his teeth slamming down with a wet, meaty thud that left me nauseous, despite the fact that I’d seen Devil do this same thing countless times before. No matter how many people I killed in V.G.O., it never seemed to get better. Not fully. The monk pitched over to the side, only a stump of a neck left behind. I shuddered, but there was no time for second-guessing myself—there were still Imperials to be dealt with. Good work, I sent to Devil. Secure the front of the convoy, make sure no one gets away.

Devil grunted, his lips pulled back from glassy black teeth, then dipped his head in acknowledgment. He crept back, his slick scales glimmering in the light trickling in through the canopy overhead, then disappeared into the forest like a ghost. Devil was about as conspicuous as a fighter jet with racing stripes, but when he wanted to, he could move almost as stealthily as Cutter—one of the perks of being part shadow. Nikko, Kong, Mighty Joe, I sent out, connecting with the three Void Watchers. Head to the back of the convoy, keep out of sight but stop anyone from leaving.

Of course, manling, Nikko replied, her voice equal parts stern, motherly, and amused.

I put the Void Terrors from mind and turned my attention back to the wagons, looking for any other pockets of resistance that needed stomping down, but found none. Forge was twenty or thirty feet away, climbing through the back of one of the covered wagons, no doubt searching for loot. Cutter was likewise mopping up, currently crouched over the body of a Legionnaire, relieving the man of coins, precious stones, and any serviceable armor, which could either be sold on the black market or repurposed for the faction.

There was never enough good-quality gear to go around. I made sure to grab the off-white surcoat emblazoned with the Imperial brand—they were faction-bound items, but we had some talented seamstresses who could forge a knockoff if need be.

I slipped my warhammer back into my belt and hoofed it toward the bend in the road and the other wagons, which were still out of sight. Amara rounded the corner a second later, her face a mask of anger. “Grim Jack,” she barked, “there is a situation, you must hurry.” She hooked a thumb back toward the way we’d come. “It’s the Wolf’s Fangs, again. This way.”

I grunted and picked up my pace, jogging toward her as I pulled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt, replenishing my reserves in case there was another fight waiting up ahead.

I rounded the corner behind Amara, prepared for a fight, but not for the sight that met my eyes. Two more wagons littered the roadway, their wheels and axles obliterated, and bodies dotted the ground, butchered and bloodied from the ambush. Those were NPC corpses, since players disappeared a few seconds after death—sent for respawn. It was a disturbing sight, of course, but not an unexpected one. Not far away, however, was a line of Imperial merchants kneeling on the ground, their hands laced behind their heads, tears streaming down their dirty cheeks.

Members of the Wolf’s Fangs loomed over them, weapons drawn and laid against bare skin, ready to kill.

Across the road from them were the Murk Elf raiders, standing with bows drawn and trained on the Rebel bandits. A standoff, though I didn’t understand why.

“They deserve death, you fools,” one of the bandits was yelling. He was a beefy Wode with blond dreadlocks and hardened leather armor, whom I immediately recognized: Balmar Garmson, an NPC and the de facto leader of the Wolf’s Fangs.
“No,” came a fierce rebuff from a towering Murk Elf, who was built like a pro football player and dressed in heavy, black-coated plate mail. Chakan of the Lisu tribe, son of Chief Sakal. He and I had fought not so long ago—a deadly battle to determine who would bear the artifacts of the Jade Lord—but after defeating him and sparing his life, he’d become one of my most loyal followers. “The Jade Lord has already spoken on this issue, cutthroat.” He hefted a heavy mace, splattered with Imperial blood, and leaned it against his pauldron. “Noncombatants are not to be harmed. Especially those who are native citizens”—the in-game term for NPCs.

“There’s no such thing as a noncombatant,” Balmar replied, his eyes narrowed to slits, his words a hate-filled whisper. “You don’t know what they do, these Imperials. The one you call Osmark, he raided the Wolf’s Fang. Burnt my men alive, and left us for dead. They have no mercy, no honor—so, why should we, huh?” He raised a shoddy sword, pitted with rust, ready to strike the mousy female merchant kneeling before him.

Without a thought, I acted, thrusting one hand forward and hurling a powerful Umbra Bolt. The violet missile erupted from my palm, smacking into the man’s sword, slapping it from his hand. The weapon flipped and spun before clattering noisily on the road.

“Who in the nine blighted Hells just did that—” Balmar roared, rounding on me. The color promptly drained from his face, and his words seemed to die on his lips.

“We’ve already discussed this, Balmar,” I said. “I sympathize with whatever you’ve gone through at the hands of the Imperials, but this isn’t how we do things. Not in the Crimson Alliance.” I stalked forward, pulling the warhammer from my belt, the rasp of metal on leather carrying through the still, tense air. “Do I make myself clear, or do you need a reminder?”

“Be smart,” Cutter said, appearing at my side. “Don’t ask for a reminder. Grim Jack’s a good fella, but he’ll rip you a new arsehole if you push it, friend.”

I kept walking, my boots crunching on the dirt and wooden debris from the wagons until I was right in front of the man. He was larger than me, but that didn’t matter; I wasn’t scared of him or the Wolf’s Fang. They were tough, true, but if push came to shove, I could end this guy without even breaking a sweat.

“But they’re working for the Imperials,” the Wode bandit replied, struggling to keep a respectful tone. “Taking out the supply trains isn’t enough. We should kill these merchants and line the road with their heads. Let every citizen know they aren’t safe. That no one’s safe. That’s what the Imperials would do to us.”

I eyed him long and hard, lips pressed into a tight line. I reached out and dropped one hand onto his meaty shoulder. “I understand that’s what the Imperials would do. Heck, I’ve seen them do it, but we’re different. If we aren’t better than what we’re fighting against, then we might as well give up now.” I stepped away and faced the merchants, who all had their eyes averted.

“We’re going to take your supplies, and we’re going to burn your wagons,” I said coolly, surprised at how steady and authoritative I sounded. “But we’re going to let all of you go. Head back to the Imperial City. Tell every Imperial who will listen what happened here. Tell them that we’re willing to fight, but that we’re not the monsters Osmark and the rest of your leaders are making us out to be.” I turned toward Balmar and dropped my voice. “Now secure their hands, and set an escort to get them safely away from here.”

The Wode hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, then grunted and nodded. “Alright, sir.”

My hand shot out, grabbing the sleeve of his rough garb. “And Balmar, if I hear that anything happens to these merchants, you will personally be held responsible. Understand?”

He nodded again, a dark scowl flickering across his features, then wheeled around and started barking orders to those standing over the merchants. I turned back to Chakan, flashing him an easy, lopsided smile. “Thanks, man. I appreciate the backup.”

“Of course, my lord,” he replied with a grin of his own and a quick wink. “I know some of the War Tribes don’t like your tolerant stance toward Imperials, but I think there’s much wisdom in it. Why make enemies when you can make friends?” His grin widened. He would think that—after all, that’s exactly what I’d done with him.

THREE_

Emergency Message

I turned away as Chakan and the rest of the Murk Elf raiding band dispersed to secure the perimeter and collect their well-earned loot. Cutter and Forge were behind me, but there was no sign of Amara. Probably stalking the Wolf’s Fang bandits to ensure they followed orders—that would be just like her.

“So what were they moving?” I asked, rubbing my hands together in gleeful anticipation as I put Amara from mind. Despite the drama that’d happened with Balmar a moment before, this was still a successful raid, and I was looking forward to finding a few goodies. After all, we might’ve been preparing for a war against Osmark and his Imperial Legion, but loot was still loot.

And I loved loot.

Forge’s face sagged, though, and a frown settled over his gruff Risi face. “Nothin’ good, Hoss,” he said, folding his arms, then leaning over and spitting a fat wad of phlegm onto the ground. “Bunch of weird metal parts. Big cogs. Some brass plates. I ain’t gotta clue what they’re supposed to be for, but these wagons are full to the brim with this stuff.”

I sighed, stowed my warhammer, and ran a hand through my hair. “Show me,” I finally said.

I followed Forge to the nearest wagon, then clambered up onto the driver’s bench, pulled back the canvas curtain, and glanced inside. Yep, I had no idea what I was looking at. Well, that’s not precisely true. There were bits of metal stacked and strapped to the floor. Metal plates, with predrilled holes. Iron struts. Brass cogs, some as big as a wagon wheel, others the size of my fist. I just couldn’t imagine what these things were for. I mean, V.G.O. was a giant world, filled with more quest lines and classes than I could even hazard a guess at, but I hadn’t seen anything like this.

“And all of the wagons are like this?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at Forge.

He nodded. “More or less.”

“The guards have some okay loot,” Cutter offered, leaning his shoulder against the hitch. “Nothing too fancy, mind you, but a bit of decent gear, plus each one has a bagful of silver Imperial Marks. Good experience, too.”

I paused and pulled up my player interface. Sure enough, I had a new level-up notification, which was a nice surprise. More than nice, really. Amazing.

<<<>>>
x1 Level Up!

You have (5) undistributed stat points

You have (2) unassigned proficiency points

<<<>>>

After defeating the Dragon known as Arzokh the Sky Maiden and completing the hellishly difficult Path of the Jade Lord quest chain, I’d jumped from level thirty-four to level thirty-nine, making me one of the top tier players in the entire game according to the leaderboard in the game chat. Number two, actually, just under Osmark who’d somehow managed to hit level fifty. Still, knowing I was number two in the game was more than a little humbling, though it made sense considering everything I’d accomplished so far. Since then, though, it’d been a slow, slow grind for points.

This was my first level-up after nearly two weeks of constant raids and faction-related quests.

I quickly toggled over to my character screen. My avatar appeared in the air—lean build, dusky gunmetal gray skin, glossy raven-black hair—and next to that was my stat screen:

I couldn’t help but grin. Not only had I leveled up, but I’d finally reached level forty, which was the level Night Cyclone unlocked. I rubbed my hands together in greedy gamer glee. I dropped my 5 new Stat Points into Intelligence, bringing it up to 116, then toggled away from my character screen and over to my Shadowmancer Skill Tree, carefully surveying my current skills:

Since claiming the title of Jade Lord, I’d earned a total of 6 Proficiency Points. Three of those had gone into tried and true favorites, which had already proven their worth. Umbra Bog had earned itself another point, bringing it up to level 3, and Umbra Flame received one more for the massive damage it dealt out at close range. Another point went into Astral Connection, increasing Void Terror Base Damage and Void Terror Base Armor by 15% and granting an extra 500 EXP to the Void Terrors for every kill they made.

Then, because I wanted to unlock Shadow Lord once I hit level 50, I’d invested a single point into the passive ability Black Strength.

<<<>>>

Ability: Black Strength

Draw on the ever-present power of the Umbra to restore your Stamina from the strains of battle and increase the Damage you deal to enemies.

Ability Type/Level: Passive/Initiate

Cost: None

Range: N/A

Cast Time: N/A

Cooldown: N/A

Effect: Increase Stamina Regeneration by 15%.

Effect 2: Increase Base Damage by 15%.

<<<>>>

But now I had 2 Proficiency Points and full access to Night Cyclone. I didn’t even have to think twice before dropping both points into the new ability.

<<<>>>

Skill: Night Cyclone

Summon a Shadow Spirit, which manifests as a cyclone of pure darkness from the deepest recesses of the Shadowverse. The Night Cyclone causes significant shadow damage to any opponent in its direct path (4 yards), while simultaneously releasing a series of charged shadow bolts, which count as lightning damage to any enemy they hit. Because Night Cyclone is a sentient spirit—though incapable of taking directions or communicating—this spell only affects foes within the area.

Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

Cost: 1,100 Spirit

Range: Line of Sight; Damage Range 2 yards from cyclone’s center

Cast Time: Instant

Cooldown: 10 minutes

Effect 1: Shadow Damage for 350% of Spell Power on contact.

Effect 2: Releases (5) concentrated Shadow Bolts that deal Lightning Damage at 100% Spell Power.

<<<>>>

I grinned, ecstatically happy with the new ability and eager to try it out.

“Jack, you home?” Cutter said, snapping his fingers in front of my face, trying to get my attention.

“Yeah, sorry,” I replied, closing out of the skill tree. “I just leveled up—finally hit the big four-zero.”

“Well, good for bloody you,” he said, crossing his arms and canting his head. “Now how’s about you tell us what you want to do with all this useless metal, eh? It’s heavier than brass bollocks. No way we can transport it with carts—not that the carts would help anyway since we can’t get ’em through the portals.”

I rolled my eyes, mind whirling as I thought about the unusual supplies. But a message pinged in my ear, interrupting my thoughts.

“Well?” Cutter asked.

“Sorry”—I held up a finger—“I just got a message.” I pulled up my interface again, scrolling over to my inbox. “It’s from Abby, and marked urgent.” I opened the message with a thought.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Jack,

Sorry to bother you, I know you’re out raiding. But I need you, Cutter, and Amara back in Rowanheath, ASAP. We’ve just got some new intel and well … it’s bad. It could change everything. Please hurry.

—Abby

<<<>>>

“Everything alright, mate?” Cutter asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

“No,” I replied, closing the message and exiting the menu. “Abby needs you, me, and Amara back in Rowanheath. Now. Right now. Not sure why, but something big is coming down the pipeline. Go find Amara and get back here as fast as you can. I want to be gone in five.”

Cutter’s eyebrows seemed to rise into his hairline, but he merely nodded, pushed away from the cart, and headed down the road, moving at a good clip.

“Forge,” I said, rounding on the former Marine and Texas native. “I’m leaving you in charge of this operation.” I fished a pair of parchment scrolls from my inventory. I pressed the first scroll, tied with red satin ribbon, into his hands. “This one will get you and the Bog Raiders back to Yunnam. And this one”—I passed him another with a blue ribbon—“will get you to Rowanheath. I want one wagon’s worth of this stuff shipped back to Yunnam for Vlad to examine. Maybe he can tell us what Osmark is up to.” I paused, fingers drumming on my trousers. “And, worst case scenario, even if he can’t, we can salvage this and use it for siege weapons. Vlad’s always complaining we don’t have enough resources.”

“No problem, Hoss. But what about the rest of it?” he asked, vaguely waving at the other carts.

I paused, jaw tight, and surveyed the wagons and the destruction. “We can’t afford for this stuff to get to Tomestide. Burn it. All of it. Make sure the wagons aren’t salvageable, and I want these parts melted down to slag. Torch the NPC bodies, too—I don’t want to see their heads on stakes. And let me know if Balmar and the rest of his crew give you any trouble. I can come back down here if you need me, though I’d prefer not to.”

“No worries, Jack,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder with a calloused hand. “I don’t much care for them Wolf’s Fang fellas as is. They put another foot wrong, and I’ll slap the holy-living crap outta the whole lot of ’em. Put the fear of the Lord into ’em right and proper.” He shot a wink at me. “I’ll round Chakan and his crew up, we’ll hand carry the stuff to Yunnam, then regroup back in Rowanheath for a debrief.”

I saw Cutter rushing toward me, Amara loping along beside him. “Sounds great—and thanks for taking the lead on this, Forge. As soon as I find out what’s going on, I’ll message you.”

I slipped past him, recalling my Void Terror pets to the Shadowverse as I pulled a gleaming pearl the size of a tennis ball from a pouch at my belt. It was strangely warm in my hand and vibrated with anxious energy like an overcharged battery on the verge of exploding. Although it looked like a common gemstone, it was actually something much more valuable: a port-stone. A reusable portal scroll, with one fixed location that could be changed by the owner at will. The little stone was worth its weight in gold ten times over.

Still, I steeled myself for the experience as I activated the stone—traveling with the port-stone was instantaneous and convenient, but incredibly unpleasant.

A shimmering, opalescent doorway, seven feet by four, appeared in the air, showing off a sweeping view of Rowanheath. “Let’s go,” I muttered, watching as Amara and Cutter slipped through before me. I pressed my eyes shut and stepped after them. A wave of vertigo hit me like a sucker punch, and the breath caught in my chest as power—cold as arctic ice—washed over me like a sudden rain. The chill filled my body, invaded my lungs, and stabbed at my clenched eyes as nausea racked my belly.

The portal shut behind me the second I was through, and for a long beat, I just stood there reeling on unsteady feet, hoping I didn’t fall over and make a total fool out of myself. After a few seconds, the sensation passed entirely and I opened my eyes, savoring the view before me. We were on the courtyard of the Rowanheath Keep, which overlooked the sprawling city of Rowanheath below.

The Keep itself wasn’t much to look at—not like the Darkshard Stronghold back in Yunnam—though it was certainly domineering. The Rowanheath Keep was carved into the treacherous mountain peaks walling off the city on two sides. The place was all hard lines, gray stone, high walls, and foreboding turrets. The Rowanheath Keep, Stonemount, hadn’t been designed for beauty, it’d been designed to withstand a siege—though I’d managed to take it against all the odds using a bit of trickery and some quick thinking.

Rowanheath, though, was beautiful in its way.

I inched up to the retaining wall edging the courtyard and stared down. The city itself was a giant mass of twisting cobblestone streets and dirty alleys, flanked by drunkenly leaning buildings in a myriad of different styles, reflecting the amazingly diverse denizens. Some shops and homes were built from smooth stone or rough wood, but many were constructed of white plaster. Hawkers lined the streets, crying their wares at passersbys, and colorful markets dotted walkways and side streets.

But despite the apparently carefree vendors, it was evident that things were not business as usual down below. At least, not entirely.

No, citizens and travelers scurried about, putting up shutters or purchasing supplies for the inevitable siege to come, while guards sporting the bright red cloaks of the Crimson Alliance patrolled the streets. The changes were most noticeable along the enormous fortified defensive wall, encircling the front of the city like a giant horseshoe. Men and women drilled in tight formations inside the wall while heavily armed guards patrolled the top.

Engineers and Weaponeers tinkered on massive custom-built siege weapons, designed by Vlad, our Russian Alchemic Weaponeer. There were wood and steel ballistae, which resembled giant crossbows, towering mangonel---s, and hulking catapults. Stone griffins with slick, streamlined bodies, broad chests, and massive wings sat perched on the lip of the outer wall.

This was a city preparing for war.

Finally, I wheeled about, putting the city to my back. As much as I wanted to stand there and relax, people needed me. On the plus side, there’d almost definitely be coffee in the Control Room, and boy could I use a cup of piping hot joe. “Come on,” I said to Cutter and Amara, both loitering nearby, talking in hushed whispers. “Let’s go figure out what nasty trick Osmark’s pulled this time.”

FOUR_

Imperial Trickery

“They’re almost two weeks closer than they should be,” Abby said flatly, bringing up a floating holo display of Eldgard. She looked bleak, dark bags under her eyes, suggesting she needed more sleep. A lot more sleep. She turned, folded her hands behind her back, and paced, her crimson dress, edged in gold, swishing as she moved. “Every intelligence report we have suggests they were coming south from Tomestide, through the Shining Plains, over the narrow divide via the Crossing, before staging in Hvaleyr.” She waved at the display and a route populated.

It was a route I’d seen often.

I leaned back in my padded leather chair, interlaced my fingers, and stared at the image, projected by a giant emerald affixed to the center of the dark-wood conference table in Rowanheath’s Command Room. I picked up my porcelain cup and took a long sip of my steaming Western Brew, which was nutty, bold, and as delicious as any coffee I’d ever had back IRL. Even better since it came with a hefty set of buffs—restoring HP, increasing Health Regen rate, not to mention boosting Intelligence, Strength, and Vitality for a short while. And whenever I got really glum, I just reminded myself of the message that came with the buff:

Remember, with enough good coffee, all things are possible.

“We even had surveillance, indicating that was the case. Our Accipiter scouts—under the leadership of General Caldwell—saw convoys, troop columns, and siege equipment following that route.” She reached up, pinched the bridge of her nose, then flopped back in her seat, clearly frazzled and exhausted.

“How, then, are they a week closer than they should be?” Amara said, her voice brimming with suspicion as she carefully regarded the tip of a wickedly sharp dagger. “Perhaps there are traitors in our midst?”

A tense and uneasy silence invaded the room as her accusation hung in the air like a thundercloud.

“Peace, daughter,” Chief Kolle offered from my right. “There is a reasonable explanation, though far from a comfortable one. Otto, if you’d please explain?”

A gruff Risi warrior, clad in black-coated plate mail covered in intricate Celtic knots, stood and dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Of course.” Otto Staldain was Abby’s starting NPC companion—a character spawned by the Overminds to accompany Abby when she’d first entered the game. Otto was taciturn, occasionally disagreeable, and all business. But thankfully, he was very good at his business.

Not only was he a Battle Warden and an incredibly skilled warrior, he was also an emissary of Òrdugh an Garda Anam—the Order of the Soulbound—which was a Risi rebel front operating in West Viridia. A tough group of folks who’d managed to get us more intel than we had any right to.

“Our information wasn’t incorrect,” he said without preamble, “but Osmark is much smarter than we’re giving him credit for. He deceived us. He knew about our surveillance patrols and Accipiter Scouts—and he used that knowledge to Imperial advantage. In recent hours, it’s come to light that the troop movements we’ve observed over the past weeks were the same troops, caravans, and siege equipment.” He paused, lips turning down into a displeased frown as he shook his head.

“These caravans,” he continued after a moment, “would make the trip to Hvaleyr, break down their wagons and weapons, then take portals back to Tomestide, where they’d begin the process all over again. In this way, Osmark was able to create an optical illusion of sorts, convincing us he was moving all of his forces to Hvaleyr. But while our scouts were watching the route south of Tomestide, he was covertly shuffling the bulk of his men and equipment through portals cast by the Mystica Ordo to the Imperial city of Harrowick.”

“But how?” Cutter asked, slouching forward, elbows resting on the table. “Jack said their siege engines were big beefy bastards. No portal is big enough to haul that type of gear through. It’s not possible.”

“Unfortunately,” Otto replied with a sniff, annoyed at the interruption, “Osmark took a page out of our book. During our invasion of Rowanheath, we had Vlad create specialty siege weapons that could be rapidly disassembled, carted through portals, then reassembled on the battlefield. True, our rigs were small, but somehow Osmark has managed to scale up that technology. Everything was transported in pieces to Harrowick, which is a major Imperial city with the capabilities and resources to hide movement like that. It is what thieves call sleight of hand, I believe.”

“Even if this is true,” Amara grunted, “Harrowick is still almost a two-week trek, and with siege engines, it would be closer to two and a half.”

“An astute observation,” the Risi replied stoically. “But Osmark’s deception was not finished there.” He thrust a hand out, and the map hovering above the table zoomed in until Harrowick and a wide lake, the Conwil Deeps, took up most of the space. “From Harrowick, the Imperials loaded troops and weapons onto a fleet of ships routinely used for transporting goods across the Deeps. And then they sailed to a point near the southern edge of the Tanglewood. That puts the Legion about two days out from the neutral supply town of Veris and about eight days from Rowanheath.”

He took a long, slow scan of the members present: me, Abby, Cutter, Anton Black—our logistics officer—Chief Kolle, and Li Xiu, the best damned Wall Commander in Rowanheath. “This is grave news,” Otto said, a glimmer of what might’ve been fear in his muddy eyes. “It’s possible the Legion is heading for the Storme Marshes, but it’s highly unlikely. Though there are some small roads and paths into the heart of the jungle, venturing in would be suicide—especially with their siege engines.”

“Which means the wáng bā dàn Imperials are coming here first,” Xiu finished, his words lightly coated with a faint Chinese accent, his golden Dawn Elf face hard as a block of stone. “Our crews have been working around the clock, but with only eight days …” He trailed off, then shook his head, his hands curling into fists as though he wanted nothing more than to beat Osmark into a bloody pulp. “We won’t be ready. We’ll hold them for four or five days, but we don’t have the manpower to withstand a siege.”

“Nor the resources,” Anton pitched in, pulling out several ledgers with painstakingly detailed notes about supply chains, food rations, and equipment reserves. Before the asteroid had obliterated Earth, Anton had been a tax accountant from Bradford, in the UK. There were few people better with numbers or logistics, and he’d taken to his role as the Chief Merchant of the Crimson Alliance with gusto. “Even with our ability to use the black market, things will get tight quickly, I’m afraid.”

I took another long sip of my coffee, trying to keep calm and levelheaded. “So what do you want us to do?” I asked, looking at each of the members in turn. “Abandon Rowanheath?” I set the cup down before it began to quiver in my hand. “If the Imperials get Rowanheath, they’ll be able to fortify and build their troops up, and eventually they’ll bulldoze through the Storme Marshes. We can’t lose this.” I swept a hand around the Control Center. “We can’t. There has to be a different way. We have to have some options here.”

“Well,” Abby said, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “Worst-case scenario, we could always use the Horn of the Ancients. I mean, that’s not ideal but it’s a nice ace to have up our sleeve.”

The Jade Lord, Nangkri, had awarded me the horn after setting the Sky Maiden free; it was a relic that would allow me to summon the Jade Lord and the Dokkalfar heroes of legend from the grave to fight on my behalf for one hour. But I could only use it for that purpose once, and there was no telling how effective those ancient heroes would be—not against an entire army. Abby was right, it was a nice ace to have up my sleeve, but depending on something untested like that as our main strategy was a terrible idea.

“No,” I finally said with a shake of my head. “We can’t rely on that. If we need it, we’ll use it, but we need a real plan. What else do we have?”

Everyone was quiet for a moment, then Amara rudely gut checked Cutter with her elbow and arched an eyebrow at him.

His face screwed up in annoyance, but at last, he sighed. “Might be, I could recruit the thieves to help with the resupply. My relationship with the Guild has been a bit strained since I killed Gentleman Georgie …” He trailed off, his eyes hazy and far away for a moment.

Cutter was usually an easy-going guy with few cares beyond booze, gambling, and loot, but Georgie was a sensitive topic. He’d been something of a father figure to Cutter. A mentor. “Well, they want me to step up and take more of a leadership role in the organization. To step into Georgie’s shoes. But that’s not my bag, if you catch my meaning. Still, they owe me. And between them and the smugglers, I can get us what we need to hold out against the Imperials for a good long while.”

I paused, turning that piece of information over in my head. So feasibly we could handle the supplies, but would that be enough? “I appreciate it, Cutter,” I finally said, rubbing absently at my chin, “but even if we take care of the supply issue, it won’t matter if we can’t hold the walls for more than a week.”

“We can pull up extra troops from the other Dokkalfar clans,” Chief Kolle offered with a shrug. “The other chieftains may balk at the notion of defending a Wode city, but if you give the order, Grim Jack, they’ll come. They won’t have any choice since you are blessed by Nangkri himself.”

“This is true,” Amara offered. “The Lisu might hesitate and dither, but I think even they would come without much fight—Chakan, son of Sakal, is quite in awe of you, I think.”

“No,” I said, pushing my coffee away and standing. “This is all wrong. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel it in my gut, and so far, my gut hasn’t led us wrong. Osmark’s played us like a fiddle. He knew we were watching, and he was smart enough to mask his movements. And now he’s marching on us. We should assume he knows what resources we have available and what state our defenses are in. Despite that, he’s still coming, which means he thinks he can take us. And let’s just assume he also has a few more nasty tricks up his sleeve.”

“Jack,” Abby replied, hunching forward in her seat, “what you’re saying is true, but what else can we do? I don’t see another option on the table. I mean, if you have an idea, I’m sure everyone’s open to hearing it, but making our stand here seems like the best choice considering the circumstances.”

I faltered, uncertainty and unease worming around in my belly as I stared at the map. We couldn’t win a war of attrition against the Imperials. Even with the six named Dokkalfar clans at my back, we didn’t have their numbers or battlefield advantages. Aside from his personal faction, Osmark also had twenty-four big hitters backing his plays. Moreover, we’d invested our faction skill points into State-Craft and Merchant-Craft, while Osmark had invested in the Battle-Craft option. So far, we had beat them by outthinking them. By playing a different game. If we were going to win again, we needed to do the same here.

Falling back on conventional tactics would cost us everything. I was sure of it.

As I stared at the map, the inkling of an idea started to form in my head.

Something radical, different, and entirely unconventional. And even better? Unexpected.

“There.” I jabbed one finger at a tiny flyspeck of a town situated in a small dale, sandwiched between the Storme Marshes on the south and the Avilynn Wood to the north, bordering the foot of the Vasterberg Steppes. “Enlarge that town.”

The map flickered and blurred as the town swelled in size, taking on finer detail as it grew. Ravenkirk. It wasn’t much to look at, nor was it impressive in size, but the Imperials would pass right through it to get to Rowanheath. In fact, there was no other way, unless they wanted to trek through thick woods, which seemed unlikely considering their bulky siege weapons.

“This is the solution,” I said with a wide grin.

“Jack, I’m glad you’re excited,” Abby said, sounding slightly concerned that I might’ve finally lost a screw, “but I don’t see how this little place helps us at all. It’s insignificant and indefensible.”

“Exactly,” I replied, slapping a hand on the tabletop. “No one will ever notice it—Osmark won’t even think twice about it because no one would be crazy enough to take a stand there. Not when we have Rowanheath. But what if we pull the same trick on him he just pulled on us? Let’s make him think we’re focusing all of our efforts on Rowanheath, but actually focus on Ravenkirk. Cutter, you said the thieves and the smugglers owe you. Do you think it would be possible to smuggle a large number of troops out of Rowanheath and into that town without the Imperials noticing?”

He ran a hand through his sandy blond hair. “Aye, I suppose so. But no way we could take siege weapons—the tunnels are too tight.”

“That’s fine,” I said, waving away his concern. “We just need to move troops and builders—engineers, miners, crafters, alchemists. Tonight, under cover of dark, we’ll sneak the bulk of our support forces out of the city and into Ravenkirk.”

“But even if we manage to accomplish such a thing,” Otto interjected, “to what end?”

“For the biggest ambush anyone has ever seen,” I replied, feeling a cold flutter of panic.

FIVE_

Change of Plans

“No,” Otto said, shaking his head. “An ambush would never work. They’ll have far too many men and weapons. It’ll never work—not if we need to keep the pretense of preparations here at Rowanheath.”

“Just listen,” I said. “Osmark is preparing for a ranged battle with siege weapons, right? Well, what if we took him on in a place where his siege weapons would be useless? We go to that town, we take over, and we turn it into an absolute death trap—except it won’t look like a death machine until the Legion is too far in to do anything about it. We can build traps. We can turn those homes into bunkers bursting with weapons and troops. Then when the Legion rolls through, none the wiser, we spring the trap.”

I waved a hand toward the Storme Marshes, just to the south of the town. “Heck, we can even bring up some of the Murk Elf War Bands and stage them out of sight in the woods. This is the perfect place for a major upset. Though we’ll engage their troops, the real mission will be to destroy their siege weapons. If we can wipe those out—burn them to the ground—it’ll be a major blow to the Imperials. Then? Well, we retreat to the safety of Rowanheath. Not only will a preemptive attack buy us extra time to finish fortifying Rowanheath, but without their siege equipment, they’ll never be able to breach the outer wall.”

“Holy shite,” Cutter said, staring at me with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open. “That might work.”

“It might,” Otto grunted, folding his beefy arms across his chest as he stared at the map. “It might, indeed. But the Imperials are only five days away from Ravenkirk. Will it be possible to prep the town in time, without the Imperials noticing?”

“Yes,” I said snapping my fingers. “But it’s going to require a lot of work, planning, coordination, and the right skill set. Display State-Craft,” I said, flicking one hand out, dismissing the map and bringing up an emerald green skill tree, which floated in the air for everyone to see:

“Pffh,” Cutter said, tossing his hands into the air and rolling his eyes. “Not this bloody thing again. I can get on board with this business in Ravenkirk, but nobody wants to rehash this old argument, Jack. I’m sick to bloody death of talking about the bloody faction skill points.” Admittedly, I could understand his reluctance. After uniting the Dokkalfar clans, the Alliance had earned itself another level up—shooting us to level 3, and unlocking 5 new Proficiency Points to invest.

Except, we hadn’t invested them yet, despite several weeks going by.

Everyone had been adamant about dropping the whole lot into the Battle-Craft Skill Tree, not a terrible choice considering an entire legion of armed soldiers was marching our way … I’d vetoed the vote. Three times. Osmark was smart, resourceful, and extremely powerful—we would never beat him using predictable, common-sense strategies. He’d see through us a mile away and adapt. And once we spent those Faction Points, they were gone, and there was no getting them back. Measure twice, cut once, that’s what my dad had always told me, and it worked more often than not.

“Listen,” I said, spreading my hands out on the table. “I know no one wants to talk about this, but this is what we’ve been waiting for. I honestly believe we can knock them down at Ravenkirk, but we’ll need some of the skills in the State-Craft Tree to pull it off. Display ‘Industrialist,’ ‘Patriotism,’ ‘Stratagem,’ ‘Sabotage,’ and ‘Civil Unrest,’” I said, my voice a whip crack of command. The skill tree disappeared, instantly replaced by five floating popup windows:

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Industrialist

“Work smarter, not harder” is the mantra of the innovative Industrialist—a savvy bureaucrat who always finds a way to speed up production, slash costs, and better manage subordinates. Moreover, the Industrialist can stretch resources, ensuring a little goes a very long way.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Decrease production time and cost of all buildings, city infrastructure, Keep projects, and siege weapons by 20% (stacks with other bonuses).

Effect 2: Reduce all mercenary hiring costs by 15%; daily upkeep costs for mercenaries reduced by 15%.

Effect 3: When looting corpses or settlements, receive 10% more coins and precious gemstones; 12% improved chance to receive unique and rare loot drops from mobs for all faction members.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Patriotism

Give the members of your faction something to fight for and to believe in! Patriotism increases the morale of NPC-bound faction members, boosts satisfaction among NPCs in faction-controlled territory, and can even help persuade neutral parties to your cause. Patriots also have the uncanny ability to sniff out double agents, enemy rogues, and those utilizing the Dignitary ability “Anonymous” to pass by unnoticed.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: Increases morale of all faction-bound NPCs by 15%, making them less likely to revolt or engage in acts of Civil Unrest stirred up by Saboteurs.

Effect 2: Increase overall reputation and disposition with all neutral factions, cities, and townships; additionally, 20% increased chance of persuading neutral parties, factions, and townships to act in your faction’s favor.

Effect 3: 15% chance to preemptively identify any enemy-faction agents utilizing the Dignitary “Anonymous” ability.

Special Ability: Once every (10) days, a City or Town Commander can activate a special “Call to Arms” attack, rallying all the non-combat NPCs to arms in defense of a specific city. Doing so significantly reduces morale, though, so use with care.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Stratagem

Sometimes the victor of a battle is not the superior physical force, but the one with better tactics and superior mental prowess. Stratagem favors those waging defensive battles, altering the flow of combat by maximizing the effectiveness of troops and by providing superior communication and military direction.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: 15% increased damage to all enemies while battling in faction-controlled townships, cities, or territories.

Effect 2: 12% increased Base Armor for all faction members while battling in faction-controlled townships, cities, or territories.

Effect 3: 10% increased attack range for all range-based weapons (including siege) while battling in faction-controlled townships, cities, or territories.

Effect 4: Faction leaders can create a “Regional Faction Message”—similar to the “Universal Message” function, but less broad—which allows faction leaders to directly message all faction members inside a faction-controlled township, city, or territory.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Sabotage

Though nothing is more intimidating than a legion of troops stretching across the field of battle, sometimes there is nothing more effective than a well-placed bomb planted in the dead of night. The Sabotage ability allows your faction to undercut enemies with greater ease and opens two unique subspecialties: the Infiltrator and the Combat Miner. The Infiltrator subspecialty enables Rogues to infiltrate enemy camps, sow dissension, lower troop morale, acquire valuable enemy intelligence, and—at the highest level—poison food and water sources. The Combat Miner subspecialty allows Miners to use their skills to craft deadly bombs, tunnel under fortifications, and even demolish enemy structures.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: The Dignitary ability “Anonymous”—which allows faction members to pass unnoticed in hostile faction territory—increases in duration from (1) hour to (2) hours. Additionally, Anonymous can be used no matter a player’s enemy status.

Effect 2: All faction members utilizing the Dignitary ability “Anonymous” do 35% more damage to enemy buildings and structures.

Effect 3: Access to the subspecialty Infiltrator Skill Tree for all faction members with the Rogue class.

Effect 4: Access to the subspecialty Combat Miner Skill Tree for all faction members with the Miner class.

<<<>>>

Faction Ability: Civil Unrest

Show those in opposition to your faction the error of their ways! Civil Unrest can decrease the morale of NPC-bound enemy-faction members and boosts dissatisfaction among NPCs in enemy-faction-controlled territory, potentially leading to property damage, full-scale riots, and even revolt! Additionally, Civil Unrest can help persuade enemy parties to divulge valuable information and join your cause.

Faction Ability Type/Level: Passive / Max Level

Cost: N/A

Effect 1: 15% improved favorability when interacting with opposing-faction NPCs with low morale.

Effect 2: When interacting with opposing-faction NPCs with low morale, there is a 10% chance of inciting unrest, which can result in property damage, further reduced morale, full-scale riots, or even revolt.

Effect 3: 15% chance of receiving rumors or enemy information from opposing-faction NPCs with low morale.

Effect 4: 15% additional chance to persuade opposing-faction NPCs with low morale to act in your faction’s favor.

<<<>>>

“Just look at these skills,” I said, waving a hand at the popups. “Even with Rowanheath and all six Murk Elf clans at our back, we still don’t hold a candle to Osmark and the other factions supporting him. We’re the underdogs—we can never forget that, and we need to act like it. These skills are custom built for folks in our situation. If we use these, and our heads, we can pull off something crazy here.”

“I’ll admit,” Otto said, an introspective look dashing across his hard-edged features, “I’ve had my suspicions about you, Jack. When you walked away from the Battle-Craft skills early on, I thought you were unfit to lead. But then you took Rowanheath, and you did it in two days—a feat any military tactician worth their salt would’ve thought impossible. Then, to prove it was no fluke, you somehow managed to defeat a Dragon, resurrect the Nangkri Dynasty, and unite six warring clans under your thumb.”

He paused, his frown deepening. “This”—he nodded toward the skill descriptions loitering in the air—“I don’t understand it. It is counterintuitive and goes against everything my training as a Battle Warden and resistance fighter tells me to do. But, time and time again, you’ve proven yourself, and you’ve proven your ideas are effective. Abby trusts you. Chief Kolle trusts you. Amara trusts you. Anton trusts you. Even Cutter—who trusts no one—trusts you. So, I will trust you in this, too. I move that we distribute our five remaining Faction Proficiency Points into these skills.”

“Seconded,” Chief Kolle offered, a ghost of a smile playing over his lips. Of all my supports, Chief Kolle was the closest thing I had to a mentor, so his vote meant a lot. “All in favor, say Aye.”

“Aye,” came the response from every person around the room.

Quickly, I pulled up my interface, toggled over to the Faction tab, and distributed the points accordingly. I closed out of the screen and rounded on Otto. “Thank you,” I said with a tight-lipped smile.

“Thank me by winning,” he replied gravely. “Now, where do we go from here?”

“Right,” I replied with a grin. “Well, here’s what we need to do. Cutter, you deal with the smugglers. Tell them we need to move a lot of gear and a lot of people, and we need to do it unseen. Find out how we can make that happen. Chief Kolle, can you and Amara head over to Yunnam and call a meeting of the Dark Conclave? We’ll need the War Bands prepped, equipped, and staged in three days tops.

“Anton, I want you to head back to Yunnam and brief Vlad about the change in plans—then get him up to Ravenkirk ASAP to get working on weapons and defense. Otto, you and Xiu start rounding up troops. Figure out how many people we need here to hold the walls in case things go south, then send everyone else that you can.

“Abby, I’d like you to get in touch with Morgan Sellsword, the Merc Warlock. Let’s see if we can’t get some extra hands down there.” I paused, running a hand through my hair. “Okay, if anyone has any questions, run them through Abby—she’ll be the point of contact on this one. Let’s make it happen.”

SIX_

Ravenkirk

I raised the axe again and threw my body into the next swing; the blade slammed home into the thin trunk of a pine tree for the seventh time. This was the one that did the trick. The tree creaked, tottered, and fell with a whoosh, the soft pine needles cushioning the impact. I reached up a shaky hand and wiped away a layer of sweat rolling down my face. It was hot and muggy this close to the Storme Marshes, even at night.

I stowed the axe back in my inventory, then bent over with a grunt and pulled the fallen tree over to the pile of other such trees, fifteen feet away. Cutter was leaning against the stack, pretending to sharpen his wood axe with a rough whetstone, even though he’d been “sharpening” the blade for the last half-hour. “If you get it any sharper, you’re liable to accidentally chop your arm off,” I said, hands planted on my hips.

“Now Jack, you can’t expect me to keep hacking at tree trunks with a dull blade—what’s that thing they always say, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure? Better just do it right the first time.” He offered me the broadest, most mischievous grin accompanied by a quick wink. He was such a liar, and we both knew it. Instead of calling him out for his BS, though, I simply snorted and shook my head. Cutter was Cutter. Getting him to work was like trying to train a dog to talk.

“Come on, help me haul this back into the town,” I said.

“Ahh,” he replied with a frown, leisurely gaining his feet. “And here my axe was finally sharp enough to use. Oh well”—he dusted his hands off and stowed the tool—“it’ll be ready for the next time, I suppose.”

I rolled my eyes, grabbed several of the trees, and heaved them over my shoulder. IRL, I never would’ve been able to carry so much weight, but I was much stronger inside of V.G.O. Cutter muttered as he picked up the other trunks and followed after me as I left the Avilynn Wood behind and headed for the sleepy little hamlet of Ravenkirk. Well, it had been a sleepy little hamlet, until we moved in. The sound of heavy hammers ringing against metal echoed in the air as we made our way past the farthest buildings and into the town proper.

Ravenkirk wasn’t much to look at, a dirt-speck with about two hundred residents. The houses were white plaster, trimmed in wood and sporting thatched roofs. The majority of the residents were blond-haired Wodes in simple garb. The streets were all dirt, and riddled with potholes, though mercy of mercies, there was an eight-foot-tall stone wall, which encircled the town. It wasn’t much of a defense against an army, but it probably helped to keep out the roving monsters that trickled up from the Storme Marshes and down from the Avilynn Wood.

Dark woods lay to the north and south, but lush green plains stretched out to the east and west—off in the distance, farms dotted the landscape, growing crops or tending to placid herds of sheep. It was the kind of idyllic spot they used to show on travel brochures back IRL, and a small part of me felt bad that we’d invaded this place and co-opted it so quickly. At first, the residents hadn’t been happy about our arrival. The mayor, a gruff man with an enormous belly, put up quite the fight until Anton showed up with a chest full of Imperial gold marks.

With enough money—and the aid of our new Patriotism perk—the inhabitants had changed their tune in a hurry. In less than an hour, they’d packed their bags, turned over the keys, and headed out of town for a few weeks, their pockets bulging with coins.

I headed down a narrow side street, past several houses—now accommodating our troops—and an open-fronted bakery, where the heady scent of freshly baked bread loitered in the air, enticing my nostrils. I ignored the delicious aroma, and the grumble of protest in my stomach, and hooked a left onto the main street. Up ahead, miners and engineers were busy at work, digging a deep trench into the main boulevard—a dust cloud hung above them, marking their position like a spotlight even against the dark of the night.

Unfortunately, most of the work needed to be done under the blanket of darkness, since working in broad daylight would almost certainly be noticed by Imperial aerial scouts.

Cutter and I dragged the timber over to a whip-thin Dawn Elf with wispy brown hair, who perched on a wobbly three-legged stool. He had a hatchet beside him, a razor-sharp dagger in one hand, and a wrist-thick tree trunk running across his lap. “Just drop it there,” he said, not bothering to look up from his work, his blade busy whittling the trunk into a sharpened point. “And I think we’re good on wood for now. Go report to Logistics Officer Black for more work.”

He finished cutting off one last chunk of wood, then pushed the log into a pile of similarly carved stakes. “Well, don’t just stand there,” he snapped, finally looking up. The blood immediately drained from his bronzed face. He shot to his feet so fast the stool toppled over. “Lord Grim Jack, I am so sorry. I, I, I didn’t think you would … that you’d be … well, working like the rest of us ...” He trailed off, clearly mortified, his feet shuffling uncertainly in the dirt.

“What’s your bloody name, eh?” Cutter growled from beside me, fishing out one of his black blades, then giving it an elaborate twirl. He could be awfully intimidating when he wanted to.

“Richard Antonia, from Vermont,” the Elf said with a wince, as though admitting some high crime.

“Cut it out,” I said, glancing at Cutter then slapping his shoulder with the back of one hand. “Richard, don’t pay any attention to him.” I jerked my head at the thief. “He just likes to get a rise out of people. And don’t sweat it, we’re all working a lot of long hours with minimal rest. Tensions are understandably high. But we’re all in this together.” I offered him a wide smile and a handshake.

“Thank you,” he called out as we turned and headed for the clanging forge a few streets over.

“So where to now?” Cutter hedged, a hopeful edge in his voice. I was half convinced the thief was allergic to hard labor. “After all that wood chopping, I feel like we should reward ourselves with a hot meal, a cold draft, and a game of cards.”

“In your dreams,” I replied, setting off down a connecting side street. “Now we need to go check in with Vlad, see how things are going with him—find out if he made any sense of the wagon we captured in West Viridia. Then after that …” I paused and shrugged. “I guess we find Anton and see what else needs to get done around here.”

“You know there are other people better suited to digging ditches and chopping down trees, right?” Cutter asked. “I mean, we’re bloody faction officers, Jack. You’re the High Commander of the Crimson Alliance. You shouldn’t be getting your hands dirty. No, correction, we shouldn’t be getting our hands dirty.”

I grinned. “Of course there are people better suited for this, but it’s good for everyone to see us contributing to the cause. We’ll jet off back to Rowanheath later to check in with Abby, but for now, it’s important everyone knows that I’m not Osmark. That we’re not like Osmark or the Imperials. They need to know I’m here in the trenches with them until the end. That I don’t think I’m better than they are. Now, come on,” I said, slinging an arm around his shoulders and pulling him along.

Men and women bustled around us as we walked, despite the late hour. Lowbies and new recruits—marked by their shoddy gear or the bright red apprentice patches sewn onto their cloaks—sprinted about. They carried items and ran errands, fear and worry carved into every movement. Many wore leather aprons stamped with an elaborate hammer crossed with a pair of tongs, a sign of the Crafter’s Guild inside of the Crimson Alliance. Vlad’s crew. Word on the street was that Vlad was a hard taskmaster, both unforgiving with subordinates and addicted to work.

Other travelers and citizens were busy updating and renovating homes for the battle to come.

One pair of nearby crafters kneeled in front of a plaster house, reinforcing a crude wooden door with a sheet of metal inscribed with elaborate runes of power. When that door went back in place, it would provide a formidable barrier against would-be Imperial invaders. And best of all, from the outside of the house, no one would be able to tell the difference.

We passed another home filled with a crew of bearded Dwarves busy digging out a deep trench directly into the living room floor, which would eventually connect to an emergency exit. By the time the engineers finished, there would be a whole series of interconnected tunnels running beneath the surface of the village, linking most of the houses and shops together. That way, when one position fell, the fighters could dip into the escape tunnels and scurry off to a new spot, ready to start the battle again.

My steps faltered as I spotted one of the Dwarves wiggling a small metal box into the tunnel wall, before securing it with a bit of chalky gray mud. That was interesting. The odd contraption had a glass vial full of viscous red liquid in its center and a smaller tube, filled with blue liquid, protruding from the top.

“They’re alchemic bombs,” Cutter offered, noticing my gaze. “Vlad was prattling on about ’em like a git the last time I saw him. From what I understand, once the position gets overrun, our guys hurry off and break the little blue bubble as they go by. Then boom, it explodes and collapses the entrance so the Imperials can’t follow. Pretty smart”—he tapped at his temple—“even if Vlad puts off smugness like the sun puts off heat.”

Up ahead was a sprawling wood-framed building with a sign hanging over the front door, The Burning Anvil. If the sign wasn’t enough confirmation, the clang of metal on metal announced to everyone in a two-block radius that this was the forge. The front door—a thick slab of metal riddled with rivets—was propped open, spilling a pool of flickering orange light onto the street. As I stepped inside, I instantly understood why the door was open.

The brutal heat from the forge and the smelter hit me in the face like an openhanded slap, and instantly, sweat rolled down my forehead and between my shoulder blades. I shifted uncomfortably for a beat, readjusting my armor, trying to ignore the godawful temperature—not wanting to complain in front of all the unfortunate souls doomed to work there.

“Holy bollocks, it’s hot in here,” Cutter said, slipping in behind me. “What kind of monsters would ever enjoy working in a place like this?” He planted one hand on the hilt of his dagger and took a long look around. “Fire everywhere. As hot as a volcano fart. And not a sign of mead or gambling anywhere. Sadists, each and every one of these blokes.” He scrunched his nose in distaste, lips twisting into a grimace. “Plus, it smells like the inside of a sweaty boot. Never have I been so glad to be a dashing, handsome rogue instead of some smelly, ugly crafter.”

I bit back laughter. His remarks were rude, arrogant, and ridiculous, but sort of funny too, mostly because they were true. Fighting monsters wasn’t a walk in the park, but for me, it was better than beating the crap out of red-hot steel inside a furnace.

I glanced around, expecting his comments to earn him some nasty glances, but the crafters inside were so absorbed in their work that they hardly seemed to notice our entrance. A brick forge, shaped like a bell, sprawled against the right-hand wall, belching out heat and dancing firelight. Not far off were huge steel-ribbed barrels filled with water for quenching hot metal. Metal-topped workstations, stone grinding wheels, and heavy anvils were scattered through the rest of the space, and each was presided over by a crafter.

A beefy Risi warrior, who could’ve passed for Forge’s brother, was bent over an anvil, a blunt hammer slamming down against a piece of red-hot metal that had the rudimentary look of a sword. A Dawn Elf woman covered in a sheen of glistening perspiration worked the forge, her arms pumping at the giant leather bellows, stoking the flames. A stout Dwarf with a beard as thick as a lawn bush carefully inscribed a metal breastplate with a bulbous, wood-handled awl.

No sign of Vlad, though there was an adjoining room at the back.

I edged past the crafters consumed by their work and made for the door.

I rounded the corner and finally caught sight of our chief engineer and Alchemic Weaponeer. He was a Dawn Elf with golden skin and a sheet of platinum hair; he wore black armor and a work apron, wrapped snuggly around his front. A bandolier, covered in pockets and pouches, crammed full of alchemist concoctions, ran diagonally across his chest. He also had on a heavy tool belt slung low around his waist, which held gloves and hammers, calipers and rasps, tongs and chisels.

Honestly, he looked like a walking laboratory.

This part of the smithy had been hastily converted into an alchemy lab. Shelves lined the walls, loaded down with miscellaneous ingredients—vials of amber sap, powdered dragon scales, fetid swamp water—hefty leather tomes, and scattered papers covered in hastily scrawled designs. A large metal-topped table dominated the center of the room, covered in glass beakers, jerry-rigged Bunsen burners, rumpled blueprints, and scale models of several different siege weapons.

“U tebya cho ruki iz jopi rastut?” Vlad scolded, jabbing a finger at a slim Wode woman clad in an identical work apron and a pair of heavy leather gloves. She used a beefy pair of metal tongs to maneuver a glass vial filled with a bubbling golden liquid. “If you drop that, Tanya,” Vlad said, “we all go boom. And with the supplies in this workshop, it will take out half the village, too.”

Carefully, slowly, she poured the substance into a curling length of tubing, which connected with a beaker filled with iron flecks.

“Vlad,” Cutter began.

The Alchemist shot one hand into the air, his eyes never wavering from his assistant. Hold. The golden fluid trickled into the tubing, pulled along by gravity into the second vessel. The iron shavings sizzled on contact, glowing first red, then white. In seconds, I had to shield my eyes from the intensity of the glow filling the room. When the light finally faded enough for me to drop my hand, the golden liquid was gone, and a shimmering silver substance like mercury filled the second beaker.

“Monitor the solution for ten minutes,” Vlad barked, his voice stern, “then add the ground Krossea Leaf, da?” The woman nodded her reply as she crouched down and surveyed the quicksilver liquid, carefully scrutinizing it for any sign of imperfection.

“Sorry about the rudeness,” Vlad said, turning on us with a wide grin. “This is delicate work.” He waved toward the woman and the flask. “That is the base ingredient for port-scrolls. Very difficult to make. Time intensive. Any wrong move and boom, we create a black hole that will kill everyone in fifteen meters.” He opened a leather bag at his hip and pulled out a scroll bound with a golden ribbon. “But it is worth it. The first batch is already done,” he said, pushing the scroll toward me. “This, it is for Ravenkirk.”

I grinned and accepted. The Mystica Ordo was great and port-stones were infinitely useful, but nothing beat travel by a custom port-scroll. No dizziness. No nausea. No vertigo. Just quick, easy, and painless. Up until now, they’d been prohibitively expensive to use, but as always, Vlad had found a way to beat the system.

“But what am I saying,” Vlad said, slapping a hand against the side of his head before I could get a word in. “You are not here to speak of port-scrolls. You are here to find out about the wagon you captured in West Viridia, da?” Vlad pulled off a pair of gloves, then crammed them unceremoniously into the back of his belt. He looked about as hot and sweaty as I felt. His hair was slick with perspiration, and fat streaks of black ash covered his face and cheeks.

“Bingo,” I replied with a nod.

He took one furtive glance around, then nodded toward a back door leading out to an alleyway. “Let us have a little break, I think. Please, this way.”

SEVEN_

Defenses

Curious about the cloak and dagger secrecy, Cutter and I followed Vlad into the alley—I said a silent prayer of thanks for the cool breeze—then pushed the door shut with a thunk. “So what can you tell us?” I asked, stealing a look left, then right to make sure no one else was close enough to hear.

“What I can tell you,” Vlad replied stoically, folding his arms and leaning against the shop wall, “is that we might be in trouble. It is a sizeable cup of worms, as you Americans say.” Can of worms, I thought with a grin, though I didn’t bother to correct him. In all the time I’d known Vlad, I don’t think he’d ever gotten an American idiom right.

“The items you discovered are weapon components,” Vlad continued. “I had to scour the wikis, but from what I have learned, there are three classes of Weaponeers, and each uses different means and skills to craft weapons. Alchemic Weaponeers, such as myself, utilize the power of potions and ingredients to augment and enhance existing weapons. Runic Weaponeers, they use the power of deep magic and ancient sigils of power. And then?” He faltered, glancing up and down the alley as though searching for any sign that someone might be watching us. “Then there are the Artificers. Very rare. So rare that we don’t have a single Artificer in the whole faction.”

For a moment, I couldn’t talk. That didn’t make any sense—even super rare classes weren’t that uncommon. Vlad was our best Alchemic Weaponeer by a mile, but he wasn’t the only one.

“That can’t be right. It doesn’t make any sense,” Cutter said, beating me to the punch. “The Alliance is huge—not as big as the Empire, but bigger than any other bloody faction in Eldgard. How’s it possible we don’t have a single Artificer?”

“It seems impossible, but it is true,” Vlad replied with a noncommittal shrug. “Once I knew what to look for, I had Intel dig. Osmark, he has been hunting down every Artificer in Eldgard. Every. Single. One. All of them. He has placed substantial open contracts in every major mercenary guild—any Artificer is to be captured on sight and delivered directly to West Viridia. One thousand gold per head.” I whistled under my breath—that was more than 100K, IRL. “From there,” Vlad said, “either they join the Empire, or disappear.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone. And no one knows what happens to those that refuse. It is all very hush-hush. More secretive than the KGB.”

“But what could that mean?” I asked, mostly for myself, not expecting an answer.

“It means he’s bloody taking out his competition,” Cutter said. “Probably doesn’t want us to know whatever he has planned.”

That was a deeply troubling thought. I didn’t know much about Osmark, except that he was a genius and the man who’d single-handedly made V.G.O. a reality. Could we really hope to win against someone like that? I wasn’t sure. “So, what exactly are the Artificers?” I asked, pushing away the doubt blooming in my chest like the first buds in springtime.

“Well,” Vlad said, fishing a hefty pipe from his inventory, “they use the power of science and Divine Geometry to create unique and deadly clockwork weapons. Of all the Weaponeers, they are the most different. Perhaps, the most deadly.” He paused, slipped the pipe between his lips, then coaxed a flame to life with a sprinkle of some black dust. The pipe flared, and a plume of pungent smoke wafted up. “And if Osmark has acquired the services of every Artificer, then we might be in very big trouble, Jack. Pizdets, nam pizdets, which roughly translates to we are screwed.”

We talked with Vlad for a few more minutes, discussing the rest of the preparations, then excused ourselves, heading for the frontlines to find Anton. We headed back toward the main boulevard but ended up stopping by a plump Wode vendor in a thick fur cloak, who was tending to a wooden pushcart near an open fire pit. Skewers of questionable-looking meat twirled lazily above the flames, grease and fat dripping down into the dancing blaze.

Stress and anxiety beat at me like a hammer, and there was so much to do yet, but my stomach sent out an angry burble at the delicious scent of the meat. Reluctantly, I stopped, dug a handful of coppers from my Inventory, and handed them over to the hawker with a few muttered words, which earned Cutter and me three spits apiece. The meat-on-a-stick was probably rat, or something else equally gross—spider and forest beetle were surprisingly common in these parts—but I was so hungry I didn’t even care. Besides, in V.G.O., no matter how gross the food sounded, it always tasted like heaven.

I’d been in the game for almost two months, and I still hadn’t had a bad meal. Not once.

I passed Cutter his meal, then took a huge bite, savoring the tender meat and the smoky flavor you only get when cooking over an open flame. I chewed loudly, letting a bit of grease dribble down my chin as a buff appeared in the corner of my eye, informing me that the [Mutton Skewer] was restoring 75 HP over 60 seconds. Huh, lamb. That was a nice change of pace. Sweet relief flooded through my body, easing sore muscles, and temporarily banishing the fatigue settling over me, even though my HP was currently maxed out.

We ambled by a pair of houses sitting across from each other, both with their wooden shutters thrown wide, revealing a deadly new weapon of Chinese origin, which Vlad and Xiu had designed together. Hwach’a. Each contraption consisted of a simple two-wheeled cart that looked a bit like a giant mobile crossbow. Instead of one arrow, however, these beasts could fire two-hundred specialty arrows, called singijeon, in one fell swoop. And each projectile was tipped with a black onyx arrowhead liberally covered in deadly Murk Elf poison. At the butt end of each arrow, near the fletching, was a small pouch filled with explosive powder.

When the gunner fired the weapon, the pouches would burst, and all the arrows would scream through the air at once, propelled like a rocket toward anything unlucky enough to be in the way. Even better, because of the ingenious design on the launching “pads,” the weapons could be reloaded in under thirty seconds. We had eighteen hwach’a stashed around the village, ready to rain death and destruction on a whole lot of unlucky Imperials. Though I had places to be, I couldn’t help but pull up the item description in my interface:

<<<>>>

Hwach’a

Weapon Type: Siege/Engineered; Alchemic

Class: Rare, Group Operated

Base Damage: 100 / per projectile (singijeons)

Capacity: 200 singijeon

Primary Effects:

- +25 Fire Damage/per singijeon

- + 10 pts Burn Damage/sec/per singijeon; duration, 10 seconds.

<<<>>>

I dismissed the screen with a thought. Epic. And the hwach’a were only the beginning. We also had Arcane Shadow Cannons—which looked like the illegitimate child of a Civil War-era cannon and a Tesla Death Ray—mobile ballistae, and hulking catapults on the west side of the village. We’d employed powerful illusionists to disguise the catapults as harmless haystacks, loitering on the edges of the farms. It was unlikely that Imperial Accipiter Scouts would cruise by, but if they did, all they’d see were a bunch of crops, waiting to be carted off to town.

I grinned and moved on, leaving behind the houses and slipping through the main gates—creaky, wooden things that wouldn’t keep out much more than a stiff breeze. Just like the village proper, the lush, grassy valley to the east of Ravenkirk was also busy with activity. Though it was dark, torches burned at even intervals, shedding enough light for my Night-Eye to pick out the important details. Off in the distance, players from every race were digging broad trenches, four feet deep and four feet wide, and filling them with dry hay soaked in a mixture of oil and alchemic reagents.

Vlad assured everyone the odd concoction would ignite in a blaze to rival a volcano.

Hiding the trenches was a bit more difficult, but we’d devised a way to do that as well.

Once a section of the ditch was finished, engineers and carpenters came in and built wooden platforms to cover the pits. And then, to conceal those from overhead scouts, Arbormancers—folks who had the uncanny ability to control plant matter—grew swaying grass right over the top of the wooden platforms. By the time the Arbormancers were done, the altered portions were indistinguishable from the rest of the vast, rolling landscape. I knew everyone was worried about whatever tricks Osmark brought to the table, but we had some nasty surprises of our own.

I spotted Anton not far off. He was standing near a portable field table covered in maps, blueprints, schematics, and ledgers. And he wasn’t alone. Next to him was none other than Chief Kolle and a tall, broad-shouldered Accipiter with glossy brown wings, a chiseled jawline, a thick mustache, and a military-style flat top.

General Caldwell. The leader of our Accipiter Reconnaissance unit.

He was a former three-star Army general, and despite not being a Murk Elf, he was also our chief liaison and strategist with the other clans. Typically, the Murk Elves were guarded around outsiders, but for whatever reason, the rest of the Dark Conclave Chieftains seemed to accept the down-to-earth general as one of their own. But then, everyone seemed to accept Caldwell as one of their own. There wasn’t a Charisma stat in-game, but if there had been, Caldwell surely would’ve had it maxed out.

The three of them were hunched over the table, talking softly as they stared at a parchment map of Eldgard, heavily marked with troop formations and dotted lines, indicating attack and retreat routes.

“How goes everything?” I asked, slipping up to the table with Cutter in tow.

Anton glanced up at me, and I almost took a step back.

He looked tired—no, more than tired, haggard. His hair disheveled, his stately robes ruffled, his eyes bloodshot. It looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks or had a decent meal in two, which was crazy since it’d only been six hours since the last time I’d seen him. The stress was getting to him in the worst way, and I felt a pang of worry. Unlike Caldwell, Anton wasn’t a military man, used to this kind of pressure and soul-crushing responsibility. “Thank God, Jack,” Anton said, reaching up and running a hand through his lanky hair. “Things aren’t going well at all. It’s a disaster.”

“What are you talking about?” I replied, brow furrowed, genuinely confused. “Everything looks like it’s on track. The residents are gone. The traps are going in. I saw Vlad and the crafters making more weapons.”

“Yeah, we are on schedule,” Anton offered, sounding frazzled, “but the Imperial Legion isn’t.”

“They’re already a day ahead of schedule,” General Caldwell barked, his voice gruff, deep, and no-nonsense. “I’ve had scouts monitoring their progress, and they’re making impossibly good time.” He paused, lips forming into a tight line of disapproval. “If they keep moving at this rate, I estimate they’ll be here two days sooner than we originally anticipated.”

“How in the bloody hell are they managing that, then?” Cutter asked, wedging himself between Anton and Chief Kolle so he could stare at the map. “I’m not a military mastermind, obviously—just a ridiculously handsome thief—but cutting off two days from a five-day journey seems like a helluva feat. They using portals, then?”

“No,” Chief Kolle replied, his fingers restlessly tapping on the table. “It would seem they’re using some of the faction-based Battle-Craft skills to drive the troops past the point of exhaustion, and they’ve employed steam-powered gadgetry to move the siege weapons at an unheard-of rate. These new machines allow them to move more quickly than battle-mounts and maintain such a pace over a longer period of time.”

“Osmark must’ve kept this tech under wraps until now, sir, because no one has ever seen anything quite like it,” Caldwell begrudgingly admitted with a shrug.

“I have,” Chief Kolle said, leaning on the table, his eyes half-focused. “Once. Many years ago as a young warrior, I stumbled across a set of ancient ruins in the bitter, snow-capped peaks east of the mighty Svartalfar capital of Stone Reach. A place guarded by monstrosities of steam and steel, known as the Brand-Forged. These Brand-Forged creatures were the creations of an ancient race of beings, dead so long their names are forgotten to history. But their mechanical creations remain in a handful of rare dungeons scattered across the face of Eldgard. Perhaps Osmark and the Imperials have discovered such long-buried secrets.”

“Well thanks a load for the history lesson,” Cutter said, “but that’s not a whole lot of help, is it? So, they have a secret weapon, but what do you lot think we ought to do about it, eh?”

Everyone was quiet, the mood suddenly somber and tense. “And what would you have us do, then, Master Thief?” the chief replied, glancing at Cutter.

Cutter snorted and shook his head. “That’s why you fellas are in charge—I’m just here for the booze and the gold. But standing around whining about it isn’t liable to do much good, that I can tell you for a fact.”

“Is it just a matter of manpower?” I hedged, leaning in to glance at the map. “Because if so, I think we can get more workers up here.”

“More workers certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Anton replied, “but finding them isn’t as easy as it sounds. We’re already stretched thin, trying to man all six Murk Elf cities, plus equipping Rowanheath for a siege. And many of our Alliance members are gallivanting off all over Eldgard, completing their private quests without a care that Osmark is about to obliterate us.” He paused and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I just don’t know how we’re going to pull it off, Jack. This seems impossible.”

“Could we use the War Band reinforcements?” I asked, glancing at Chief Kolle.

“Doubtful,” he replied with a grimace. “They’ll be here in time for the battle, but not in time to contribute to the workload—”

The words died on his tongue as a shriek in the distance ripped through the air, followed by a single word. “Monsters!” the call picked up, carried by more and more voices relaying the message. The clamor was coming from the south, toward the Storme Marshes. “We’re under attack!” someone else screamed, the voice distant and faded, though the words were clear enough. A moment later a clarion bell rang out, clang-clang-clang, followed by the thundering whomp-whomp-whomp of heavy war drums.

Since there was no in-game comm-link for general players, the war drums did the job—though now that we could issue “Regional Faction Messages” to all Crimson Alliance members inside a given territory, we’d have to rework some of our strategies. But that was a worry for another time. Right now, we had monsters to worry about.

“Anton, you and General Caldwell get back to the inn. Figure out what in the hell is happening and get our warriors ready to fight. Cutter, Chief Kolle, let’s go get this under control.”

Without waiting for anyone to reply, I wheeled around, drew on the frigid power of Umbra, and called up Devil from the Shadowverse. Sooty smoke filled the air in a cloud as the monstrous lizard stepped through the veil between the planes in all his awesome, terrifying glory.

The Drake, though firmly on team Jack, still gave me a moment of pause whenever I summoned him. He was giant, twenty-five feet long from snout to tail-tip, with black scales covering his serpentine body. Gleaming spikes of dark bone ran along his back and down his tail, only interrupted by the custom black leather saddle riding his back—waiting for me to hop aboard. Dark wings, laced with throbbing veins of blue, stretched and strained, ready to launch the Shadow Drake into the sky. Devil regarded me for a moment, his six purple eyes narrowed.

What do we need to kill now? His voice resonated inside my skull. Frankly, he sounded happy by the prospect.

“Not sure,” I replied out loud, darting forward, then leaping into the saddle and grabbing hold of the reins, which were connected to a silver bridle. “Let’s go find out.”

Devil snorted, releasing twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils, then broke into a sinuous run, picking up speed before lurching up, his great wings beating furiously as we gained altitude.

EIGHT_

Unexpected Guests

I lay flat against Devil’s back, my eyes squinted, my heels digging into his sides as I clung to the leather reins for dear life. The ground quickly disappeared as his wings pumped and wind slapped against my face. Then, in a blink, Devil leveled out, wheeling sharply as his wings caught the current. I sat up and glanced down at Ravenkirk, stretched out below us like a darkened map, illuminated by a sea of yellow fires. Devil had gone up just enough to give me an eagle-eye view of the area, but not so far that I couldn’t see Cutter and Chief Kolle hoofing it south toward the twisted bog trees.

And they weren’t the only ones making for the forest at the edge of town.

Players from a myriad of different races and classes rushed toward the southern edge of the forest with weapons drawn and ready for battle. Some ran, but more than a few rode on hulking mounts as unique as the players themselves. There were auburn warhorses covered in plate mail. Azure Hell-cats crisscrossed with stripes and stubbed with spikes. Ferocious gray wolves with saw-bladed teeth. I spotted one shirtless Risi with an oversized battle-axe riding on the back of a crimson-furred grizzly.

Even in the dark, it was easy to see what had gotten their hackles up in the first place.

A swarm of spiders poured from the tree line like a tsunami of scuttling legs, huge mandibles, beady eyes, and bulbous abdomens. And not just the muddy-brown, Rottweiler-sized spiderkin so commonly found throughout the Storme Marshes. Nope. There were chitinous gray [Sword-Slayers] that moved like race cars and had a penchant for stabbing things with their razor-edged legs. I also spotted electric-blue [Portal-Crawlers], glossy black [Poison Darters], and hulking gray [Colossal Spiderkin], each the size of an ambulance.

I squinted, pulling on Devil’s reins. Get us closer, I sent.

Done, he replied, dropping his neck as we descended.

I hunched forward, wishing I had a pair of binoculars. This was so strange. I mean, it wasn’t unheard of for free-roaming mobs to venture from the wilds and attack outlying farms or unwary travelers. But this was an army. A decent-sized one, full of deadly high-level monsters the likes of which usually resided in the deepest sections of deadly dungeons. I’d seen creatures like these before when I’d invaded the lair of Lowyth the Spider Queen, but never just out in the open, roaming around. Was there some new spider tribe that had moved into the neighborhood?

I didn’t know.

A second later, the trees bulged and bowed outward, the ground quivering as an enormous spider—far bigger than even the Colossal Spiderkin—emerged from the Marshes. Gigantic spindly legs, covered in bristly red hairs the color of a nosebleed, crept into view, followed by an arachnoid head the size of a vintage VW bug with a host of gleaming black eyes and glistening fangs longer than my forearm. Her thorax came last: a fat, bulbous, ebony black thing tattooed with elaborate neon-red markings, which emitted an uneasy light.

Holy crap. That wasn’t just some random roving boss—that was Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver in the flesh. I’d only seen her in person a handful of times, but it was impossible to forget her awful appearance, especially since she’d been the first creature in V.G.O. to kill me. I’d entered her domain with the purpose of striking a truce using the Faction Recruitment Ability, and it had worked, but she’d required a blood sacrifice to seal the deal. My blood, to be precise. I still occasionally woke up in a cold sweat with visions of her giant poisonous fangs descending toward me.

But it made no sense—we were close allies with the Spider Queen.

I couldn’t imagine what she was doing here of all places, so far from her lair, but I had to stop the Alliance members before they engaged in a battle with terrible consequences. We couldn’t afford to lose troops or engineers—and we would—but even more importantly, we couldn’t afford to lose Lowyth as an ally. She was an integral part of our Storme Marsh security defense, and she’d even permanently given some of our faction members awesome Spiderkin mounts.

I flailed at Devil’s reins, spurring him on faster as my mind raced, grasping for a solution. What we needed was a barrier to keep the two forces apart long enough for me to get the word out.

Devil, I sent through the telepathic link, I want a literal wall of flame burned through that field. Something that’ll keep everyone apart.

Should I worry about casualties? came the cold reply, his voice primal and raspy inside my head.

Avoid taking out the spiders at all costs if possible.

That’s no fun, he sent. No casualties, no blood. No blood, no food. I hunger. But despite his complaints, the Drake arched his neck up, then dipped it down as he dove again, his wings folding up against his sides. I crouched in the saddle, gritting my teeth as the gale force wind beat mercilessly against me. I pressed my eyes shut and pulled up the faction messaging link, frantically searching for the new Regional Messaging feature we’d just unlocked through the Stratagem ability.

There.

With a thought, a new screen appeared, this one a scrolling list of all the current Crimson Alliance officers and every region territory and Keep in our control. Wow. From what I understood about the Stratagem feature, regional commanders could only send group PMs to the folks in their region, but as the faction commander, I could contact any region or all regions at will. An incredible ability, though it would take a little while to figure out how to best use it to our advantage. That was a thought for later, though.

I hastily scanned the list until Ravenkirk appeared on the display screen. With a click, a blank PM box appeared before me:

<<<>>>

Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk

Alert!

To all Crimson Alliance Members in Ravenkirk, the invaders are friendlies—it’s the Spider Queen and some sort of entourage. Do not engage. Do not engage. Fall back and allow me to de-escalate this situation.

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>>

I sent the message with a flick of my wrist, then closed my interface before I got inundated with a flurry of responses. The menu disappeared just in time for me to see the ground rushing up like an oncoming car. I winced, jaw tightening as I braced for impact, but then Devil pulled up from the dive, his maw stretching wide as a column of violet flame exploded out. Even from Devil’s back, I could feel the singeing heat of the inferno he was unleashing. The shadow fire bit into the tall grass and in seconds flames five feet high shot up, licking at the sky.

And as Devil flew, he spewed more and more shadow fire, carving a nice neat dividing line between the army of scuttling arachnoids and the incoming Crimson Alliance defenders. The Spider Queen—always far smarter than most of the travelers in the game—caught on in an instant. She halted and unleashed a droning, inarticulate buzz that sounded like a thousand crickets all chirping at once. Immediately, the spiderkin stopped dead in their tracks, their dull black eyes taking in the flames and the onrushing fighters with implacable calm.

That had to be the biggest benefit of the hive mind: instant communication and perfect control when there was a need. Even the new Regional Messaging ability couldn’t come close to that, as evidenced by the fact that most of the Alliance members were still charging straight ahead, their weapons raised and ready to battle. The problem with PMs was people still needed to check them, and in the heat of battle, that might not happen.

It looked like I’d have to avert this crisis the ol’-fashioned way—with elbow grease and a giant fire-breathing dragon.

Circle around and take us higher. The great Shadow Drake, sensing my worry and annoyance, responded without any of his characteristic sass. His wings thrust down, gusts of air pounding at the unnatural flames burning below, then wheeled around. I raised one hand and unleashed a flurry of Umbra Bolts, which streaked through the purple-black sky as bright as a fireworks display. In the dark, it might’ve been tough to see Devil and me, but those Umbra Bolts would do the trick.

Assuming our players weren’t blind.

The Umbra Bolts finally fizzled out, and when I glanced back down, I noticed most of the Alliance defenders had ceased their mad dash. Unfortunately, most were not all. One small pocket of warriors, three deep, was still closing in, and they were making a beeline for the Spider Queen. I took a quick scan of the group: the first two were Berserkers—one Dwarven, one Risi—a fact made clear by their chainmail, edged in fur, studded with bits of bone and antler, and covered in angular red script.

Both were in frenzy mode, which gave them increased strength, attack power, attack damage, and Health and Stamina Regen rates. The drawback was, it also gave them tunnel vision and a temporary reduction to Intelligence, which might explain why they’d failed to notice both the Regional Message and the fancy light display. Truthfully, though, I wasn’t quite so worried about them since Devil’s impromptu firewall was still burning brightly, consuming the grass. They’d never get around it, and I very much doubted they’d be dumb enough to risk charging through it—though I’d seen some pretty wild and reckless moves in V.G.O.

Heck, I’d made my fair share of wild and reckless moves.

Get me above that group, I commanded absently, surveying the remaining member of the party. She was no Berserker—not a melee fighter of any sort. She wore swishing robes and carried a gnarled staff topped with a fat, twirling ruby that shone with brilliant radiance. She had to be a mage. Probably a Firebrand like Abby, unless I missed my guess completely. That was unfortunate since a Firebrand could part that flame wall like Moses parting the Red Sea, or, at the very least, rain down spells on the spiderkin from a distance.

Time to put an end to that.

Roll and drop, I sent. Then patrol, and make sure no one assaults the spiderkin—if you see anyone do something stupid, you can engage. Just make it quick and clean.

Happily, Devil replied, his right wing shooting straight out, catching the draft, and hurling us into a blazing-fast corkscrew that left me dangling upside down. Even though I’d performed this same maneuver a hundred times, it never seemed to get any easier or less terrifying. I glanced down and grimaced as the Firebrand raised one hand, a red-hot fireball forming in her outstretched palm. Great. Another thing to worry about. I unhooked my feet from the leather stirrups, released the reins, and dropped like a rock toward the earth just as the mage released a fireball the size of a small car.

This was fine, I could do this.

I took two deep, calming breaths and triggered Shadow Stride fifteen feet from the field. The world lurched to a halt as the Shadowverse exploded around me in all of its monochromatic, blurred-edged glory. Thankfully, the flame spell also crept to a stop. The giant ball of burning gas simply hung, unmoving in the air like a small, personal sun.

Even if the butterflies in my stomach still went mad from the drop, I’d gotten much better at the landing. I turned into the fall, crouching at the knees as I hit. The shock jolted up through the soles of my feet and into my legs—my teeth clacking shut—but I’d angled my fall and immediately glided into a forward roll, which quickly brought me upright. Even falling right hurt a little, but it was far better than belly-flopping onto my face or landing squarely on my back, both of which had happened plenty of times in the past.

Even with the pain, however, my HP bar didn’t drop by even a fraction of an inch. Since I was inside the Shadowverse, I couldn’t sustain any damage—even natural damage from, say, a really high fall.

I took a moment to get my breath and survey the landscape.

Other than the three hard chargers, everyone else had ceased their assault. Now, all I had to do was deflect an enormous fireball and knock some sense into a couple of knuckleheaded Berserkers before they could spark an interspecies war that could potentially cost us one of our most important allies. Easy. I backtracked toward the wall of umbra flame and wedged myself between the Spider Queen and the incoming fireball. I drew my warhammer, ready to fight if it came down to it, then thrust my right hand forward as I prepared for what came next.

My countdown timer hit zero, and the Shadowverse expelled me like an uninvited guest, booting me back into the Material Plane. The instant it did so, I summoned Dark Shield. A flickering purple dome exploded to life before me just in time. The fireball slammed into the conjured shield like an actual wrecking ball, hitting with enough force to rock me back on my heels, before exploding like a scud missile. Angry orange flames leaked through the magical barrier and rolled up over the edges, scorching my eyebrows and raising painful blisters along my cheekbones.

A fraction of my HP dropped, but the shield held against the formidable blast. After a few seconds, the roiling orange flames diminished and died altogether, though a ribbon of smoke rose into the sky as a reminder of what had happened. I dismissed my shield, raising my warhammer in warning. I didn’t need to, though. The three Alliance members had finally come to a halt and were staring at me as though seeing an angry poltergeist manifest from thin air. In some ways, that was probably accurate.

From their perspective, the Firebrand had launched a spell, and then, in less than a blink, I’d appeared and blocked the attack.

The Firebrand’s hands shot toward her mouth, her eyes wide in fear. “I’m so sor—”

I raised a hand, cutting short the flurry of apologies. “You all were just doing your job. Thank you. Next time, though, pay closer attention to the things around you.” I cocked an eyebrow at them and gestured at the field. “And make sure you keep a better watch on your Faction Inbox. Now, why don’t you three head over to the tavern and grab a bite to eat on me, then head back to work. I’ll handle things from here.”

“Of course,” they mumbled, almost as one.

I offered them one more friendly smile, then turned toward the spider horde. Devil’s conjured Shadow Flame had finally guttered and died, leaving behind a scar of blackened earth two feet wide. I frowned—one more thing for the Arbormancers to patch up.

“My dearest fly,” the queen buzzed, scuttling forward. “How good it is to see you, and to see your loyalty to me and mine in action. Most impressive. Now, I hope you’ll extend that loyalty because I have a favor to ask of you …”

NINE_

Royal Favor

“Wait just a blasted minute,” Cutter said, scowling at the Spider Queen loitering at the edge of the woods, surrounded by her legion of multilegged minions. “You’re telling me that you scuttle your arse-ugly band of hellspawn into our camp uninvited, nearly kick-start a war, then you want us to do you a bloody favor?”

Chief Kolle glowered at the thief, his lips pressed into a thin, anxious line. “Talking to allies in such a manner is rude,” he chided, though he also gave the brood a long hard look that said he agreed wholeheartedly with Cutter, rude or not.

“I’m just saying, this lady must be barkin’ mad,” Cutter muttered under his breath, staring daggers at the spider woman, who’d used her significant magical abilities to shed her bulky, semi-truck sized body in favor of something a little slimmer and less attention-grabbing. Her terrible, spindly legs were gone, her bloated abdomen had vanished, and her VW-sized head had shrunk to a more manageable size. Now, the Spider Queen looked like something that could almost pass for human. Though only almost.

This new Lowyth was petite and surprisingly feminine, with long shapely legs, a slim waist, and a heart-shaped face framed by bristly, pixy-cut hair that was an unnatural shade of maroon. Her skin—if it could even be called skin—was still black chitin, covered in swirling, ember-red sigils of power. Her fingers were capped by wicked, curved talons, and though her head was humanoid, her face was still riddled with dull black eyes, which were utterly inhuman and hungry. Most disconcerting of all were the strange appendages jutting from her back like wings, continually curling and uncurling like gnarled, broken fingers.

“That is exactly what I’m asking, you insect,” Lowyth replied, her voice both smoky and sultry. “I understand the circumstances are less than ideal, but they are what they are. And you would do well to show me proper respect, lest I string you up and drain the life from your body a day at a time, until you are little more than a shriveled husk, begging for death.”

Her words were a potent reminder that though the Spider Queen had proven herself to be a valuable asset, she was far from human. She was, at her core, a predator. An intelligent monster designed by the Overminds to kill travelers and citizens alike. We could work with her, sure, but it would always be a tenuous dance.

“That’s enough,” I said, stepping forward and resting my hand on the head of my warhammer—both a threat and promise. “You’re valuable to our cause,” I said coolly, knowing she would only respond to strength, “and this partnership has benefitted both of our peoples, but I won’t allow you to come in here and threaten my people or my officers. As the Jade Lord, I have all the Storme Marsh clans at my disposal, and wiping you off the map wouldn’t be a problem if push comes to shove. Do we understand each other?”

She grinned, her ruby red lips pulling back to show off a mouth full of pointed, needlelike teeth. “Now there’s the troublesome fly I do so admire.” She stalked forward—her motions jerky as though she were unaccustomed to her human body—until she loomed before me. Slowly, carefully, she stretched out a hand and caressed my cheek with a long claw. Chief Kolle and Cutter instinctively went for their weapons, but I raised my hand and curled it into a fist. Hold.

Though we’d been working with the spiderkin for over a month, this was the first time most of these people had seen the Spider Queen up close.

She was unsettling, but I knew this was all a part of her game.

I canted my head and offered her a cocksure grin. You don’t scare me, that look said. “Now tell me what this is about. We’re busy preparing a trap for our enemies, and we have a lot of work to do.”

“I do so love traps,” she cooed, her hand dropping away, “and though I would hate taking you away from such worthy work, I have an urgent quest that only you can fulfill.”

I paused, feeling momentarily thunderstruck. A quest from a dungeon boss? Now that was new. “What’s the quest?” I asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Simple,” she said, her wicked smile growing. “I need you to come with me, deep into the Avilynn Wood, just north of here.”

“Phft,” Cutter snorted. “Mental, I told you. That sounds like a bloody suicide mission. My boy Jack is smarter than to go off with a bloodthirsty monster—who’s already killed him once, let me remind everyone—into the Avilynn. Idiocy.”

“Normally, I don’t like to agree with Cutter on principle,” Chief Kolle said, “but this does indeed sound fishy, as your people say.”

“Yeah.” I nodded and turned back to the queen. “I’m swamped with work and not eager to die a horrible, slow death, so I’ll need a few more details, or it’s a big pass.”

For the first time, her smile slipped, and a look of deadly seriousness crept over Lowyth’s face. “I cannot tell you more. But you cannot say no, troublesome fly.” She paused and tilted her head to the side. “Please.” She whispered the word as though it were physically painful. “I need your help. My children and I have done much for your cause, Grim Jack. We helped you capture Rowanheath. We have defended your borders. I have given your Spider-riders permanent mounts. All this, and I have asked for little in return. But this is important. Crucial.”

I dithered, biting on my bottom lip as I thought. I wished Abby were here; she’d know what to do. Yes, theoretically I could help Lowyth, but we were badly behind on time, and with Osmark gaining ground every day, I couldn’t afford to go gallivanting off on some shady personal quest. That wasn’t the responsible thing to do as a faction leader. Unless …

Unless I could leverage the situation for the good of the faction.

“I’m not opposed to helping you,” I finally said, reaching up and running a hand over my chin. “But like I said, we need to prepare this town to stop Osmark and the Imperial Legion, and we have a little problem too: we’re short on manpower. Maybe I could go with you, but only if you were willing to leave a bunch of the spiderkin here to help with the workload. And no way am I going alone. I want Cutter, Amara, and Forge to come at a minimum. It’ll only take a minute to get them over here.”

The smile slowly grew on the Spider Queen’s heart-shaped face once more. “Tricky fly.” She nodded. “Very well, I will leave you all of my formidable escorts if you will accompany me alone on this urgent errand. But it must be only you.”

“Nope,” Cutter said, stepping between the queen and me, his face oddly calm, one white-knuckled hand wrapped around the hilt of his dagger. “Not on your life is he leaving here without someone to watch his back. Even if you say no, I’m just gonna follow anyway, and you’ll never see me coming.”

Lowyth solemnly considered his words, tapping one finger against her bottom lip. “Very well,” she finally said with a shrug. “I suppose someone of Grim Jack’s station is entitled to a body servant. I will leave all of my formidable escorts with your people if you and your”—she twirled one hand through the air, searching for the right word—“your butler will accompany me on this urgent errand.”

“I’m not a butler,” Cutter grumbled under his breath, indignant to his core.

I snorted and ignored him, focusing instead on the new quest alert, which had popped up in front of me:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Royal Favor

The Spider Queen, Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver, has requested your aid on a secret mission deep in the Avilynn Wood. You and Cutter must accompany her, providing for her safety during your travels.

Quest Class: Rare, Alliance-Based

Quest Difficulty: ???

Success: Accompany Lowyth to an undisclosed location in the Avilynn Wood; Lowyth must survive.

Failure: Fail to accompany Lowyth to an undisclosed location in the Avilynn Wood; Lowyth dies en route to the location.

Reward: 25,000 EXP; Blessing of Lowyth: The Crimson Alliance Faction relation with Lowyth the Spider Queen will improve from Neutral to Friendly; your relation with Lowyth the Spider Queen will improve from Friendly to Honored.

Note: Upon acceptance of this quest, Lowyth will devote all (100) members of her spiderkin entourage to the preparation and defense of Ravenkirk against the Imperial Legion.

Accept: Yes/No?

Jack, this is Sophia. Don’t be a moron. Take this quest. It really is quite important!

<<<>>>

I thought for sure my eyebrows would climb right off my face as I read the message.

So not only would we gain one hundred new bodies to help with the preparations, we’d gain a small army of mobs to help beat back the Imperial Legion. How could I possibly say no to that? Moreover, Sophia—the Overmind of Balance and the closest thing I had to a boss—wanted me to take the mission, too. What in the heck was going on here? I wasn’t sure, but I muttered yes, feeling giddy inside. Just an hour ago we’d been looking at an impossible situation, but now we had more than enough manpower and extra defenders.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of mission was important enough that Sophia would directly intervene.

The quest box disappeared, and when I glanced up, I saw the Spider Queen smiling at me like a … well, like a spider who’d just trapped a fly.

“Excellent.” She turned toward her brood of multilegged nightmares and opened her mouth wide, impossibly so. But she didn’t speak, not exactly. Instead, a whining screech like the sound of an industrial buzzsaw filled the air, undulating as she chittered on in the native spider tongue. After a handful of seconds, the sound abruptly cut off and the Spider Queen wheeled around, planting hands on hips, radiating smugness and self-satisfaction.

“Chief Kolle,” she said, fixing the Murk Elf with a steely-eyed gaze, “you are now in command of my dear children. Treat them well. Grim Jack, Grim Jack’s manservant”—she looked at Cutter and me in turns—“it is time for us to leave. Now.” With that she pushed her way past me, heading across the field, straight for the swath of leafy green trees at the far edge of the dale.

“Come along now, insects,” she said, calling over one shoulder as she walked. “We don’t have all night—this is something of a time-sensitive mission.”

Cutter grumbled and shot me a suspicious glare before fishing both daggers from his belt and giving them elaborate twirls. A nervous tic. I simply shrugged and took off after the Spider Queen. The deal was done. Now, all that was left to do was follow in her wake.

Lowyth cut across the lush field with incredible speed, before skirting around the edge of the town and beelining for the Avilynn. She paused at the edge of the trees, waiting patiently for us as her many eyes scanned the night-darkened woods ahead. “Be on guard, skin-sacs,” she hissed. “There is a deadly enemy not far from here, and it will be very unhappy about our meddling.” Then, before I could even ask her to clarify, she was moving again, heading into the woods. I sighed and followed once more, Cutter trailing behind me.

In a matter of minutes, any sign of Ravenkirk or human civilization vanished, obscured from view by the looming trees surrounding us.

The Spider Queen moved with an unnatural grace and made crazy-good time despite the dense undergrowth, tangling vines, and snagging roots. Even though her lair was in the Storme Marshes, she seemed to instinctively know the location of every buried rock or hidden dip in the Avilynn and was somehow able to effortlessly avoid every potential snag as though she’d walked this same path a thousand times before. Cutter and I struggled to maintain the demanding pace, tripping more often than not, while our Stamina trickled away like water from a leaky faucet.

After a handful of minutes, I started to grow a little anxious.

It felt like we were being watched, or maybe hunted.

I’d been in the Avilynn a few times before, but this time everything felt different. The edge of the Avilynn was a relatively safe place, perfect for newbs to grind out some EXP against random, low-level mobs. The fringe of the woods was a beginner zone, mostly. But there was something wrong here. Aside from the crunch of our boots in the undergrowth and the occasional snap of a breaking twig, the forest seemed dead. Lifeless. No birds chirped or sang. No deer or elk crept by. Even the wild hogs, which traveled in small sounders, were nowhere to be seen. It was night, true, but there should’ve been some sign of life.

“This place is sick, Jack,” Cutter whispered conspiratorially, waving at a nearby oak illuminated by a stray silver moonbeam. “I mean, I’m no Hunter or Ranger, but even I can tell this isn’t a healthy forest.”

I paused, taking a few deep breaths as I scanned the tree he’d pointed out. Sure enough, the green leaves were withered and covered with small yellow spots. And the trunk itself was riddled with thin black veins, which crept upward from its roots. I surveyed a few of the other trees. Not all of them were affected—at least not yet—but nearly one in five were. “What’s going on here?” I asked Lowyth, who’d paused up ahead to wait for us.

The deadly Spider Queen reached out and traced her claws over the corrupted bark of a sugar maple. “A great mystery, which you are here to help me solve. Now come, our destination isn’t far—and neither are our enemies.” She snarled, her nails digging into the wood, leaving vicious slashes behind as she padded on. “Be on guard,” she whispered, her voice carried to us on a gentle breeze.

We resumed our trek, zigzagging through the undergrowth, fording a lazily winding, knee-deep creek, then scuttling up a hill peppered with downed logs and jutting, moss-covered stones. Though the canopy was thick overhead, shafts of starlight guided us through the dark tangle of woods. By the time we crested the rise, the sound of a pitched battle floated to my ears: the clang of steel on steel, the growl of something monstrous, the snap of tree branches. “What is that?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Sounds like trouble to me,” Cutter replied, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of one hand.

“Indeed it is,” Lowyth replied. “Hurry now, a friend needs our assistance.” She took off like a rocket. I pulled a Stamina Regen potion from my belt, downed it in one gulp, then tossed the bottle away as I pulled my warhammer from my belt. Time to get busy. The Spider Queen had a huge lead on me, but I decided to rectify that. While Cutter broke into an awkward sprint to catch up, fighting his way through bushes and past snagging roots, I triggered Shadow Stride, stepping into the Shadowverse at my leisure. The forest, already dark and creepy, grew somehow more ominous in the Shadowverse.

If anything, the corruption seemed to be a bit more prevalent here.

I shuddered, unsure what that meant, and headed on. I edged past Cutter, who was frozen mid-stride, slipped around a few more trees, then crept by Lowyth, feeling a smidge of smug satisfaction. She might’ve been badass, but I still had some pretty cool tricks up my sleeve. Finally, the trees thinned and opened up on a broad clearing bathed in weak silver moonlight, with a building jutting up from the leaf-strewn ground.

The building was octagonal, roughly twenty feet in diameter, and made of graying marble blocks engraved with pictograms of grim-faced skeletons. Romanesque columns marched around the structure in evenly spaced intervals, each of them studded with black wrought iron wall sconces that held torches that burned with unnatural green fire. A golden dome capped the odd structure like a half-buried gold ball, glimmering with beautiful glowing runes. At a glance, it could only be a mausoleum.

Strange.

But even more peculiar than stumbling over an abandoned tomb in the middle of the forest were the ferocious creatures littering the clearing.

TEN_

Battle Royale

The scene before me was absolutely baffling.

Hulking skeletons, [Risen Dead], built from yellowing bone, gleaming red muscle, ropy gristle, and old moss poured from the crypt’s heavy wrought iron doors. More skeletons littered the clearing, along with what could only be zombies in various stages of decomposition. Some of the undead were little more than shambling piles of sinew, clad in tattered armor, while others were a bit fresher. Livelier. A handful of zombies with molting skin, which revealed patches of pink muscle beneath, wore dark, heavy armor, bore enormous tower shields, and carried a wide array of deadly weaponry, marking them as elite troops.

The title [Revenant Knight] floated above them.

Toward the rear of the formation, flanking either side of the mausoleum entrance were a pair of strange spectral creatures burning with eerie green light, clad in fraying robes heavily embroidered with gold, and carrying thick staffs, naming them as undead spellcasters.

But the humanoid undead were also joined by other even more bizarre creatures. A pair of terrifying mantis-like creatures—each the size of a large child—built from bone and black chitin scuttled around on spindly legs. There was a lone wolf as big as a lion, with burning red eyes, its hide stitched together from decaying animal pelts. A [Corpse Hound]. I even spotted a handful of bloated rats, which looked freshly dead and positively rife with disease.

I’d fought my fair share of the undead while trudging through the Plague Tunnels beneath Rowanheath, and I had no desire to battle more. Not only were the undead tough to kill, but zombies also had the unfortunate ability to retain whatever skill-set they’d had in life, so it wasn’t at all uncommon to contend against brutal tanks, sneaky, backstabbing thieves, potent undead shamans, or deadly wizards who could hurl lightning or cast AoE fireballs. And to top it off, every zombie I’d ever seen could deal either plague or poison damage with every hit, which could tear through Health and Stamina like a hungry bear.

Strangest of all—and the thing that really left me scratching my head—was the fact that these creatures hadn’t rallied to fight us, they were already engaged in a ferocious battle. And not against another group of intrepid adventurers, but against some new type of monster I’d never seen before.

A tag floated above one of the invaders: [???]

That was another first in a day full of firsts. What kind of enemy was so rare, the game wouldn’t even identify them?

The invaders were vaguely humanoid, giant—each one standing at least seven feet tall—and whip-thin, covered in dull gray skin. Any exposed flesh was heavily tattooed with sharp, angular black script that hurt to look at. They had pinched, gaunt faces that lacked noses, and lipless, fishlike mouths bursting with jagged black teeth like bits of broken glass. Matte-black horns protruded above pointed ears, curling up toward the sky. Unlike the undead horde, these things were heavily armed with wicked, black-bladed weapons, and garbed in dusty-gray armor trimmed with black fur and studded with spikes, rivets, and gleaming chains.

This was crazy. Bizarre beyond belief.

I’d heard reports that active, territorial dungeons would attack roaming mobs, but I’d never heard of an organized group of monsters invading an entirely different dungeon. The question now was simple: what the hell was I supposed to do here? Were all the creatures in the clearing enemies, or was there a good guy in this battle? And if so, who? I didn’t want to creep into the fight and accidentally sandblast a friendly in the face. So instead, I crept behind a gnarled ash tree on the edge of the clearing and stepped from the Shadowverse.

In a flash, the action exploded back into furious life as time resumed.

Skeletons bum-rushed the horned monsters, lashing out with crude maces built from bone and stone, and the invaders responded in kind. One of the zombie mages, a blond-haired Wode with green-tinged skin, thrust one hand forward and unleashed a bolt of crackling blue lightning, which arced through the air and smashed into an invading warrior carrying a lengthy spear tipped with a black-edged blade. The creature toppled to the ground, convulsing madly, its HP plunging, as a wispy plume of rancid smoke drifted up from the body.

The chaos continued to unfold as Lowyth blurred past me, her arms and legs pumping as she ran. On the edge of the clearing, she crouched down, her fingers digging into the loamy dirt, then shot into the air, leaping twenty feet before plummeting down into the middle of the battle. She landed like an asteroid, the dirt cratering around her as a shock wave exploded outward, rattling the earth and knocking several of the horned invaders from their feet. But before the ground could even stop quivering, she was already moving.

With an ear-splitting shriek, she shot forward like a bolt fired from a crossbow, one hand stretching out. The unlucky target of the attack was an invader wielding a heavy ebony shield and carrying a battle-axe that even Forge would’ve struggled to lift. Her fist smashed into the warrior’s armored chest, but instead of launching the creature into the air, Lowyth’s fist ruptured the leather and exploded out of its back in a spray of black blood. Critical Hit. The invader’s dark eyes were already glassy with death as its life bar sprinted from bright red to black in an instant.

Her entire attack had happened in a fraction of a second, and it was a firm reminder that the Spider Queen was one tough lady. A tough lady I wanted to keep happy and on our side.

Lowyth shrieked again, this time in victory, and ripped her hand free—everything up to her bicep was coated in nauseating gore. Before the corpse could even topple, the Spider Queen grabbed it by the throat and wheeled around, launching the body at a nearby pair of invaders. The corpse smashed into them with bone-breaking force, and down they went in a tangle of limbs, alive but injured. She leaped toward them, lips pulled back in a snarl, ready to make sure they didn’t live for long.

“Don’t just stand there, fly,” she shouted at me with a glower, before smashing in the side of an invader’s skull. “Kill these creatures, and do it without hesitation. Leave the others be.” Then she turned away, dropping down and sinking her teeth into the throat of the second creature, which promptly let out a gurgled cry as its arms flapped madly in the air.

I pulled my eyes away from the unsettling scene and darted into the midst of the fray.

My first instinct was to unleash Umbra Bog, but I decided against it. Lowyth and her spiderkin might’ve been immune to the attack since they were part of an active faction alliance, but the zombies and skeletons wouldn’t have the same protection. Unfortunately, that meant my Plague Burst and brand-new Night Cyclone abilities were also out. So instead, I thrust out a hand and launched a burning Umbra Bolt at the nearest gray-skinned invader, who was getting ready to split the Corpse Hound down the middle with an oversized two-handed sword.

The Umbra Bolt slapped against the invader’s cheek, bursting in a shower of purple shadow power which disrupted the attack, saved the grotesque hound, and knocked off over half of the creature’s HP in a single hit. Even better, the invader’s eyes grew strangely hazy and confused, its brain addled. It turned, tossed its sword into the dirt, then launched its body at a female invader wearing a skull helmet. At level 4, not only did Umbra Bolt dish out 210% Spell Strength—for a whopping 332 points of Shadow Damage—but additionally, it had a 20% chance of confusing enemies, causing them to randomly attack other hostile forces.

The bewildered invader hit his companion around the waist, digging a shoulder into her gut and driving her to the ground like a linebacker sacking a very unlucky QB. His sword lay off to one side, but he quickly fished a deadly curved dagger from a sheath at his belt and jabbed down with a maddened roar. There was no time to celebrate my victory, though, since more of the leather-clad invaders had taken note of my presence and were closing in. A wicked scythe blade sliced at my head—I ducked the blow by inches, letting the weapon sail past me, then shot in, slamming my hammer into exposed ribs as I triggered Savage Blow.

Ribs cracked like rifle shots, and the creature doubled over, grabbing his gut as he struggled for air, no doubt crippled by one debuff or another. I slipped right and thrust the wicked spike on my hammer directly into the warrior’s exposed temple. Critical Hit! The creature, already injured, let out a raspy groan as its body sagged and folded like a bad hand of cards, dead before he hit the ground. I jerked the spike free and twirled right, hurling another Umbra Bolt with my left hand. It exploded against the chest plate of a female warrior with a horrendous underbite.

“On your left!” Cutter called from behind me, his voice hard-edged.

I spun, eyes wide, as an enemy warhammer crashed toward me. I dove right, but I wasn’t quite quick enough. Although I’d saved myself from a potentially fatal blow, the blunt face of the incoming hammer smashed into my calf, and pain ripped through my leg, radiating down into my foot and up into my thigh. Instead of rolling smoothly away, I face-planted, and the sharp edge of a piece of skull gouged my cheek as a debuff notification flashed in the corner of my vision.

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Fractured Leg: You cannot use your left leg; your movement rate is reduced by 80%; duration, 1 minute.

<<<>>>

Perfect, that’s just what I needed. I gritted my teeth and flipped onto my back as my new assailant stalked forward, his warhammer raised and ready to finish me off. I lifted one hand, preparing to unleash a gout of Umbra Flame, but the invader staggered to a halt, his eyes flaring wide in shock as an ebony-bladed dagger ripped through the front of his neck. Cutter flipped over his head a beat later, his legs spinning through the air like a professional gymnast before he landed on light feet and shot forward, driving a knee into the creature’s groin.

The warrior stumbled back, but before he could get away completely, Cutter hurled a trio of conjured blades, which punctured the leather armor with ease. Another one down. Cutter hustled over and helped me to my feet, slinging one arm around my shoulders so he was supporting most of my weight. In his other hand, he held one of his signature black daggers, the blade liberally covered in blood.

“Who’s next, you bastards?” he snarled, gaze flashing around the clearing. Except there weren’t any invaders left to fight. Their corpses lay all over the meadow, along with the bodies of more than a few zombies and skeletons, all butchered. The last living invader was pinned beneath Lowyth, her arms and legs splayed out as the Spider Queen gnawed on her exposed throat. Plenty of the undead horde remained, however. Cutter stared down a skeletal warrior missing one arm, but the monster didn’t seem even remotely interested in picking a fight with us.

Instead, the horde turned as one—as though listening to the instructions of some unheard voice—and began to file back through the mausoleum’s hulking steel door, disappearing into the dark. Cutter and I watched on passively as the skeletons, zombies, and other undead things vanished back from where they came. This whole situation only got more confusing by the second. First, a dungeon boss offered us a secret quest, then we discovered two different groups of monsters duking it out, before finally having a group of potentially hostile opponents just turn around and walk away without a fight.

“Umm, do we attack?” I asked, shooting a look at the Spider Queen as she stood from her kill, wiping away blood from her ruby lips.

“Don’t be silly, troublesome fly,” she replied, holding one hand up to inspect her claws. “We follow. After all, we’re here to make a new friend as well as solve a troubling puzzle.” She carved her way through the battlefield, stepping over downed bodies as though they were nothing more than rocks to avoid. She paused at the iron gate barring the way to the crypt interior. “Well, shall we go?” She waved toward the crypt entrance.

“Not until we collect the bloody loot,” Cutter shot back, waving an arm at the field ripe and ready for plunder. I grinned. If there was one thing Cutter kept his eye on, it was loot.

Lowyth sighed and leaned against one of the marble pillars surrounding the tomb. “Children,” she muttered before shaking her head. “Very well,” she said a tad louder. “The Dungeon Hearted can wait a little while longer. Go collect your spoils.” She flicked out one hand in a shooing gesture.

She could say whatever she wanted, but I was with Cutter on this one: passing up good quality loot—and from brand-new mobs, no less—was an affront to the gamer in me. I headed over to the nearest invader, who lay facedown in the dirt, one arm twisted beneath his torso, the other flopped out at an awkward angle. Carefully, I rolled the creature over, searching its face for any sign of what it might be. It wasn’t human, obviously, but these things looked less like monsters and more like a new race—part Murk Elf, part Risi, part demon.

What they were was a complete mystery.

I pulled up my interface and looted the corpse. The invader carried a handful of golden coins, but they weren’t the Imperial marks I was familiar with. These coins were thick, and square, with sharp, angular script running along the edge and the stern face of a demon in profile stamped into the metal on each side. And their gear was just as weird, though it at least provided a few clues about what these creatures were. I pulled up the item description for a wicked black dagger with runes etched into the blade:

<<<>>>

Vogthar Gutting Blade

Weapon Type: Bladed; Dagger

Class: Common, One-handed

Base Damage: 25

Primary Effects:

- +5 to Strength
- +2 to Dexterity
- +10 pts Disease Damage

Restriction: Players without an “evil” alignment suffer 5 pts Disease Damage/sec while this weapon is equipped.

<<<>>>

I closed out from the screen and examined the armor, which looked equally well made, but had the same sort of restrictions in place, rendering it useless to the faction. We needed to get this stuff back to Vlad and see if there was some way to remove the restriction—either that or salvage it for parts. On the plus side, there was a unique ring, called the Warfist Signet, which gave me a hefty +10 to Strength, +10 to Vitality, and a +5% increased chance to Critical Hit. I slipped that bad boy on without a second thought, then moved on to the other bodies.

The rest of the loot from the invaders was remarkably similar: a pocketful of boxy gold coins and restricted armor and weapons. Several of the skeletons and zombies hadn’t fared so well during the encounter either, and I couldn’t help but loot them too. So far, the creatures from this dungeon had been of the peaceful variety, but they were still dead monsters with valuable items we could use. Most of the undead paid out a few silvers and some rare crafting materials—[Skeletal Dust], [Flesh Salve], [Mud Sage]—which Vlad would, no doubt, lose his mind over.

“If you’re all done,” Lowyth called out as I stood and brushed my hands free from a thin layer of grime clinging to my gloves, “we really ought to be moving on. We wouldn’t want to keep our host waiting.” With that, she turned on her heel and headed into the yawning mouth of the crypt, quickly disappearing from view.

ELEVEN_

The Dungeon-Hearted

My footsteps echoed off the gray stone walls as I trudged down a circular staircase that drilled deep into the mausoleum. The passageway was lit with more wall-mounted torches that burned with sickly green flame the color of rotting flesh. A hand fell on my shoulder, and I was so keyed up from the battle, I spun, reaching for my weapon while simultaneously preparing to unleash a torrent of Umbra Flame. But I relaxed when I saw it was only Cutter—except he looked worried, uncharacteristic fear etched into his usually easy-going features.

“Hold up a minute, friend,” he whispered just loud enough for me to hear. “I think we might be in real trouble here. That gear back there”—he jerked his head toward the doorway, which was now out of sight—“it belongs to the Vogthar. The Vogthar, Grim Jack.”

That name again. It sounded familiar, and I was sure I’d heard it before, though I couldn’t quite place it. “What are the Vogthar?” I asked.

“Old creatures,” Cutter said, glancing around nervously as though afraid of being overheard. “They’re about as old as legends go. Way, way back in the day—’bout eight or nine hundred years this was—the Vogthar ruled most of Eldgard with an iron fist. No one remembers much about ’em except that they were supposed to be a right lot of nasty bastards who worshiped Serth-Rog. And this was all theirs until my people came down from the frozen reaches in the far north and waged war against ’em for reasons no one is entirely clear on. But what everyone does agree on is that it was an ugly war that ended up with the Vogthar wiped off the face of the map and their cities razed to the ground.”

“But if the Wodes exterminated these things, then how are they here?” I asked.

“Some people, they say the Vogthar were powerful beings of Flesh and Spirit,” Cutter offered, absently running one hand through his dirty blond locks. “After my people killed ’em, their souls were banished to the tundra of Morsheim, the realm of the dark god Serth-Rog. Legend holds they have been trapped there for the past nine hundred years, biding their time. Waiting for a chance to escape. But what if all these Black Priests of Serth-Rog found some kinda way to bring ’em back?” Cutter said, sounding more nervous by the second. “If that’s the case, Jack, this could be bad for everyone. This could change everything, Jack. Everything.”

I paused, thinking over everything I’d heard. “Okay,” I finally replied in a soft whisper, “we don’t know anything for sure yet, so let’s just wait until we have more facts before we start freaking out. Lowyth brought us to this place for a reason, and that seems to be tied to those things. So let’s just keep our heads on straight and see if we can get some answers here. Sound like a plan?’

Cutter grunted noncommittally and nodded, but I could still see the fear wriggling away inside him, just below the surface. Cutter wasn’t ever scared by much, so seeing him shaken was deeply troubling. Still, there was nothing I could do about it for the time being, so instead, I turned and followed the corkscrewing stairs down, down, down, my steps echoing in the cramped stairwell. Eventually, the stairs dead-ended at a graceful stone archway, which connected to a large chamber where the Spider Queen waited for us.

I paused before entering, though, reading the inscription carved into the stone above the entryway: Catacombs of the Forsaken. That was charming and not in any way foreboding.

I pushed my nervousness away and headed into a rectangular room with sandstone walls studded with stained-glass windows. Despite the fact windows were pretty useless in an underground tomb, they certainly added a menacing atmosphere to the place. Each one was a work of art that rightly belonged in a medieval cathedral, except these didn’t depict saints in supplication but rather unearthly scenes of the dead. In one, a zombie clad in heavy armor fought off a horde of living invaders, while another featured a busty woman with unnaturally pale skin wielding a wicked scythe.

A black wrought iron chandelier dangled from the vaulted ceiling overhead, casting flickering green light over Lowyth, but she wasn’t alone. Oh no. There were monsters galore here, mostly skeletons and the shambling, recently dead zombies I’d seen above. They milled around, clumped together in little pockets, as they eyed me with a mixture of outright fear and morbid curiosity. They certainly left me shuffling on uncertain feet, but none of them made a move to attack or even showed an inclination toward hostility.

“Bollocks,” Cutter said as he entered and slid up next to me, one hand automatically darting toward his dagger.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Lowyth offered offhandedly. “They won’t attack so long as they have no provocation. So, I wouldn’t give them any cause to think you’re hostile. This way.” She turned and stalked into a connecting hall. I was irritated she wouldn’t just tell us what all this was about, but I was curious enough to follow and find out more. We headed into an arched hallway lined with burial niches, each housing an unmoving corpse—though I had a sneaking suspicion they were only unmoving because we were guests and not trespassers.

We exited into another sizeable chamber, this one littered with blocky columns, angry green torchlight, and a whole new batch of strange mobs. There were a few of the basic Skeletons and Zombies I’d seen topside, but this room was primarily dominated by the elite, heavily armored Revenant Knights who’d been so effective against the invaders. I also spotted a handful of the hulking, lionesque Corpse Hounds crouched down in pockets of deep shadow. I swallowed hard, hands balling into tight fists, but tried to appear relaxed and calm otherwise.

A pair of hallways shot off to the left and right, but we kept on straight ahead.

“Well, this place is fun,” Cutter muttered as we headed through another connecting passage—the walls dotted from ceiling to floor with chalky white skulls—which let out into another square room with more stained-glass windows, more undead, and more snaking passageways. A few of those hallways connected to viewing galleries, filled with stone caskets and treasure chests, while others led to an assortment of different rooms. Everything from libraries to a huge room filled with creeping vines, stagnant pools of water, and sinister-looking flowers.

. “Seriously, though, this place gives me the willies,” Cutter mumbled again, his gaze constantly roving. “And why is it here, anyway? Ravenkirk’s the closest city, and it’s over an hour away.” His voice rang off the high ceilings, and the mobs in the room glared at us, as though perturbed by the unwelcome sound, but made no move.

“The Catacombs of the Forsaken were not always as you see them now,” Lowyth said casually, her feet click-clacking against the stone floor as she walked. “You see, Ravenkirk was once one of the few Dawn Elf settlements on this side of the continent. And though now it’s little more than a quaint town overrun by Wodes, it used to be so much more. Once Ravenkirk was a grand city. Beautiful and mighty.

“A place to rival Rowanheath or even the Imperial capital of West Viridia. Its borders extended all the way to the southern edge of these woods. That time is ancient history, but this place”—she flashed a hand around the room—“is a part of that history. The Hvitalfar respect their ancestors, yet loathe death and the dead. Therefore, the Dawn Elves have strict religious ordinances about where and how the dead can be interred.

“These catacombs used to be the primary place where the dead of Ravenkirk were brought, but as the city withered and died under a series of incompetent rulers and costly wars, the crypt was eventually abandoned. Forsaken. And since the living no longer performed the ancient rituals to appease the ancestors, the dead began to stir. To rise. To live again, pulled back from paradise by the unfaithfulness of their offspring, who eventually abandoned the town to foreign settlers—the Wodes.”

She fell silent as we passed into a vast chamber with clay urns edging the perimeter of the room. Ancient runes, written in brown-red blood, decorated the floors and walls. A giant overhead chandelier, built entirely from yellowed bones, was riddled with melting candles that all burned with green fire. Against the far wall was a wrought iron portcullis glowing with spectral light, which guarded a descending staircase. As ominous as the décor was, however, it was the guardian lurking in the corner of the room, staring at us with death and murder carved into every line of its formidable body, who caught my attention.

[Ravaging Devourer]

The creature was a lopsided Frankenstein zombie, fifteen feet tall, crudely stitched together with black catgut sutures, and built along the same lines as a male silverback gorilla. Its head was misshapen and bald, with a thick maw filled with far too many fangs. Its arms were the size of small tree trunks, covered in shards of blackened bone, and capped by car-tire-sized hands and beefy fingers as long as my forearm. It was bare-chested and broad across the shoulders, with a giant barrel gut, stitched right up the center.

As we got a bit closer, it growled at us, a deep primal noise like an earthquake given life. It didn’t attack, however. It merely glowered at us with its beady eyes and waved a fleshy hand toward the metal gate, which lurched up with a groan, granting us access to the stairwell beyond. The stairs drew us down and into another new section of the dungeon, much like the first, but with far more twists, turns, switchbacks, dead ends, and traps. So. Many. Traps. Cutter was kind enough to point all of them out, even though they seemed dormant and relatively harmless for the time being.

There were spiked pits. Lethal pressure plates. Exploding skull piles. Magical flamethrowers. Plus, more mobs, these even deadlier than those above.

But here too, the dungeon creatures seemed content to let us be, and Lowyth led us unwaveringly onward as though she knew this place as well as her own lair. After ten minutes of steady hoofing, we hooked left through a broken section of wall, which let out in a cavernous natural space, which was yet another Boss Room. The walls were all rough red bedrock, the ceiling littered with hanging stalactites. I paused and squinted at one of those stalactites as it twitched and wriggled. Those weren’t rock formations at all—they were giant bats.

[Ravenous Flyer]

Amazing.

I tore my eyes away from the dread bats and surveyed the room, which was filled with lush grass and towering glowing mushrooms the size of small trees. Those mushrooms quivered with life and washed the room in seedy neon light. Here too, there was a heavy-duty metal portcullis at the far side of the room, and flanking it were a pair of women I immediately recognized from many of the stained-glass windows decorating the catacombs above. They were not nearly as tall as the Franken-Zombie, but they looked deadly all the same.

[Avenging Reapers]

Both had creamy, flawless skin and bright red eyes the color of a broken blood vessel. Their hair was black, short, and spiky, and their armor was dark as the ocean at midnight and looked heavy enough to stop an artillery round. Skulls and bony protrusions studded the shoulder pads and the vambraces they wore. Each wielded a long scythe with a wicked half-moon blade covered in burning runes, which radiated arcane energy palpable even across the room. Just like with the first-floor boss, they gave us a stern glare then waved us through, to yet another descending staircase, which let into what could only be the remains of a sunken church.

We headed down a badly decaying hallway—the stones cracked, broken, and overgrown with roots and tangled vines—for fifteen feet before the hall curved and jettisoned into a circular hollow with a huge stone fountain in the middle, its water long since dried up. Zombies, Skeletons, Revenant Knights, and Corpse Hounds stood guard, eyeing us with vicious snarls, their weapons clenched in tight grips, ready to attack the second we stepped out of line.

Past the fountain room was a rectangular room with a short set of upward sloping steps, guarded over by an amorphous creature that looked like it had been crafted from red clay. [Blood Golem] appeared over its head, and I instinctively realized it wasn’t clay at all, but congealed blood. We silently slipped past the creature, up the stairs, and into a hallway festooned with more stained-glass windows burning with ghostly light and trimmed with tattered flags that hung from the ceiling rafters. At a glance, those flags seemed to be battle standards—probably taken from the intrepid adventurers who’d fallen victim to this place.

I shuddered as I counted those flags. There were a hundred or more, easily.

Finally, the hall dumped us into what had to be the final Boss Room: a giant cavernous cavity, part chapel, part graveyard, with stony-faced statues marching off along the walls. The statues were motionless, but unnerving all the same. The loamy black ground was covered with bulky tombstones, poking up like rotten teeth. And on the far side of the room lay a jagged pit, which radiated the same awful green light I’d seen burning in the torches throughout the dungeon. But my gaze immediately fell on the giant table sitting next to the pit, loaded down with food and drinks.

It was a veritable banquet.

“Well don’t just stand there, guys,” boomed a disembodied voice from all around us. “I’m sure you folks are hungry, am I right? And the food here in V.G.O. is so good—like crazy good. I don’t think I ever ate as good back IRL as I do here.”

I thought my jaw might hit the floor. “You’re a traveler?” I asked incredulously.

“Totally,” the voice boomed back, and even though I couldn’t see the speaker, I could hear the smile in his voice. “Hold on one sec, I’ll manifest my avatar. It’s hard to do—takes a lot of concentration—but it’ll be worth it so I don’t have to scream at you.” The light seeping up from the pit swirled and changed, compressing and intensifying, until a body began to take shape, floating above the chasm like an unholy angel. The light grew in intensity—brighter and brighter until I had to shield my eyes—and then in a blink, it was gone, and a man stood next to the table.

Except he wasn’t any of the races I’d seen in V.G.O.

He was maybe six one and wore dark purple robes covered by heavy plate mail built entirely from gleaming bone inscribed with emerald runes. Chief Kolle was a necromancer, and his conjured armor looked similar to this, though less badass. This guy—or whatever he was—had a dark cowl pulled up over his head, but where his face should’ve been was just a gaping black hole that was like staring into a deep chasm. Bony wings protruded from his back as if he were an Accipiter that had died and molted, and he carried a wicked scythe in one gauntleted hand.

When I looked at him long and hard enough, an honest-to-god tag appeared briefly over his head before vanishing:

[Joseph the Gravemonger]

“I’m Joseph, by the way,” he said, swinging his arms, his voice oddly chipper, “though my friends call me Jo-Dan. Well, they’d call me that if I had any friends. I don’t, but a guy can dream, am I right? So, anyway, you all wanna eat or what?”

TWELVE_

Encroaching Darkness

“I still can’t believe it,” I said, dipping a buttery roll into the juicy grease decorating my metal plate. “You’re from the other side, but you’re a dungeon monster. How does that even happen?”

“Well,” the faceless man said from across the table, “technically I’m not just a dungeon monster. I’m the whole dungeon. Like all of this is an extension of me. As to how it happened …” He faltered, deflating a little. “It was a giant mistake. Huge.” He reached up and rubbed the back of his cowl. “So, back before the world ended, I was just some dumb seventeen-year-old kid from Atlanta. The bad part of Atlanta, living in a transitional foster home.

“When I found out about the asteroid, I packed up and left—tried to get to the Osmark facility in Dallas, but it was crazy. I never made it. Got as far as Shreveport. But by then, everyone was looting and rioting. Half the city was burning. The highways were jam-packed with traffic and busted cars. Making it that last two hundred miles to Dallas was next to impossible. Might as well try and get to the moon. But …” He trailed off and shrugged again.

“Well, I hacked into the Osmark delivery database and got a shipping roster, which listed every location they’d offloaded NextGenVR capsules at. One of those locations was pretty close. In Lake View, just outside Shreveport. Kind of a swanky, upper-class part of town. When I got there, though, most of the building was wrecked. Someone had torched the place.” He shook his head.

“So what’d you do?” I pressed, hunching forward, genuinely interested.

“Well, I searched the rubble and found the capsule. The fire had damaged it pretty badly, and the person inside was dead, but it seemed mostly functional. And at that point, I was like four days out from Impact, so it was that or nothing.” He shrugged. “I used it. But the damage was way more extensive than I’d thought.

“Those nanites it uploaded into my bloodstream fried a big chunk of my brain. Higher intellect, memory, speech—all that stuff was fine. Pretty much everything else was toast. There was a download error. A transcription error to be precise. Anyway, the game sorted me into a body that gave me the biggest chance of surviving the damage. That body just so happened to be a dungeon—as far as I know, I’m the only one like me in all of Eldgard.”

“Holy crap,” I said, my jaw hanging open. “That’s crazy. You’re a dungeon.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky I made it at all,” he replied with a bob of his head. “At first, I was depressed as hell, because come on, who wants to be a monster forever stuck in one place with no one around but your minions?” He faltered and glanced around. “It’s actually pretty rad, though. I mean, I get to design the dungeon layout, I’ve got loads of cool abilities, and the play isn’t nearly as boring as I thought it would be. And my minions are the best. Griff doesn’t like people, so he’s refusing to come out, but they’re awesome.”

He paused, drumming armored fingers on the tabletop, rat-tat-tat. “Plus, I finally leveled up enough to unlock an avatar. This”—he gestured at his body—“is a pretty new addition. For a long time, I was just sort of this disembodied force, but now that I can manifest a form, I can travel outside like Lowyth there.” He waved a hand at the Spider Queen, who sat at the end of the table looking utterly bored.

“Yes, and speaking of Lowyth,” the Spider Queen said, arching her back and primly crossing her legs. “Are you satisfied with the help I’ve procured for you, Gravemonger? Didn’t I tell you Jack would be a suitable candidate?”

“Yep,” Jo-Dan said with a bob of his head. “I can handle it from here, and thanks again for the help.”

“Don’t thank me, Gravemonger,” she said as she stood. “Thank your master, Cernunnos. It is a rare thing that can force me from my web, and it is high time I return.” She slipped over to me, positioning herself behind me, and ran a razor-sharp talon over my shoulder, her nail leaving a shallow groove in the leather of my armor. “It has been interesting to see you again, troublesome fly, but I must leave you now. My obligation to the high one has ended, and I find the world of men endlessly tiring. Until next time,” she said, offering me a broad smile brimming with teeth and filled with deadly promise.

A new quest screen popped up, alerting me that I’d completed this leg of the journey:

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Royal Favor

Congratulations! You have successfully escorted the Spider Queen, Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver, to the Catacombs of the Forsaken deep in the heart of the Avilynn Wood and met the Dungeon Lord, Joseph the Gravemonger. As your reward, you have received 25,000 EXP and the Blessing of Lowyth, increasing the Crimson Alliance Faction relationship with Lowyth the Spider Queen from Neutral to Friendly and your personal relationship with Lowyth the Spider Queen from Friendly to Honored.

<<<>>>

By the time I closed out the interface, she was already slipping from the chamber. Apparently, she wasn’t one for long, drawn-out goodbyes.

“Alright, mate,” Cutter said, fixing his stare on the boss, “so you browbeat Lowyth into bringing us here—which I can respect, since that lady is an absolute nightmare—but for what purpose, eh?” He picked up a mug of mead and downed a long gulp, eyeing the monster over the top of the rim. “Why go to all the trouble?”

“Oh, that,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, you guys saw the Vogthar up top, right?”

“So they are Vogthar,” Cutter muttered, arching an eyebrow. “As if things weren’t bloody complicated enough. All I want is to sit back, drink good ale, bask in the sun, and lounge in a bathtub full of gold, but no, not with Grim Jack around.”

“Ignore him,” I said with a colossal eyeroll. “So what’s the deal with the Vogthar?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I don’t know who they are, what they are, or why they’re here—but they’ve been attacking other dungeons in the area. And not just raiding them the way travelers do.” He shook his head. “They’ve been killing dungeons.” He snapped his fingers. “Dead just like that, which is crazy, because I didn’t think dungeons could die. But here’s the real kicker.”

He hunched forward conspiratorially, forearms resting flat against the tabletop. “After they kill the dungeon, they corrupt it. Change it. In a couple of days, the dungeon comes alive again, but instead of producing regular minions, it starts pumping out these Vogthar things by the boatloads. And then those things go out in search of more dungeons to corrupt. They’re like a plague.”

“That’s all fine and dandy,” Cutter said, voice brimming with suspicion, “but that still doesn’t explain why you had the Spider Queen get us. Why Jack, instead of some other random traveler—which there are scores of, by the way. But no, you just happen to pick out the leader of the Crimson Alliance. I want to know why.”

The faceless man seesawed his head back and forth. “Honestly, I didn’t choose Jack. I have a boss. Sort of. It’s complicated.” He stole a look left, then right, as though searching for someone. “He’s one of the Seven. An Overmind. This terrifying freak with giant deer antlers sticking right out the top of his head, who walks around half naked, slathered in mud. His name’s Cernunnos, and he’s an absolute nut-ball. But apparently, he’s also the Overmind responsible for monsters and dungeons. From what I can tell, he and this other lady, Enyo, seem to work hand in hand.”

He lifted one gauntlet-clad hand and waved it through the air. “Anyway, none of that matters. What really matters is that he said Jack was the champion of an Overmind, too—Sophia, goddess of order. Not to mention, the Crimson Alliance is the only faction allied to a dungeon, which seemed like a pretty big deal. Cernunnos said if anyone could help me, it’d be him, so he reached out to Lowyth and roped you in. Then, Cernunnos tasked me”—he hooked a thumb toward his chest—“to figure this thing out, and you’re supposed to help.”

“So even they don’t know what’s going on?” I asked, feeling deeply troubled. The Overminds were everything. They were gravity. Time. Space. They were the laws of nature, life and death, order and chaos. They maintained the world of V.G.O. How was it possible that none of them knew what was happening?

“Nope,” Jo-Dan said, and though he had no face, I could almost hear him grimace.

“That book,” Cutter said suddenly, slapping at my arm with the back of his hand. “The one we took off that Black Priest in the Temple of the Sky Maiden. Didn’t that have a bunch of dungeon names in it?”

I smacked my head. Of course. That had to be the connection.

Sophia had us investigating what kind of shady business the Black Priests of Serth-Rog were up to, and though there was still a lot we didn’t know, our two biggest leads had come from two black leather journals. One of those journals had come from Gentleman Georgie’s corpse, and we’d pilfered the other from the body of a covert Black Priest, who’d been working as an acolyte in the order of the Sky Maiden. I flipped open my interface, toggled over to my inventory, and pulled out one of the black journals—dark runes and jagged script were pressed into the supple leather.

I flipped open the cover and absently leafed through the pages, scanning the location names: Blackbog Hallow, the Burning Labyrinth, the Spectral Vault, the Dread Bat Burrow. On and on they went, location name after location name, each of which could only possibly be a dungeon. “These things have been attacking you,” I said absently, scanning the pages, “but what about other nearby dungeons? Have any of them fallen recently?”

“Tons, man,” came Jo-Dan’s reply. “Seriously, tons. The Avilynn Wood is teeming with dungeons, and I’d say over half of them have fallen in the past month or so. The Oblivion Delves, the Bloody Tunnels, the Tomb of the Hopeless Hunter, the Narrow Lair. They’re all gone.”

“Hold up,” I said, flipping the book over. “Say those again.” This time Jo-Dan spoke more slowly, counting off on his fingers as he went. “Yep,” I said after a time, “they’re all here in the journal. And you’re on the list, too. What’s the nearest dungeon that’s fallen?”

Jo-Dan paused, rubbing at the black space where his chin should’ve been. “There’s another dungeon about five miles east of here called the Frozen Warrens of Axrukis. The old boss that used to run the place was this crotchety old geezer—the guy went by the name Old Man Winter—but he’s gone, I think. Why?”

I took one more gulp of spiced wine, then stood. “Because I think the only way we’re going to get to the bottom of this is to invade one of these corrupt dungeons and figure out what in the hell these Vogthar are up to. Based on this journal, I can only assume these things are connected to the Black Priests of Serth-Rog, but the real question is what are they planning? So far, they’ve been capturing citizens and replacing them with doppelgangers, and now it sounds like they’re doing the same thing to dungeons. But why do that? What do they achieve?”

“Hold on a minute,” Cutter said, glancing at Jo-Dan, then grabbing my sleeve and politely pulling me close. “You want us to walk into one of these places by ourselves?” Cutter whispered, sounding nine kinds of incredulous. “But we already fulfilled Lowyth’s stupid quest, mate. We’re in the clear. Let’s get the hell back to Ravenkirk.” He paused, staring at me long and hard, his lips pursed. “Seriously, Grim Jack. We don’t have much to gain here, but we have a lot to lose. And honestly, I want nothing to do with the Vogthar—they’re bad news, friend. The worst.”

“No,” I said with a shake of my head before stealing a sidelong look at Jo-Dan. The gamer in my gut insisted this was a secret quest, even if I didn’t have a prompt yet. “The spiderkin are back in Ravenkirk, and between Chief Kolle, Amara, Forge, Vlad, and General Caldwell, I’m pretty sure they’ve got things covered. But this? This is something even the Overminds are concerned enough about to take an active role, and if they’re concerned, we should be too. We need to do this.” I shrugged his hand free and turned back toward the dungeon boss.

“Can you mark this place on the map for us?” I asked. “The location of the Frozen Warrens of Axrukis?”

“Hey, I can do better than that,” he said, standing. “I can lead you there. I’m still pretty new to having an avatar, so it might fail me at some point, but I haven’t had many opportunities to leave the crypt since transitioning. So yeah, I’m totally game for a little fresh air and a field trip into hostile territory. Let’s do it.”

“Blighted morons,” Cutter grumbled under his breath, lanky arms folded across his chest. “Fine. Whatever. You want to march us off to some gods-forsaken dungeon, then who am I to stop you, eh?”

“Don’t worry,” Jo-Dan said, strutting past us, beelining for the hallway. “There’ll be something in it for you. One of the perks of being a dungeon is I can create quests. They have to be inside the quest parameters for character level, class, and renown, but I can still make this worth your while.” A new pop-up appeared:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Dungeon Fever

Joseph the Gravemonger has asked you and Cutter to accompany him to a nearby hostile dungeon, the Frozen Warrens of Axrukis, which have recently been corrupted by the Vogthar invaders. You must battle your way to the heart of the Warrens, confront the dungeon boss, and see if there are any clues about who and what the Vogthar are and what they have planned.

Quest Class: Rare, Alliance-Based

Quest Difficulty: ???

Success: Accompany Joseph the Gravemonger to the Frozen Warrens of Axrukis, defeat the boss in the final room, and search for clues about the Vogthars’ motives.

Failure: Fail to accompany Joseph the Gravemonger to the Frozen Warrens of Axrukis, or die before defeating the final boss.

Reward: 10,000 EXP; Laurel-Wreath of Friendship: The Crimson Alliance Faction can form a peace treaty with the Catacombs of the Forsaken; your personal relationship with Joseph the Gravemonger will improve from Neutral to Friendly; 20 Gold Imperial Marks for Cutter (so it’s worth his time).

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Let’s do this thing,” I said.

THIRTEEN_

The Frozen Warrens

We crept through thick undergrowth, everyone cloaked in Stealth, which was good because the Avilynn was crawling with roving bands of horned Vogthar. Small squads, eight-deep, trickled by in a steady stream, and it was a genuine wonder the Alliance Scouts hadn’t noticed all the movement, though I suppose reporting random mobs probably wasn’t a high priority considering the looming threat of Osmark and the encroaching legion. Jo-Dan was up ahead, crouched down behind the trunk of a gnarled oak, watching another group of Vogthar trudge by.

I crept up and knelt down beside him without a sound, one knee pressing into the soft earth. “Are they usually out in force like this?” I whispered into Jo-Dan’s ear, my eyes locked on the oblivious creatures.

“No,” he whispered back with a slight shake of his head. “This is the most movement I’ve ever seen—it’s almost like they’re preparing for something. Got to say, it’s making me more than a little nervous. They’ve been trying to break into my dungeon for over a month, now—I’ve been able to repel them so far, but in these numbers?” He trailed off, leaving the rest unspoken. The last of the Vogthar patrol moved out of view, and without another word, Jo-Dan slipped out from behind the tree, then gestured for Cutter and me to follow.

The dungeon wasn’t far from there—only a couple of hundred feet to the north—and stood out like a bonfire on a moonless night. The tree line abruptly opened, revealing a deep depression in the ground, which was covered with a layer of white hoarfrost. The entrance itself was unimpressive: just a stony outcropping sticking up from the ground like a hitchhiker’s thumb with a sizeable fissure running down the front. But when I pulled up my map, there could be no doubt we were in the right place.

The area was marked with a small red triangle that read The Frozen Warrens of Axrukis.

Even more telling, however, were the two Vogthar guards—one male, one female—posted out front, flanking either side of the rough opening. Though on closer examination, these were clearly a different subspecies from the monsters we’d faced outside of the Catacombs. Instead of pale gray skin, these had gleaming blue skin like arctic ice and blindingly white dreadlocks. I felt a quick tap on my shoulder and turned to find Cutter’s blurry form by my side. He grinned at me and slid a thumb across his throat, the gesture clearer than words could ever be.

Time for a little backstabbing.

“Wait here,” I whispered to Jo-Dan. “We’ll clear the way.”

I followed Cutter into the clearing, padding forward on silent feet, drawing nearer and nearer. Cutter broke right, slipping up next to the female guard, who remained woefully unaware of our presence. I stalked up to the male guard on the left and pulled my warhammer from the leather frog at my belt while taking a few deep breaths to calm my jittery nerves and steady my hands. I would’ve preferred to strike from the rear, but both guards had their backs pressed up against the stone face, so that wasn’t an option. Still, it hardly mattered.

I hefted the hammer, took one last look at the sentry, then swung my weapon in a vicious arc, throwing my entire body weight into the blow while triggering both Savage Blow and Black Caress, ensuring I hit for maximum damage. I heard a muffled shriek from the other guard just as my hammer smashed into the Vogthar’s nose and teeth. My hammer drove the sentry’s head into the rock, and with nowhere to go, his skull exploded in a shower of blood and bone before his body crumpled like a sheet of paper.

I glanced over at the other guard—her body also decorated the ice-covered ground, a giant red slash carved deep into her throat, her black, predatory eyes vacant of life. Cutter and I took a handful of seconds to loot the spoils while Jo-Dan slipped forward. With that done, the three of us wriggled through the fissure and into the dungeon proper—me taking point, Jo-Dan behind me, and Cutter bringing up the rear. The narrow passageway continued for six or seven feet, before finally dumping us into a small and somewhat unimpressive cave.

The floors were coated in more frost, as were the walls, while the ceiling overhead was covered in hanging icicles, some the size of my pinky, others larger than my forearm. From here, there was only one way to go: a sloping passageway dead ahead. I waited for Cutter to make it through to the cave, then dropped into Stealth and crept forward, feeling reasonably satisfied with how well this little dive was going so far. A couple of guards out front was hardly worth writing home about, and so far, no one even seemed aware we were here.

I glanced back at Jo-Dan and Cutter, but said nothing, not wanting to risk the chance of alerting the Vogthar to our presence, then turned and headed in deeper. At first, the corridor slanted gently downward, but it quickly snaked left, then right, before pitching down at a near forty-five-degree angle. And even worse, the ground went from hard dirt, speckled with a thin layer of frost, to solid ice, which was treacherous underfoot and badly restricted my movement rate to boot.

In next to no time, I found myself sliding on my butt as though it were some giant slide, idly wondering how in the heck we were going to get back out. My guess was there’d be a “secret” passageway in the Boss Room, which would invariably dump us back at the beginning of the dungeon. But that meant there was no going back if things got too tricky—either we completed the objective and defeated the boss, or we died trying. After what felt like a lifetime, the winding ice slide dumped us into another passageway, this one cramped and claustrophobic.

The walls were solid ice—crystalline, beautiful, and glowing with electric-blue light—while the floors were covered with a thin layer of powdery snow that crunched softly under my boots. My breath misted in front of my face as a shiver rode its way through my body, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs. I wasn’t a winter person—San Diego never got cold enough for snow—and I’d spent the vast majority of my time in V.G.O. trekking around in the Storme Marshes or trudging through arid deserts, so I was thoroughly unprepared for this.

“Bollocks, it’s cold down here,” Cutter muttered under his breath, rubbing his arms furiously as he glanced around the stifling tunnel. “We should’ve picked a different dungeon, eh?” He eyed Jo-Dan, who didn’t seem to be bothered in the least by the snow or the cold. “Don’t suppose there’s a nearby dungeon that’s based on a balmy tropical location with beautiful women for guards, is there?”

Jo-Dan snorted and shook his head. “Keep dreaming, buddy. And trust me, this one is the best in the area. The next closest lair is the Ironbark Labyrinth, and you don’t even want to imagine the kind of horrors down there. This place is great, trust me.”

“Great or not,” Cutter growled softly, “I just wanna get my arse outta here and in front of a warm fire. Let’s get movin’—the sooner begun, the sooner done, as Gentleman Georgie used to say.” He shouldered his way past Jo-Dan and me, taking point so he could inspect the way for any of the various traps that festooned most dungeons like ornaments on a Christmas tree. But before he could make it more than a few feet, Jo-Dan’s hand shot out, latching onto the thief’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“What’s the big idea, eh?” Cutter said, offering the boss a nasty glower.

“Hold up, just a second,” Jo-Dan replied, cocking his head to one side as though hearing something no one else could. “Oh crap,” he said. “The dungeon knows we’re here, and we have incoming.” A second later an alarm bell sounded deep inside the icy complex, its clarion call bouncing off the crystalline walls and reverberating in my bones. The alarm kept right on blaring, clang, clang, clang, but the sound was quickly drowned out by howls and yowls as a swarm of Vogthar tore around a bend in the corridor fifty feet ahead.

These looked identical to the blue-skinned guards Cutter and I had taken out near the entrance: Vogthar mobs with heavy icy-crusted armor and upraised weapons.

“Perfect,” Cutter said with a scowl as he pulled free his twin daggers and gave them an elaborate twirl.

“I’m weak outside my dungeon, so I’ll play a combination of Cleric and summoner,” Jo-Dan shouted, backpedaling. He thrust one hand out, palm up. With a flash of jade light and a pop, his wicked scythe—all yellowed bone and gleaming black steel—appeared in his outstretched palm. He slammed the base of the scythe against the ground, and instantly three jade-green rifts opened in the floor, pulsing like giant oozing wounds as a pair of skeletons and an armor-clad Revenant Knight pulled themselves into existence.

“Hang on one more second,” Jo-Dan muttered, tracing a strange pattern against the floor with the butt of his weapon. Wherever the weapon touched, green light appeared, bleeding from the snow as though it were a living thing. In seconds, he completed the work, leaving a pulsing rune etched into the floor. Renewed power rushed into my body like a whirlwind, filling me with life, strength, and raw energy. Wow. Though I had some very pressing things on my mind—like a small army of howling, incoming maniacs—I couldn’t help but pull up my active effects:

<<<>>>

Buff Added

Necromantic Strength: Restore 250 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health Regen by 20. Base Strength increased by (10) points, base Vitality increased by (5) points, base Constitution Increased by (3) points. Base Damage increased by 35%. Duration, 5 minutes.

<<<>>>

Holy crap, that was one heck of a good buff spell—maybe it was time to recruit a competent Cleric. No, scratch that, it was well past time, but that was a concern for later. For now, there were things to kill, experience to gain, and loot to earn.

“You’re good,” Jo-Dan hollered, waving us on with his free hand. “I’ll keep you both alive, you two just take care of them.” He thrust his scythe toward the horde of Vogthar. He shot a look at his trio of minions, and though he said nothing, they immediately broke into a lumbering run, blundering toward the Vogthar.

“Cutter, keep behind us,” I called, immediately following after the three undead creatures. I wasn’t a tank by any stretch of the imagination—speed and agility were my best traits by far—but I could take a heck of a lot more damage than Cutter could. All of a sudden, I was sorely missing Forge, who was not only a proper tank but a competent one.

I pulled my warhammer free and briefly considered summoning Devil, but then dismissed the idea. These tunnels were narrow as hell—Devil would just get in the way and make it nearly impossible for anyone else to engage. But the Void Watchers could pull their weight. I flicked out a hand, releasing the shadowy power flowing through my body in a burst. An inky cloud filled the air as Nikko and her underlings, Kong and Mighty Joe, ripped their way through from the Shadowverse. They chittered and chattered, their purple eyes burning, their lips pulled back in snarls.

Jo-Dan’s undead minions crashed into the incoming Vogthar like a tsunami, momentarily halting their rush.

“Attack,” I shouted, jabbing one finger toward the horde. Nikko and her kin let out terrible shrieks, before vanishing from view in a puff of sooty smoke. The Void Watchers might not have had Devil’s size, strength, or raw damage-dealing potential, but they had some formidable gifts of their own. For one, because of Nikko’s Pack Animal ability, all three Void Watchers could be out at once, and, for another, the simian creatures could Shadow Stride, just like me, which made them wickedly challenging to kill.

The apes appeared an eyeblink later, exploding from the air and throwing themselves at the Vogthar, slashing at skin, digging their teeth into exposed necks, flailing wildly at noses and eyes. Sowing chaos in their wake as they danced among the creatures, disappearing and reappearing at will. Meanwhile, the skeletons lashed out with rusty swords, keeping the invaders at bay. I thrust one hand out, conjuring Umbra Bog in a blink: inky black tendrils erupted from the floor and walls, wrapping around arms and legs, further miring the monsters in place. And I was happy to see Umbra Bog completely ignored Jo-Dan’s undead warriors, since they were now friendlies.

Which meant I could use Night Cyclone without a worry.

I grinned like a little kid on Christmas morning and thrust my warhammer forward, triggering the new spell, which I’d been jonesing to use since I’d unlocked it. Arctic power—so cold it burned inside my chest like a volcano—exploded out from my center and raced down my arm like a bolt of lightning. The head of my warhammer glowed with preternatural purple light. The air above the Vogthar shimmered, bulged, and ripped, momentarily revealing a glimpse of some night-dark place filled with floating purple clouds and ginormous black twisters tearing across an endless desert of cracked yellow hardpan.

I’d never seen anything like it, but then the landscape vanished as one of those twisters rushed through the tear and into our plane, closing the rift behind it. The cyclone touched down in the midst of the Vogthar and went to town like a rampaging Godzilla.

Despite the Umbra Bog holding most of the Vogthar in place, the ferocious winds picked up more than a few of the creatures and hurled them into walls with bone-breaking force. Meanwhile, tendrils of black lashed out from the twister like living serpents. Whenever one of those shadowy tongues landed, there was a sharp thundercrack, a strong scent of ozone, and a flash of brilliant purple light as a Vogthar keeled over, eyes gone, burned from their skulls. Bolts of blue-black power also sprinted across the floor in the twister’s wake, doing significant damage to anything that managed to live through the initial touchdown.

Some part of me knew instinctively that I should’ve been in there, laying into the Vogthar with my hammer while they were bogged down and highly distracted by the rampaging death tornado carving a path through their formation. Intellectually, tactically, I knew that, but I could only stand there and watch in awe. The Night Cyclone was amazingly destructive, and the fact that its slapping winds, flailing shadow tentacles, and brutal lightning discharges completely ignored the skeletons and chimps was even more satisfying.

It wasn’t hard to see why this spell had a ten-minute cooldown timer—it cost a lot of Spirit, sure, but if a player could spam an attack like that, they’d be unstoppable.

I briefly wondered how drastically the gameplay would change once more players started reaching the higher levels and unlocking overpowered abilities like this.

I could only shake my head at the notion.

Finally, the cyclone dissipated and disappeared with a boom, vanishing back to whatever corner of the Shadowverse it’d come from. I scanned the field, noting the sheer devastation left behind. Though not all the Vogthar were dead, many of them were, and more lay on the ground, severely wounded or dying. Jo-Dan’s skeletons and my Void Watchers maneuvered through the crowd, mauling those still alive but too weak to fight back.

“Shite,” Cutter said, slapping me on the shoulder. “Now that’s the way to kill some bloody monsters, Jack. Let’s just have you do that from now on, I think. Save us all quite a lot of trouble.” He smirked and glanced around, hands planted firmly on his hips. “If this is all that’s waiting for us”—he nodded at the downed minions—“then maybe this won’t be so bad after all, eh?”

FOURTEEN_

Dungeon Dive

“Incoming, Jack!” Cutter called out, his voice slicing through the din of battle. I narrowly diverted a wicked axe head with my warhammer and wheeled around just in time to see a cannonball of blue ice careening toward me, courtesy of one of the Vogthar Ice-Lancers stationed throughout this place. I threw out a hand on instinct, ready to summon my Dark Shield spell, but I was half a beat too slow. Cold shadow power crept into my palm in the same instant the cannonball of ice smashed into my chest like a sledgehammer before exploding like a hand grenade.

Light filled my eyes, bits of razor-sharp ice shrapnel cut into my cheeks, and my HP bar dropped by over half. On top of that, the force of the blast lifted me from my feet, hurling me into a tunnel wall. My head snapped back, slamming against the unforgiving ice, and I crumpled to the floor, white pinpricks swimming across my vision, accompanied by a nasty combat debuff:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

Frostburn: You have sustained Frostburn damage! Movement rate reduced by 25%; duration, 2 minutes. 2 pts Burn Damage/sec; duration, 30 seconds.

<<<>>>

I just lay there for a moment, blinking away the stars as I pushed myself up onto my elbows. Maybe this won’t be so bad, that’s what Cutter had said. Rarely had Cutter been so massively wrong in his assessment of any situation. Sure, the Vogthar on the first couple of floors were pushovers that might’ve posed a challenge for travelers leveled twenty-five or below, but certainly not for our little group. Jo-Dan was only level seventeen, but dungeon levels didn’t translate well, and Cutter was thirty-six.

The lower levels of the Frozen Warrens, however, were clearly not for lowbies looking to grind out some easy EXP. The standard Vogthar gave way to powerful creatures with specific class specializations. There were thieves and tanks, healers and casters, summoners and archers. Every single Vogthar seemed to have a specialty—and the accompanying skills—which only reinforced the idea that these things were less like traditional dungeon monsters and more like a locked race, coming to the surface for the first time.

There was one interesting fact: all of the warriors in this dungeon had blue skin and seemed to favor ice-based attacks.

“Don’t worry, Jack,” Jo-Dan shouted over the fray. “I’ve got you covered.” Suddenly, a column of pale green light burst from the floor, lifting me back to my feet as Necrotic energy seeped into my body, knitting together lacerated skin and wiping me of the costly debuffs while simultaneously boosting my HP back up to three quarters.

As the light faded, I fished out a Health Regen potion and downed it, topping off my life. “Thanks,” I said, shooting Jo-Dan a nod and a finger gun, then tossing the bottle aside and turning my full attention back to the battle at hand. Everything was a mess. We were in a large, natural cavern, the floor covered in snow heavily stained with blood; giant frozen stalagmites protruded from the floor while formidable stalactites hung from the ceiling above like vicious teeth.

There were Vogthar corpses everywhere, some missing limbs, others missing heads, a few impaled by spits of ice. But there were still a fistful more to fight. The initial wave of cannon-fodder troops had absorbed my Night Cyclone, leaving me with a long cooldown and all the heavy hitters unaffected. What remained were three huge, beefy warriors—eight feet tall in plate mail so heavy I couldn’t even put it in my inventory without becoming over-encumbered—and casters. Almost a half-dozen casters in total, ranging from summoners to ice-lancers.

Cutter danced and weaved among the warriors, dealing out pitifully ineffective wounds while dodging death-dealing power attacks. Jo-Dan’s skeletal troops were busy battling with a trio of frozen yeti-like creatures, conjured forth by a Vogthar caster in deep blue robes. Meanwhile, my chimps were harassing the crap out of the rest of the casters, popping into existence just long enough to disrupt spells, then disappearing in blinding puffs of sooty smoke. We were winning, but it was a near thing.

I threw my left hand out, unleashing a barrage of Umbra Bolts at the casters toward the back of the room. A few of the bolts landed hard, knocking off HP with every hit. None of them were affected by confusion, but that was okay. I wasn’t trying to hurt them. I was trying to distract them. A heartbeat later, a wall of flickering blue shields popped up, rendering my Umbra Bolts useless. Exactly according to plan. As long as they were casting defensive spells, they weren’t hurling offensive spells. With the shields in place, I ceased my attack and triggered Shadow Stride, slipping into the Shadowverse with a step.

I quickly edged my way around the dead bodies, past Cutter—frozen mid-leap, a hail of conjured black blades leaving his palm—and over to the Ice-Lancer, who had so kindly blasted me into the wall. She was willowy thin and wore white robes with a stole of silver fur draped around her shoulders. Her spell shield was up and blazing, but most conjured barriers were directional, which meant she was safe from the front, but open to attack in the back. I stepped through the shield and the caster, appearing behind her.

I brought up my weapon, flipped it around, spike out, and stepped from the Shadowverse, swinging my hammer with every ounce of strength I could muster—putting my whole body into the attack. The spike slammed into her unprotected temple, and her eyes rolled back into her head as her body convulsed and toppled, Critical Hit flashing above her. That, at least, was one of the good things about these folks. The casters hit hard, but, so far, they were all glass cannons, highly susceptible to good ol’-fashioned physical attacks.

“Behind us!” one of the Vogthar casters shrieked, dropping his shield and spinning around, his staff outthrust.

He wasn’t even close to fast enough, however. I ducked the sloppy attack and darted forward, thrusting the top of my spike into his exposed throat; his HP sunk like a rock, though not quite enough to one-shot him. He sputtered in shock as I pulled the spike free, one hand groping uselessly at his neck. I swung the hammer again, but before I could strike, Mighty Joe appeared in a flash, digging his formidable claws into the man’s eyes, dragging him to the ground with a ferocious screech.

I sidestepped another incoming blow—this one from a cudgel burning with cerulean power—twirled my hammer again, and slammed it into the exposed kneecap of a nearby warlock. The creature went down with a scream, dropping his weapon as he grabbed his busted leg. One more follow-up strike put him down for good. I pulled my weapon free and stood, breathing hard from the fight and the Stamina loss. Nikko slammed a furry shoulder into my side, knocking me to the ground just as a barrage of deadly ice spears, each as big around as my wrist, sailed through the space I’d been in a moment before.

The impact jarred my shoulder, sending a brief flash of pain sprinting through my body, there then gone.

I scrambled back to my feet, shooting a glance over my shoulder as I moved.

My heart froze in my chest. Nikko wobbled drunkenly not far away, a pair of glimmering ice spears protruding from her chest while dark sludgy blood ran down her front, matting her fur. She toppled over, her body hitting the floor with a wet thud, followed up by a flare of inky smoke as she disappeared, vanishing back to the Shadowverse for respawn. A pair of howls ripped through the air as Mighty Joe and Kong were pulled back from the Material Realm.

Without Nikko and her Pack Animal ability in play, both creatures weren’t allowed to be in the Material Plane at the same time.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” I shouted, unleashing a gout of Umbra Flame the size of a telephone pole. The Vogthar yowled, hands beating at his skin and robes as purple flames crawled over his body like a swarm of ants. He toppled a second later, rolling madly on the ground, trying to extinguish himself, but failing miserably as I continued to pump more and more fire from my outstretched hand. After a few seconds he finally stopped moving. And just in time, too. My Spirit bar flickered and hit zero, the Umbra Flame vanishing as though someone had abruptly turned off a fire hose.

The two remaining casters were already breaking for cover, retreating down a hallway that ended at a heavy steel door with a meaty lock set into the surface. “Not on my watch,” I growled, downing a Spirit Regen potion, then casting Umbra Bog—the cooldown timer had finally expired—which stopped the pair dead in their tracks, held in place by merciless tentacles of shadow. They fought and thrashed at the sticky strands, but nothing they did worked, and in three long strides, I closed the distance.

With a guttural yell, I swung my hammer at a woman in black plate mail. She had a mace in one hand and a stout wooden buckler strapped to her opposite forearm—probably some sort of priestess class. She raised the buckler in defense, so I triggered my Crush Armor ability as the strike landed. Crush Armor was a Blunt Weapon specialty attack, which cost 100 Stamina to perform but added a whopping 250% attack bonus against opponents in heavy plate armor. Opponents exactly like the Vogthar Cleric in front of me.

The buckler cracked from the fury of the attack and so did the caster’s arm; her forearm folded in two at an unnatural angle. I twirled and swung again, finishing the Priestess with a Savage Blow and a Black Caress, sapping her little remaining life before moving on and one-shotting the final caster with my hammer. Some part of me wanted to take a breather, to pause long enough to loot the bodies, but Cutter and Jo-Dan were still out there, along with some awfully tough tanks. I swung the hammer up and rested it against my shoulder as I wheeled around, sprinted back down the hallway, and burst into the cavern.

Two of the three tanks were dead along with the summoned yetis, but the last warrior was a real big bruiser with muscles on top of his other muscles, and he was working Cutter over like a professional boxer. The thief was bruised, bloody, and beaten, and only Jo-Dan’s continued healing buffs seemed to be keeping the scrappy thief upright and moving.

But things were looking grim.

The oversized brute lunged, blasting Cutter right in the gut with a powerhouse front kick. The thief let out a wheeze as he doubled over clutching his stomach, struggling to breathe. The Vogthar raised a colossal two-handed sword, big enough to slice Cutter in two vertically, high overhead, preparing for the killing strike. For a second, time seemed to grind to a halt, but this wasn’t the effects of Shadow Stride. No, it was the effect of white-knuckled panic invading my system like a plague of Biblical locust. No, no, no. Cutter couldn’t die like this—killed by a dumb, sword-wielding moron in some meaningless dungeon.

I couldn’t allow that to happen.

Wouldn’t allow it.

I reached out to the raw power lingering inside of me, preparing to slip into the Shadowverse, but before I could make my move Jo-Dan appeared in a flash of green light, looming nine feet tall. Somehow, the boss had shot up a solid three feet, and his scythe had grown to match. The enormous sickle-bladed weapon—even larger than the Vogthar’s sword—whipped through the air with unnatural speed, slamming into the creature’s chest, cleanly punching through the front of heavy plate armor, before erupting out the back.

In an incredible display of sheer strength, Jo-Dan lifted the Vogthar into the air using only his weapon. The creature dangled there, legs kicking wildly as dark, sickly blood frothed from his blue-tinged lips, and his HP bar plunged toward zero. Before the creature’s HP hit bottom, however, Jo-Dan’s free hand smashed into the Vogthar’s chest, and somehow phased through the armor and flesh, emerging on the other side … Clutched in his oversized gauntleted hand was a spectral image of the beefy monster. His soul. The Vogthar’s eyes immediately glazed over, his mouth dropping open in death.

Jo-Dan shook the body free from the tip of his weapon, letting it plop to the floor beside Cutter in a heap, then gently set the soul down. A new tag flashed over the ghostly Vogthar’s head: [Enslaved Phantasm].

“Holy crap that was awesome,” I said, hustling over to Cutter, but never taking my eyes off the new minion. I extended the thief my hand, pulling him to his feet. “Why haven’t you been doing that for the last hour?” I asked with a cocked eyebrow, glancing between the looming dungeon boss and the newly minted ghost.

Jo-Dan shrugged and shuffled uncertainly from foot to foot. “I have some pretty wicked abilities, but some of the big spells take a lot out of me, and I replenish much more slowly away from my dungeon. All my major abilities have cooldown timers, and this far away, those timers increase by about ten-fold, not to mention they cost about three times more Dark Energy to cast. And unlike you guys, I don’t have quick, convenient Regen potions. I’ve got to replenish au naturel.”

“Well thanks,” Cutter said, dusting his hands off. “You saved my arse there, so I appreciate the effort. Now …” He paused, folded his arms, and surveyed the room. “Let’s clear this room and get our heads on straight because I’m pretty sure that right there”—he nodded toward the hallway blocked off by the steel door—“is the entrance to the Boss Room. And me? Well, I’m damned ready to get the hell away from this shitehole and back to somewhere with a little warmth.”

FIFTEEN_

Black Conclave

I recast Night Armor, frigid power rushing from my center in a soft whoosh as shimmering ribbons of shadow wrapped around me like a second skin, encasing me in a violet protective aura. Next, I triggered Shadow Forge: a wash of purple light momentarily enveloped my team as the active aura took hold, increasing critical hit chance and temporarily imbuing their weapons with extra Shadow Damage. Then—just to be safe—I popped a Spirit Regen potion and killed the thing in two long gulps. I was as ready as I could get.

“You guys ready for this?” I asked, approaching the steel double doors, etched with runes, and secured with a hefty lock. I pulled a silver key from my bag—taken off a Vogthar corpse—my hand trembling minutely. If I had to guess, I’d say the only thing that could be beyond that door was a Black Priest of Serth-Rog and a bunch of demonic minions, and I was genuinely concerned about the fight. I’d tangled with Serth-Rog’s priests a couple of times before, and they were tough fights, one and all.

“I’m ready for mead and a warm bed,” Cutter replied with a nod and a flourish of his twin daggers. “Let’s do this.”

“I’ve got your back,” Jo-Dan said, his fingers flexing around the haft of the scythe.

I nodded and gulped, feeling a flutter of panic in my gut as I slipped the silver key into the thick lock and gave it a turn. The lock groaned and creaked, then popped open with a soft hiss. I pressed my fingers against the cold steel and gave the doors a firm shove—they swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges, offering us an unobstructed glimpse into the room beyond. The walls were blue ice, the floor covered in a blanket of hard-packed snow; sooty orange firelight filled the air, courtesy of torches lining the room at regularly spaced intervals.

A sense of déjà vu washed through me.

Despite all the snow and ice, this room looked remarkably similar to the dungeon Cutter and I had confronted Gentleman Georgie in, right before taking Rowanheath from Carrera. Hulking iron cages, gleaming with a sheen of white hoarfrost, occupied one wall, housing a handful of Wode prisoners, nearly naked and shivering from the intense cold. A series of rough wooden tables lined another wall. Some of those tables held tools, built solely for torture—hammers, blood-crusted knives, pliers, needles, and sutures—while other tables held bodies.

Well, corpses, more accurately, since none of them were alive.

Those bodies seemed to stare at us with glassy gazes filled with warning: Run. Flee. Go, before it’s too late and you end up like us.

But we couldn’t run, not now. We’d come too far, and had far too many questions that desperately needed answers.

What were these freaks up to? Why were they abducting people? Why take over these dungeons? What was the end game here?

I put the prisoners from mind, turning my attention on the other occupants of the room—the ones that wanted to kill us horribly.

A Wode with broad shoulders, braided yellow hair, and a scruffy beard stood fifteen feet away from us, his hands resting on a knobby black staff. He sported dark robes cinched at the waist with a length of frayed rope. A strange blood-red symbol, which I’d seen several times before, stood out on his chest: a crudely drawn eye, surrounded by flames. That had to be the Black Priest. There was also a squad of basic Vogthar troops—ten deep—milling around in an open alcove to the left.

In the very center of the room were a handful of mean-looking Vogthar acolytes in heavy plate mail. They slowly paced around a circular symbol—all sharp script and jagged lines—twenty feet in diameter, which had been painted onto the floor with blood. Floating above the summoning circle was an enormous shimmering portal, shifting from emerald to cerulean, then back again. I’d never seen a portal that big, not even at the Mystica Ordo in Rowanheath.

I mean, the thing was big enough to drive a dump truck through.

The Priest and the cannon-fodder Vogthar in the alcove noticed our intrusion, but the acolytes ignored us entirely. They kept pacing, eyes fixed on the portal while chanting in some ancient, unknown tongue, their hands making precise, well-rehearsed gestures: wrists flicking, fingers dancing, limbs swaying rhythmically to some unheard melody. Powerful magic—obsidian and angry—swirled around them in a thick cloud, while tendrils of greasy energy wafted out, feeding the portal with noxious life.

No doubt, they were calling up some Lovecraftian horror show from the darkest regions of Serth-Rog’s realm, Morsheim. Maybe even a new dungeon boss to stand guard over the Frozen Warrens.

“Welcome, interlopers,” the Wode priest said, dipping his head in a sign of respect. “We’ve been closely monitoring your progress. You’ve battled bravely, boldly—dispatching even our most elite troops—but you’re too late to change anything. As you can see, we are in the final stages of calling forth one of the Dread Lords of Morsheim, and permanently converting this dungeon to our cause. Once the ritual is complete, nothing you can do will restore this place. But”—he paused, folding his hands behind his back as he eyed us—“we need not fight at all.”

“Your display of strength marks you as kindred souls,” he continued. “Kindred souls who might do well in the ranks of the Uzrearal—the unstoppable army of Serth-Rog and the dread god Thanatos, whom we serve. For the past year, our kind has been working in the shadows and on the fringes of Eldgard, quietly subverting and infiltrating, but soon—so very, very, very soon—that phase will come to an end. We will move from the shadows and into the light of day.” He paused, brow furrowed, a small smile breaking across his lips.

“We shall take over the cities of men,” he said softly, his gaze hazy and distant, seeing some grand vision no one else could. “We shall wage war on behalf of our ruler and our god. We shall reclaim that which is ours by right, and those who seek to stop us will fall. Will die.” The sly smile grew larger, though it never quite reached his eyes. “They will die a death from which there is no return.” He paced a few steps, his dark robes swishing around his legs. “Serth-Rog is willing to accept acolytes unto himself, however. Convert or die. These are the options on the table.”

“Gee, how generous of you,” I replied, edging forward, positioning myself between the Priest and my teammates.

“Generous indeed,” the Priest replied, obviously unfamiliar with sarcasm. “Should you but kneel, pledge your allegiance to my masters, and prove your loyalty by an act of obedience, you needn’t die. Instead, you can be reforged, rebranded, and reborn into the ranks of the Vogthar—just as I was. You see, unlike so many of those taken by force, and against their will, I am a willing convert, and honored among the Vogthar. And such power can be yours, too. Just submit.”

“And what exactly would you require us to do, eh?” Cutter asked with a sneer. “What’s this act of obedience?”

“A simple thing,” the priest replied with a shrug. “You have a sojourner among you who does not belong.” He thrust an accusatory finger toward Jo-Dan. “Turn this one over to us for forced conversion, and we will embrace you both with open arms. And do not think the conversion is only a matter of title change. No, there are many perks given to willing followers of Serth-Rog. An alignment change. Your class will be modified—tweaked—and a new skill tree opened to you. You’ll also be given the finest gear available and great renown among the Vogthar.”

Surprisingly, a quest popup appeared in front of me:

<<<>>>

Quest Alert: Dark Convert

A black priest of Serth-Rog and the dread god Thanatos has offered you an opportunity to flee the world of men and willingly join the ranks of the Vogthar. You must renounce your current alignment and all faction ties, but will, in turn, be granted a new alignment, inducted into the ranks of the Uzrearal—the unstoppable army of Morsheim—and given a class alteration, opening up a new skill tree.

Quest Class: Rare, General

Quest Difficulty: Moderate

Success: Renounce all old allegiances and swear allegiance to Serth-Rog, lord of Morsheim.

Failure: Refuse to renounce all old allegiances and swear fealty to Serth-Rog, lord of Morsheim.

Reward: Class Alteration; Alignment change: evil; New Skill Tree Unlock: Vogthar Acolyte; Unique, Vogthar Armor Set; 15,000 EXP

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I stared at the quest alert, confused, even thunderstruck, then glanced over at Cutter—his eyes were slightly unfocused, which made me think he was reading the same message. All of a sudden, this situation went from mildly baffling to utterly mystifying. Not only were these Black Priests replacing people and invading dungeons, but they were also offering both players and NPCs a chance to change teams. None of this made sense. Not a lick.

“So, what say you?” the priest barked as I closed out from the screen with a flick of one wrist. “Why fight when resistance is pointless? Especially when you can align yourself with the victors before the true conflict even begins?”

“And all we need to do is pledge our hearts to an insane godling of destruction, and give up our friend for you to torture.” Cutter leaned over and spit onto the ground. “I say go bugger yourself, mate.”

“I couldn’t say it better myself,” I yelled, charging forward before the priest could respond, barreling into him with my shoulder. He stumbled back from the blow, one hand whipping through the air, summoning a warhammer made of ice and glass.

“Jo-Dan, you take out the goons,” I yelled. “Cutter, kill the acolytes, I’ll handle the Black Pr—” The warhammer flashed toward my head, cutting my words short as I scrambled back and parried the blow with a swipe of my weapon. A clang resounded in the air, accompanied by a flash of brilliant blue sparks.

I bolted left, then lunged in, lashing out with a knee that caught the priest in the ribs. He grunted, teeth pulled back in a snarl, then uttered a word of power. Crackling black lightning exploded from his fingertips, arcing toward me. I exhaled, releasing a burst of pent-up Umbra power, and slipped into the Shadowverse an instant before the lightning could fry me in my boots. Everything stopped, calm and silence invading the world as I stepped away from the path of the spell.

I utilized the moment of stillness to calculate and come up with a game plan.

Jo-Dan and his Enslaved Phantasm minion were already shredding the lowly Vogthar underlings like a lawnmower cruising through high grass. The damage was impressive: Bodies lay scattered across the floor. Blood hung in the air like a red mist. One Vogthar was trying to flee—the Phantasm in hot pursuit—while another dangled in the air, suspended by Jo-Dan’s scythe, planted right in his belly.

And Cutter was doing an admirable job of throwing a monkey wrench into the summoning ritual. True, three of the Vogthar acolytes were still methodically chanting, finishing their work, but the fourth was severely wounded—clutching at a deep gash running across his belly. The Black Priest was deadly, but I really needed to stop those three priests from completing their ritual, which meant I needed backup ASAP.

Nikko wouldn’t respawn for another seven hours or so, which meant I could only summon one Void Terror from the Shadowverse. But this room was large enough to accommodate Devil, and now wasn’t the time to hold back.

I slipped behind one of the tables and dropped into a crouch, activating Stealth as I stepped back into the Material Realm. The clash of blades fell on my ears as time resumed with a lurch. The Black Priest’s black lightning zipped through the space I’d been a moment before, failing to find a mark, while I cast Umbra Bog beneath his feet. The snowy ground gave way to pools of black shadow and reaching tendrils of Umbra, which wrapped the Priest up tighter than a straitjacket.

I called Devil forth with a surge of energy and a whisper of will. The black-scaled Drake materialized like an angry specter, smoke oozing from his nostrils, violet flame flickering between his teeth as his purple eyes narrowed in anger. Take out the Black Priest, I sent, nodding at the Wode mired by my spell. Kill him with extreme prejudice.

I’ll feast on his bones, Devil sent, the voice in my head somber and grave.

In a flash, the Drake threw his mouth wide and let loose a ground-shaking roar, before charging forward like a freight train of scale, muscle, and fangs. The priest screamed in defiance, unleashing another round of black lightning, which slapped against Devil’s hide, chewing into his hefty HP but doing nothing to halt the deadly charge. Devil swept his head left, then swung it right, using his spike-studded head like a giant sledgehammer.

Devil’s skull slammed into the priest’s chest, and the man crumpled to the floor, his legs refusing to support him, though he still had over half his HP left. But even down and broken, the priest continued to fight, flailing uselessly with his conjured warhammer while blasting Devil in the snout with more lightning bolts. The Drake ignored the pain and the damage, opening his mouth and vomiting a column of flame onto the Wode from three feet away. The Priest screamed and shrieked as his skin sloughed away and the snow around him melted, revealing the rocky cavern floor beneath.

The scent of burned meat drifted to my nose, and I couldn’t stand to look for a second longer. Devil would finish the job, I told myself. That was the important thing to remember.

I pushed the screams away and turned toward the priests chanting near the portal. Time to put an end to that, and I had just the trick.

I thrust my warhammer forward and called up Night Cyclone, aiming the deadly AoE at the portal itself, hoping to catch the three remaining acolytes in the spell. My Spirit bar plunged, bottoming out just before zero, and the air split open like a rotten melon. The chanting briefly ceased as a black cyclone tore its way through the rift, invading the room, slamming into two of the three Vogthar acolytes. The tornado picked up one Vogthar like an unruly child and pitched him into a nearby cage like a fastball.

The ritualist hit the steel bars with a resounding clang, the force of the impact bending the bars noticeably inward. He dropped to the ground, back broken, limbs akimbo.

The other chanting acolytes managed to stand their ground, but the cyclone had a little something for them as well: bolts of deadly shadow lightning, which dealt devastating damage. Cutter disappeared from view, only to reappear a moment later as he slammed both his daggers hilt-deep into a Vogthar skull. Down the ritualist went, mouth slack, a thin trail of blood leaking down his forehead. Only one acolyte remained, and though he was hurt—his HP bar strobing a vivid, angry red—he was alive.

Alive and intoning the words of the diabolic ceremony.

Not for long, though. Cutter pulled his daggers and spun, unleashing a fan of smoky blades, but Devil beat him to the punch. Just before the conjured knives landed, the Drake raced into view, his mouth enveloping the Vogthar’s head, his jaws clamping down with a meaty thud. And just like that, the acolytes were gone. All of them. Dead. I grinned, feeling a sharp burst of self-confidence at how well we’d handled the encounter. And here I’d been worried.

“Jack,” Cutter said, his voice slicing through the victory haze filling my head. “We’ve got a problem here.” He hooked a thumb toward the portal, and the grin slid from my face. We’d killed the Black Priest and the acolytes, but apparently, we hadn’t been quick enough. Not quite. The enormous portal was no longer a shifting sheet of emerald light. Now it was an opalescent semitranslucent screen, and I could see the horror waiting for us on the other side.

SIXTEEN_

Gate Hound

Beyond the opalescent portal lay a gloomy cave of dark stone, the walls weathered and worn from age. The cave seemed relatively shallow, and it wasn’t hard to see the desolate rolling hills through the nearby entrance. Those hills were covered in ashy pale dirt, dotted with patches of withered scrub grass coated with frost, and filled with stunted bone-white trees clawing at the sky like decaying corpse fingers. Not exactly a warm, friendly, inviting place.

Off in the distance, marring the horizon, were colossal twisted spires, which reached up toward a star-studded sky the color of a fading bruise.

A city.

A giant one, easily the rival to Rowanheath or even the beautiful crystalline metropolis of Ankara located deep in the heart of the Barren Sands. But this place didn’t have the vitality or functionality of Rowanheath, nor did it have the artistic majesty of Ankara. No, this was a hellish city, one handcrafted for monsters and walking nightmares.

That had to be Morsheim. Had to.

And on the rolling plains outside the city were Vogthar, an endless sea of them, ready and waiting for some cue only they knew. There were also other monstrous creatures I’d never seen before. Hordes of them: Huge beasts of ice and fire. Winged Drakes to rival Devil. Enormous cyclopes clad in furs. Dread bears as large as African elephants. And one of those monstrous creatures was stomping from the plains directly toward us, moving with an uncanny speed given its massive size. Nothing so big should be able to move so quickly.

I shuffled back, a nervous sheen of sweat breaking out on my forehead.

And here I’d been so confident of our victory.

The creature was an impossibly large hound, fifteen feet tall, ten feet wide, its body built of solid snow dotted with barbs of gleaming razor-honed ice. This thing made Devil look small and timid. It had a T. rex-sized noggin with blue ice chips for eyes and jaws big enough to swallow me whole. Black metal plates, adorned with foot-long spikes, protected its shoulders and ran along its back. Honestly, the thing looked like a cross between a M1A1 tank and something out of one of those old Mad Max films.

“Jo-Dan, is there any way to shut this thing down?” I hollered, stealing a wild look at the dungeon boss, then back at the enormous encroaching hound. “The sooner, the better,” I finished, slipping a Spirit Regen potion from my belt—I’d need to hit Vlad up and restock when we got back to Ravenkirk. Assuming we got back to Ravenkirk without dying a brutal, ugly death.

“On it,” Jo-Dan squawked, scrambling over to the portal.

He skidded to a stop and dropped to a knee, his eyeless gaze scanning the summoning circle painted onto the floor. Carefully—almost uncertainly—he reached out a gauntleted hand, tracing his fingertips along the runes inside the binding. “There,” he muttered, tapping a symbol that resembled an upside down “A” with a curlicue attached to one of the legs. “That might do it.” He pressed his hand flat against the mark, and a brilliant emerald light began to bleed from his palm, spreading like a plague along the rest of the runes and lines.

Consuming them, even as the creature thundered closer and closer.

This is fine, I assured myself. Jo-Dan would shut this thing down, we’d collect our loot, find a few clues, then beat feet back to the surface. No muss, no fuss.

“Crap,” Jo-Dan said as the light waned and crawled to a halt halfway around the circle. “It’s not working,” he screamed over one shoulder. “The portal is set.” He ripped his hand away, clutching it to his chest as though the dark magic decorating the floor had burned him. “We’re too late.” He inched away from the portal. “They’ve converted the dungeon. Whatever was here before … it’s gone now, and that”—he nodded toward the creature closing in—“is the new boss. This place belongs to him now. To him and the Vogthar.”

A tag appeared over the monster’s head as it shoved and shimmied its frame through the portal, which was almost too small to accommodate its significant bulk.

[Arctic Gate Hound]

“Everybody back,” I shouted, mind racing a million miles a second. Chances were, we could beat this creature, but it looked tougher than a platoon of Recon Marines, and there was a good chance we’d pay big for the win. Better to retreat, regroup, and come back in with a real game plan if we could. “Okay,” I barked. “Let’s get gone, now—I think he’s too big to follow through the entryway.” I spun, offering my back to the demon hound, but faltered when I saw the beefy steel doors were shut tight and locked with no discernible way to open them. Whoa boy. “Cutter, see if you can get those doors open.”

“No! Please,” a Murk Elf woman called out from one of the cages lining the wall, her hand outstretched through the bars. Most of the prisoners were curled into tight balls and passed out, likely from a combination of cold and malnutrition. But not her. She was older, her face worn and haggard, her graying hair frazzled, her arms and legs frighteningly thin. “Please, you can’t just leave us here. You can’t! That thing will kill us all.” Tears rolled down her cheeks, carving lines through the grime on her face. “You don’t know what it’s like in here—what they’ve done to us.”

My steps faltered.

I could understand what it was like in there. I’d started off V.G.O. in a cage nearly identical to that one, and if it hadn’t been for Cutter, a little luck, and some quick thinking, I could’ve ended up on one of those grisly tables, hacked to pieces as a science experiment. Suddenly, I knew retreat wasn’t an option—not unless we could get those prisoners out first. I couldn’t leave them here like this. No doubt they were NPCs, probably spawned just for this encounter, but that didn’t matter.

I stole a look at Cutter, who was crouched down in front of the steel doors, tinkering away at the lock with a set of matte-black picks. That guy was lazy, selfish, and a world-class jerk nine times out of ten, but he was also my friend and an NPC.

He was as real as the folks in those cages. If I couldn’t leave him for dead, I couldn’t leave them either.

“Don’t worry,” I shouted, nodding at the woman. “We won’t leave you. Cutter, keep working on those locks! Jo-Dan, see if you can’t get these cages open, and tell your minion to find a back way out if there is one. And Devil”—I spun, staring at the Drake, my jaw clenched—“you’re on standby. If that thing gets through, hit it with everything you have and then some.”

Everyone broke into manic motion, hustling to obey my orders, except Devil, who just hunkered down, plumes of smoke drifting from his nostrils. Finally, a worthy foe, he sent, sounding oddly happy. Let there be blood. Oceans of it.

I dashed toward a nearby wooden table covered in saws and pliers, needles and hammers, and promptly upended the thing, sending the torture tools into the snow nearby. With a grunt, I lifted the table and hustled over to the cages, propping it on its side in front of the prisoners. The rough wood wouldn’t offer much protection against something like that Gate Hound, but anything was better than nothing. Jo-Dan was nearby, wrestling with the lock on the cage with the Murk Elf woman.

“Stand back,” the dungeon boss commanded, his characteristically warm voice suddenly cold and distant. The Murk Elf woman scooted away as Jo-Dan grasped the bars in both hands and pulled, his arms shaking under the strain. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the thick bars groaned and gave way, bowing outward until there was a narrow gap, just wide enough for the prisoner to slip through. I whistled silently under my breath—now that was strong. No doubt being a dungeon boss had a lot of drawbacks, but obviously, it had more than a few perks, too.

The ground quivered and trembled, drawing my attention away from the cages as the Gate Hound fully emerged from the portal. For a moment, everyone just stared slack-jawed at the beast in a combination of trepidation and awe. Crap, it was huge. There went our chance to escape. Now the only option left on the table was to beat this ugly thing into meat paste. “Keep working,” I said, slapping Jo-Dan on the shoulder before sprinting toward the creature with my warhammer raised.

Devil was even quicker, though. He hurled his serpentine body forward, slamming into the Hound’s side like a Mack Truck.

A hit like that would’ve broken every bone in my body, and it probably would’ve one-shotted any lesser player. The Hound, however, didn’t even budge. Not an inch. Worse, Devil bounced harmlessly away like a toddler running into a brick wall head-on. Then, before he could regroup, the Hound lifted its blocky head skyward and howled, the sound more like the roar of a hurricane than an animal’s cry. The sonic attack slapped against me, shaving off a fraction of my HP and dumping a debuff on top of my head before the battle had even properly begun:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Paralyzing Fear: You are temporarily immobilized by fear! You cannot move or cast spells. Duration, 1 minute.

Frostburn: You have sustained Frostburn damage! Movement rate reduced by 25%; duration, 2 minutes. 2 pts Burn Damage/sec; duration, 30 seconds.

<<<>>>

I quickly scanned the message. Perfect, just what I needed, three seconds into a fight. That was bad, bad news, but then another combat notification appeared hard on the heels of the first:

<<<>>>

You resisted Paralyzing Fear! All Maa-Tál are immune to Morale Failure and Fear-based debuffs!

<<<>>>

A small silver lining. I glanced back at Jo-Dan, who seemed to be unaffected by the Paralyzing Fear, but Cutter and the caged prisoners were as stiff and unmoving as bronze statues. The strange attack had also knocked Devil back ten feet or so, and though the Drake wasn’t paralyzed, he reeled and wobbled, his health already down below three-quarters.

“Get Cutter to someplace safe until the paralysis wears off,” I called over my shoulder to Jo-Dan, before turning my full attention back on the formidable Gate Hound padding toward me with three giant sets of teeth bared. “You want a piece of me,” I snarled, ensuring the creature was focused entirely on me, “then come and get some.” I thrust my left hand out, fingers splayed. Umbra Flame exploded from my palm in a torrent, splashing against the creature’s snout, chipping away HP a fraction of a point at a time.

A paw, bigger than a sewer lid, flashed out through the blaze, razor-sharp claws coming straight for me. I let the fire die and threw myself into a lightning-fast front roll; the paw sailed right over me as I came up inside the creature’s guard. Its head shot in, mouth yawning wide, revealing a spike-lined gullet. I juked right, narrowly avoiding the chomping fangs. The monster was huge and powerful, but I was just too fast and nimble. I bolted right and lashed out with my warhammer, throwing my whole body into the attack and triggering Savage Blow, Crush Armor, and Black Caress all at once.

My weapon smacked into the side of its jaw with a burst of violet shadow energy. Snow and ice exploded outward as the colossal beast staggered, fighting for its balance. I didn’t give the Gate Hound a chance to recover, though. Instead, I relentlessly pressed my advantage, swinging the hammer around in a tight arc, bringing it into the underside of the beast’s chin, cutting away another fraction of the Hound’s HP. Feeling cocky, I lunged in, jabbing with the spike on top of my hammer.

That, unfortunately, was a crucial mistake.

The Hound wheeled around with incredible speed, driving an armor-covered shoulder into my chest. The blow knocked the wind from my lungs and took off another sizeable chunk of HP, but before the Hound could follow up and eviscerate me with his oversized teeth and tearing claws, Devil leaped onto his back, sinking his talons into the rigid metal, then wrapping his spike-covered tail around the Hound’s waist. The boss bucked, swayed, and rampaged like a rodeo bull desperate to throw a pesky rider, but Devil refused to budge.

Instead, the Drake arched his neck, stretched his jaws, and began pouring fire down on top of the Hound’s unprotected head—a shower of purple flame.

I grinned and pumped my fist.

Devil might’ve been a bloodthirsty murder-machine, but damned if he wasn’t my bloodthirsty murder-machine. From that proximity, the flames were devastatingly effective, a fact the Hound seemed to realize quickly. Instead of continuing its frenzied, but ineffectual, bucking, the creature lowered its head and charged the wall at full speed. The move was abrupt, and Devil couldn’t manage to get free before the Hound pitched forward and slammed its armored back into the icy cavern wall. The whole room shook from the impact, snow and ice chips raining down from overhead as the ground quivered.

The brutal, kamikaze attack hurt the Hound—his HP bar dropping perceptibly—but Devil absorbed the brunt of the damage. The beast backed away from the wall, shaking his whole body like a dog shedding water, and Devil simply fell, flopping to the floor. His wings were shredded from the icy protrusions decorating the cavern walls, and one of his back legs jutted out like a hitchhiker’s thumb, clearly broken. Honestly, he looked like a wet towel someone had half-wrung out and tossed into the dirty laundry.

It hurt just to look at Devil, and his HP loitered just above fifteen percent.

Should I recall you? I sent while padding forward.

Never, the Drake snarled in my head. Then, as though to prove a point, Devil pushed himself up on his front legs and pulled himself toward the Hound, dragging his crippled lower half through the snow like excess baggage. It was hard to watch, but if Devil wanted to finish this fight, I wasn’t about to stop him—not if I wanted to keep his goodwill, and I did. But he didn’t need to fight alone. I threw one hand forward, conjuring Umbra Bog with a whisper of will. Black tendrils of power exploded upward from the trampled and bloody snow, ensnaring the tremendous Hound.

The Hound glanced down, his lips pulled back in a vicious sneer as he pulled and fought at the strands of inky, semi-sentient goop. The tendrils seemed hard-pressed to hold him, and probably wouldn’t last for long, but for a second we had a window. Range attack, I sent to Devil while my free hand flew through the complicated gestures for Plague Burst. Light him up like a bonfire. Devil dipped his head in reply—even that effort looked painful—then unleashed a purple blaze to rival the sun.

The Hound yowled in pain, thrashing manically, but before it could break free of the Umbra Bog’s tenuous hold, toxic yellow mist erupted from the air all around it. The noxious poison clawed at the creature, seeping into its skin, invading its lungs, and eating through the creature’s HP while simultaneously chewing through my Spirit like a hungry bear. I circled left, drawing closer to the beast—though keeping just outside Plague Burst’s range—while lobbing Umbra Bolt after Umbra Bolt into the Hound’s hideous, charbroiled face.

I downed my last Spirit Regen potion as the toxic cloud tapered off and dissipated, then quickly bolted forward before the boss had a chance to recover fully. While the beast was still reeling and wobbling from the poison attack—its life leaking slowly away as the Plague debuff worked—I slammed my hammer into its knee with devastating force, triggering Savage Blow. Ice cracked like a gunshot, and a Critical Hit flashed. In a blink, its health dropped below fifty percent, which naturally triggered a new attack.

The Hound reared up on its hind legs, offering the whole room a glimpse of its belly, which is when I saw a glaring weakness.

Most of its body was tight-packed snow or hard blue ice, and its belly was no different—except in one small area, right near its heart. A patch of the rocky ice, which served as its armor, had fallen away, revealing a nearly translucent membrane, covering a pink, beating heart. Bingo. I grinned and hurled one hand forward, an Umbra Bolt forming in my palm. But then the Hound was falling, his giant paws driving toward the earth like an asteroid punching through the atmosphere.

And I was standing at ground zero.

I backpedaled like mad, desperate to get away. The Hound’s paws hit a second later, and the whole world shook as a shock wave spread out in a circle, kicking snow into the air while simultaneously knocking me from my feet and biting off a quarter of my life. I hit the ground hard, my head snapping back, slamming into a rock protruding from the snowpack. Stars exploded across my vision as a new combat notification appeared:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Concussed: You have sustained a severe head injury! Confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 minute.

<<<>>>

I awkwardly scuttled backward, shaking my head to clear the stars and the message as I pushed myself onto my elbows.

“Look out, Jack,” Jo-Dan called out from across the room, his voice rising over the chaos.

I jerked my head up on instinct, then flinched as deadly jaws fastened around my right leg. Pain erupted like a volcano as the creature’s serrated, razor-sharp teeth punched through my leather armor with ease and into the meat of my thigh. I screamed as fiery agony raced through my veins and the Hound dragged me from the ground, my head and arms dangling down, the whole world inverted. For a beat, the Hound just held me there like a freshly caught prize it was displaying for its master, and then it started shaking me like a rag doll.

SEVENTEEN_

Down for the Count

The Hound’s head snapped left then right, up then down, blood spraying the air as the Hound tried to rip my leg clean off. My brain seemed frazzled and broken, unable to function with the incredible pain rampaging through my body like a stampeding herd of bulls. In the back of my head, however, my survival instinct stirred. Shadow Stride, that voice said. Shadow Stride. No, that wasn’t my voice, that was Devil speaking directly into my addled thoughts. I pressed my eyes shut and triggered the spell with a yell. In an instant, the world jerked, faltered, and stopped.

And just in time, too, since my HP bar was flashing a vibrant crimson—warning, warning, warning it screamed at me in the corner of my vision.

I didn’t stay in the Hound’s jaws, though. Immediately, my leg phased through its jaws, and I fell, my back slamming into the snowpack with a thud that reverberated up into my teeth. Next to the horrendous agony in my leg, though, it was little more than stubbing a toe. For a long beat, I just lay there—one arm pinned beneath me, the other stretched out to the side—letting the cold seep up and soothe my army of aches and pains. I pressed my eyes shut tight, breathing deeply in through the nose and out through the mouth, fighting to slow down my heart, which was pounding away like a jackhammer.

Finally, I cracked my eyes and pushed up onto my palms with a groan, surveying the damage to my leg. Just looking at the wound made me want to bend over and throw up onto the ground. My leather britches were in tatters and the flesh beneath was pulverized, bits of gray skin missing, revealing ropy pink muscle and gleaming white bone. Even after months inside the game, the graphic detail of the environment coupled with the abhorrent levels of pain was still a shock.

Recently, I learned the reason behind the realistic violence from a Dev who’d come over to the Alliance ranks. Apparently, Osmark and company had tried to reduce or eliminate the pain and gore early on in development but then discovered that because of the unique neural interface used to map the brain, it was impossible. To eliminate pain, they needed to eliminate all sensation, which was an unsatisfactory option, and because of the impending destruction of the earth, the Dev teams never found a way around the issue.

In the end, it was an unfortunate and unavoidable design flaw.

I pushed the thought from my head as I glanced at the countdown timer whirling away, indifferent to my suffering. I had less than forty seconds to come up with a plan. Reluctantly, I flipped onto my belly—the movement reigniting a fresh wave of agony in my butchered limb—and wormed away from the Hound an inch at a time. Although I was out of Spirit Regen potions, I still had a handful of Health Regen potions, and at that moment, I wished more than anything that I could use them while Shadow Striding … but no.

Not my luck.

Yes, my Health and Spirit Regen rate skyrocketed while in the Shadowverse, but potions were strictly off-limits. Eventually, I got to the far wall—about ten feet from where Devil lay crumpled on the floor—and propped myself up against the slick ice. I had fifteen seconds before the Shadowverse spewed me back into the heat of the battle, but I wasn’t in any rush. Instead, I sat there, stealing a few more deep breaths while I took stock of the situation.

The Hound was down below fifty percent, and I’d identified the weak spot on its belly … but fifty percent was still a hefty amount of HP left considering the price we’d paid so far. I mean, Devil was mangled and more dead than alive, and I wasn’t much better off. On the plus side, the Frostburn debuff had worn off. Jo-Dan was still busy busting open the prisoner cages with his incredible strength, and his ghostly minion was back and ushering the badly beaten and nearly naked prisoners into the connecting alcove while the Hound was thoroughly distracted.

Cutter was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t mean much—chances were, he was cloaked in Stealth and getting ready to sink one of his daggers into the creature’s eye socket.

As a whole, we weren’t in great shape, but we’d been in worse situations once or twice before. I took one more deep breath, then used the wall behind my back to inch up to my feet. Color bled back into the grayscale landscape, and time resumed its usual ebb and flow as I gained my feet. The Hound’s jaw snapped shut with a clack now that my leg was gone, and for a second it stared around confused and wild-eyed, searching for me.

I used that brief moment to down a cherry-flavored Health Regen potion, sighing in sweet relief as my flesh reknit itself and the pain faded to a dull throb before vanishing entirely.

The Hound’s blue crystalline eyes locked on me with a mixture of malice and outright hate. This thing wasn’t just looking to kill me, it was looking to make me hurt first. Or maybe I was just projecting. Human, Devil sent. Try to get it to rear back. I have a plan. The voice faded a second later without elaborating what precisely that plan was, but I trusted Devil to do the right thing. So instead of worrying about it, I squared my shoulders, gave my hammer a twirl, and offered the Hound a lopsided smile bordering on a sneer.

“Yep, I’m still here.” Then with an inarticulate war cry, I charged him.

I dodged a swipe from a sewer-lid paw, then swerved just in time to avoid a lunging bite that would’ve removed most of my left arm. With a burst of speed, I hooked right and flipped the warhammer in my hands—the spike now facing out. Before the colossal Hound could respond, I lashed out, driving the spike directly into one of its blazing blue eyes like a mountaineer sinking a climbing hammer into a mountain face. The beast howled and reared up again in response, jerking the weapon from my grip as its beefy forelimbs flailed wildly in the air.

Devil streaked into view, launching his body through the air like a pro wrestler despite his wounded back leg and badly crippled wings. The Drake dropped his sinuous head and drove the ridged spikes adorning his skull into the Hound’s chest. The blackened spears of bone penetrated through the hard-packed snow and icy plates, and the sheer force of the blow bowled the Hound over backward. The boss landed on his armor-plated back with a deafening thud, its belly exposed and its limbs thrashing as it tried to right itself.

But Devil wasn’t having any of it. He used his broken wings to restrict the Hound’s movements while twisting his serpentine neck and latching down on the Hound’s exposed throat with his bone-crushing jaws. Devil’s ebony teeth dug deep, and cobalt blood immediately welled to the surface in response, dripping down onto the snow below. The Hound’s frantic writhing continued, but its HP bar was dropping by the second, and its ineffectual attempts to buck Devil slowed, becoming more lethargic.

And then—in a final, pained gasp—the Hound’s body seized in a powerful spasm as Cutter appeared from thin air on its belly. “Give our regards to Morsheim, you ugly git,” he snarled, sinking both of his blackened blades into the translucent membrane covering the Hound’s giant thumping heart. Critical Hit. The flesh ruptured with a pop, and a geyser of gore erupted straight up, blasting Cutter right in his grinning face and knocking the scrappy thief into the snow, covered from head to toe in blue-black blood.

So gross, but also a little funny. The disgruntled look on Cutter’s face alone was almost worth the pain of nearly having a leg ripped off.

My grin slipped a little as I turned my attention back to the deadly Gate Hound. But, between Devil and Cutter, the Hound’s bar flashed and plunged, hitting zero in record time as the creature finally stopped fighting. Its body went still, the life fleeing from its inhuman gaze. Dead. And good riddance. Devil, sensing the victory, loosened his jaws before sliding off the dead boss and collapsing in the snow. He was in awful shape, and it looked like a stiff breeze might kill him outright, but somehow—despite that—he’d done it.

Now you can recall me. His lips curled up in what might’ve passed for a dragon smile.

For a second, I considered thanking him, then dismissed the idea. Devil liked me, true, but he fought for himself and his honor. He wouldn’t appreciate the gesture, not even a little, so instead, I held my tongue, offered him a curt, thin-lipped smile, and dismissed him back to the Shadowverse with a thought. I couldn’t help but grin and shake my head as he vanished in a pillar of inky smoke. Once again, the Drake had proven that when it came to raw determination and willpower, no one was his match. No one.

“Well,” I said to Jo-Dan while trudging over to the lifeless Hound, “now that this is dead can we shut the portal down?”

“No can do,” he said with an apologetic shrug. “As far as I can tell, this thing is here for keeps. I don’t think another boss will come through, but we should probably get moving just to be safe.”

“Alright,” I said, staring through the portal at the mass of Vogthar arrayed in the distance. “Let’s move quick then. We need to get these prisoners out of here and loot these bodies—maybe they’ll give us some kinda clue about what in the heck is going on around here.” I bent over with a groan and picked my warhammer up with a sigh, tucking it back into the leather frog at my belt.

I’d never been so tired and so ready to be gone from a dungeon.

First, I headed over to the alcove where the prisoners were congregating. The whole lot of them were sharing nervous glances and hushed, conspiratorial whispers. I spent a few minutes talking with them while Cutter picked over the first of the Vogthar bodies.

From what I gathered, most of them were refugees from the war with the Empire and had nowhere left to go. A bad situation, sure, but at least they were alive. And though I couldn’t fix whatever awful things had happened in the past, I could help provide them with a new future. Assuming they wanted the help. I gave the Murk Elf woman who’d pleaded with us a one-off port-scroll that would deliver the survivors—eleven total—directly to the port pad in Rowanheath. Then, I jotted a quick message to Abby, letting her know about the newcomers:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Abby,

Hey, just wanted to tell you there’s going to be a group of NPC prisoners arriving in Rowanheath shortly. It’s a long, complicated story that I’ll fill you in on later, but for now, please get Xiu or Otto down to the arrival port pad to greet them. Make sure they’re all vetted—wouldn’t want an undercover acolyte of Serth-Rog slipping through the cracks—but then get them some gear and a place to stay. Let them all know they’re welcome in the Crimson Alliance.

You’re the best,

—Jack

<<<>>>

With that done, I closed my interface and turned my attention to the dead mobs scattered around the chamber. Cutter was already busy rifling through the belongings of the lesser Vogthar troops, so I headed over to the traitorous blond-haired Wode and head honcho. I knelt down next to him, averting my gaze so I wouldn’t need to look at his blackened face, and popped open his inventory. A lot of his gear was pretty mundane: A handful of various Regen potions, a sack full of the square golden coins all the Vogthar seemed to use. A couple of lesser rings with minor stat bumps—one with a +2 to Spirit, another with a +1 to Intelligence.

His robes were a specialty item, however, and like the rest of the custom Vogthar gear we’d come across, it was all restricted. Every single piece. Anyone without an evil alignment who tried to use it would immediately suffer a crippling Disease Damage debuff, which, untreated, would kill in a handful of minutes. Unfortunate, considering how hard we’d worked to clear this place. It did give me one idea, though. I knew there were Dark doppelgangers scattered throughout Eldgard—some in the alliance itself, no doubt—but identifying them was next to impossible since they appeared identical to the originals.

From what I’d witnessed firsthand, some even seemed to possess the same memories as those they replaced.

But with access to this restricted gear, we now had a way to check anyone we were suspicious of. If any citizen or traveler equipped the specialty items without immediately suffering the Plague debuff, that would mark them out as Vogthar double-agents like a road flare on a dark night. I grinned. So maybe this wasn’t a useless raid after all—especially since I had a whole journal full of potential suspects, thanks to Gentleman Georgie. I pawed through the gear until I got to a strange midnight-black dagger, which gave me a moment of pause.

The weapon had a double-edged obsidian blade with an ornate ebony handle, meticulously carved with scenes of torture and brutality: A Murk Elf facing the headsman’s axe. A Risi man being split on a Judas cradle. A surly Dwarf burning at the stake. The pommel, heavy and round, bore a demonic face with deep-set eyes—studded with emeralds—cruel lips pulled back from wicked fangs, and curling ram’s horns sprouting from the sides of the demon’s misshapen head. The thing radiated a foul miasma of death and decay, so I held it gingerly between two fingers. I’d seen a dagger similar to this once before.

The Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog, which I’d used against Carrera in the battle for Rowanheath. But this thing was even worse. More evil, if that was even possible. I stowed the dagger into my bag, eager to have the weapon away from my hand, then pulled up the item description.

<<<>>>

Malware Blade of Serth-Rog

Weapon Type: Bladed; Dagger

Class: Unique, One-handed

Base Damage: 25

Primary Effects:

- +15 to Strength
- +15 to Dexterity
- +100 pts Cold Damage
- +10% to Critical Hit when Backstabbing

Unique Usable Effect:

- Thanatos Virus: Activate the Thanatos Virus when an enemy is at Critical Health to upload a crippling virus, which does 1000 pts of Plague Damage/sec. (Charge: 10)

- Note: Using all Thanatos Virus charges will permanently destroy this weapon!

- Note: Players without an “evil” alignment suffer 5 pts Disease Damage/sec while this weapon is equipped.

- Note: If a player without an “evil” alignment activates the Thanatos Virus, that player will also be afflicted by the Thanatos Virus!

- Note: Any player—PC or NPC—killed while afflicted by the Thanatos Virus will be permanently deleted and will not respawn!

Immortality is a fickle thing. Death is coming …

<<<>>>

Suddenly, I was lightheaded and the world was spinning out of control all around me. This was impossible. A dagger that could permanently delete players? No, that couldn’t be right. I paused and pulled up the description again, carefully reading and rereading each line. For some reason I subconsciously expected the words to blur and change. To transform right before my eyes like some sort of magician’s trick. They never did, though.

I plopped down in the snow, my body tired, my legs weak both from fatigue and nerves. This changed everything. And if one Black Priest had a dagger like this, it was a fair bet that more Black Priests would have them. Maybe even other Vogthar warriors. I was sure they were too rare for the foot soldiers, but even one blade like this was too many. For the first time since making the permanent transition into V.G.O., I felt genuinely unsafe and unsure. That dagger was the IRL equivalent of a loaded gun pointed at my face.

No, it was even more than that.

It felt like learning about the existence of 213 Astraea all over again.

As I sat there in the snow, I briefly considered telling Cutter—because I needed to tell someone—then decided against it for the time being. Information like this could cause panic and mass hysteria. I needed to share this with Abby first, and then we could decide what to do, what to say, and who needed to know. I grimaced, licked my lips, then pushed the deadly dagger to the back of my mind. I needed everyone to think things were okay. At least for now.

EIGHTEEN_

Goodbyes

We wound through a snaking passage, which Cutter had found behind a carefully concealed door in the back alcove, where the lesser Vogthar troops had been hidden. The passage was narrow, cramped, and treacherous with the icy floor underfoot. But, as expected, it seemed to lead straight back toward the dungeon entrance. Cutter was gone, up ahead scouting the way, ensuring there were no nasty traps waiting for us to blunder into. He hadn’t found any yet, and I thought it unlikely he would, but this dungeon had already offered a lot of unpleasant surprises I hadn’t expected.

Considering the circumstances, it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Hold up a minute,” Jo-Dan said. I glanced back and found him doubled over and grabbing his knees while breathing heavily. He stole an apologetic look up, then slumped and sat on an uneven rock shelf jutting from the right wall.

“You okay?” I asked, giving him a quick once-over assessment. On the surface, he seemed to be fine. No obvious injuries.

He waved a hand through the air, dismissing my question while still huffing and puffing like a locomotive. “Fine,” he said after a moment, sounding anything but. “It’s just hard to be away for this long. I just recently acquired the ability to manifest, and venturing outside the dungeon absolutely wreaks havoc on my abilities. My regen rate drops to next to nothing. My abilities all cost more to use. And after a certain period of time, debuffs start stacking up, slowly killing me. When I level up more, I’ll be able to stay out longer with fewer negative effects, but for now I’m pretty useless.”

“Hey, no worries,” I said, plopping down on the ground across from him, wedging my back against the chilly wall. “You’ve done a lot for us already, and the way you helped those prisoners out was awesome.”

“Thanks,” he replied, looking away self-consciously as though unaccustomed to receiving compliments. “This is the first chance I’ve had to really interact with someone from the real world. I mean I’ve merc’d plenty of PCs, but most of my conversations are with monsters, NPCs, and Cernunnos—who, by the way, is like the worst company on the planet. That guy is more like a force of nature than a normal person.” He paused and glanced at me. “Thanks for being so cool with me. And for not freaking out. Lowyth said you were alright.”

We were quiet for a minute, him breathing heavily, me thinking. “So,” I finally said just to break the awkward stillness, “did you find what you were looking for down here? Do you know what these guys are up to?”

“Yeah,” he said with a bob of his head, “and it’s bad news. While you and Cutter were looting the room, I had a chance to inspect that summoning circle more closely. From what I can tell, it’s actually much more than a summoning circle. It’s a binding circle. See, the Vogthar were exiled to Morsheim, and because they’re technically spirits, they can’t cross back over to the Material Realm unless they can get bodies. That’s probably why they’ve been possessing people. But now, they’ve found an even better way.

“That binding circle back there”—he hooked a thumb toward the passage behind us—“is basically the equivalent of a Vogthar possessing a dungeon. But then, once the dungeon is corrupted, it can spawn soulless monsters and summon the Vogthar straight through into the vacant husks. And because the Vogthar are possessing dungeon minions, they even end up with a bit of those minions’ power. Since this is an ice-based dungeon, all the creatures manifested ended up being ice-based, too.”

“Will the Vogthar respawn like mobs, or will they die like NPCs?” I said, fidgeting in my seat, extremely uncomfortable with the implications of this conversation.

“Hard to say,” Jo-Dan replied with a shrug, “but if I had to guess, I’d say they’ll come back in eight hours or so—that Gate Hound included. But, there’s still a lot here I don’t understand. Like why they’re doing this.” He fell quiet, running his hands absently along the rock ledge beneath him. “Since they’re doing this all over Eldgard, though, the only thing that makes any sense to me is that they’re preparing for an invasion. And if the majority of the dungeons in that notebook really have been corrupted, I can tell you right now they’re going to have a heck of an army.”

The soft scuffle of footsteps on ice brought my head up and cut the conversation short. Cutter rounded a nearby bend, then came to an abrupt halt, a glower on his face, hands on his hips. “So that’s how it is, eh? Send Cutter off to do all the hard work while you two lollygag around like a couple of miscreants.”

I bent over, scraped up a thin layer of icy snow from the floor, then formed it into a small ball, which I lobbed at his head. “This from the guy who sharpened his wood axe for half an hour.”

He swatted the snowball from the air with ridiculous ease, his glower deepening into a full-on scowl. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response. Now, if you bums are done, I found the way out. Just a few minutes ahead, and I don’t know about you, but I fancy something hot to eat, something alcoholic to drink, and a cozy table to kick my feet up on. So let’s move it along, eh?”

I rolled my eyes and stood with a groan, then turned and offered a hand to Jo-Dan. The dungeon boss accepted gratefully.

We made the rest of the trek in silence. The only sounds to be heard were the crunching of ice and snow as we trudged and the occasional wheezy rasp from Jo-Dan; the poor guy sounded like he was about three steps away from the grave. The narrow tunnel dead-ended at another secret door, which let out into the main interior chamber just at the base of the entryway stairs. A quick climb saw us back into the night-dark woods—though it wouldn’t be dark for much longer.

We’d been down in that dungeon for hours, and a thin edge of golden-orange light was just starting to peek up through the trees. Not long until proper sunrise.

“Well, this is where I think we need to part ways,” Jo-Dan said, staring fondly into the woods, his faceless gaze fixating in the direction of his dungeon. “I need to get back and recuperate,” he continued after a beat, turning toward Cutter and me, “but I wanted to thank you both for helping me on this mission. You’re good people—even you, Cutter.” He shifted awkwardly for a minute, struggling with something he clearly wanted to say. “Look, I’m not sure you want me on the team,” he said after a time, “but if you do, I’d be open to it.” A quest box materialized before me:

<<<>>>

Quest Update: Dungeon Fever

Congratulations! You have successfully accompanied Joseph the Gravemonger to the Frozen Warrens of Axrukis and defeated the dungeon boss, gaining valuable insight regarding the Vogthar! In return, Cutter has received 20 gold for his service. You have also received 10,000 EXP and the Laurel-Wreath of Friendship. The Laurel-Wreath increases your personal relationship with Joseph the Gravemonger from Neutral to Friendly and allows the Crimson Alliance Faction to form a new partnership with the Catacombs of the Forsaken! Would you like to forge a partnership with Joseph the Gravemonger?

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

“Seriously?” I said, glancing at Jo-Dan, the box still loitering in my field of view. “You’d want to join up with us? Not sure you know this, but we’re sort of the underdogs. There’s a good chance the Empire is going to wipe us off the face of the map, and if they do, the next thing they’ll do is go after our allies. Which means you. You sure you want a piece of that?”

“One moment, friend,” Cutter said, grabbing my shoulder, then pulling me aside. “Don’t be daft, Jack,” he whispered, stealing a look at the boss. “If someone wants to join the Alliance, you don’t shoot ’em down, mate. This guy’s ready to fight. Let him fight.”

“He’s not wrong,” came Jo-Dan’s voice. “And I have very good hearing, by the way. Look, Jack, the fact that you’re the kind of guy who would give that warning is exactly why I want to be on your team. Back in that dungeon”—he waved toward the entrance to the Warrens—“you could’ve run and left those prisoners to die. You didn’t. I want an ally who isn’t going to split and run when it’s convenient. Maybe you’re the underdog, but I want you to win, so I’ll fight. I can’t offer much just yet. But I’ll send along a platoon of Reapers to Ravenkirk if you’re willing to have me.”

He extended a hand, an offer of friendship. I grinned, headed over, and accepted. “Welcome to the team.” A new pop-up appeared:

<<<>>>

Crimson Alliance Universal Alert!

Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider, honorary member of the Ak-Hani clan, has established a new Alliance with Joseph the Gravemonger and the Catacombs of the Forsaken! All mobs from the Catacombs of the Forsaken will not attack Crimson Alliance members unless provoked.

Notice: If pursuing an active quest inside the Catacombs of the Forsaken, the alliance is temporarily nullified while travelers and citizens are inside the dungeon!

<<<>>>

I dismissed the notice with a wave of my hand.

“Well, it was great meeting you,” Jo-Dan said, drawing his hand away then turning toward the jagged tree line. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon,” he said over his shoulder, “and tell your sentries to be on the lookout for a group of undead. We don’t do so well in the light”—he paused, glancing toward the glowing horizon—“so they’ll be along later tonight.” He gave us a brief wave and beelined for the trees, which were still bathed in deep shadow.

In seconds he was gone, swallowed by the forest. A small part of me felt bad—he seemed like a good kid, and despite some of the perks, being a dungeon had to be lonely business.

“Come on, Jack,” Cutter said, slapping my shoulder. “Time we get a move on it ourselves, eh?”

“Yeah,” I replied absently, pulling out the one-way port-scroll for Ravenkirk Vlad had given me back at his workshop. My mind flashed to the deadly dagger stowed away in my inventory. We needed to get back alright, and I needed to find Abby. I broke the golden ribbon wrapped around the scroll and unfurled the parchment. The paper disintegrated in my hands—turning to fine ash, which was swept away on the breeze—as an opalescent portal appeared in the air a few feet away. Beyond it was Ravenkirk.

“After you,” I said, waving toward the portal.

Cutter didn’t need me to twist his arm. Nope, he flashed me a tired wink then vanished through the portal in a brilliant flash of silver light, appearing on the other side in an instant. I paused, slowly spinning, taking one last look around to sear this location into memory. I wasn’t quite sure why, but a part of me felt like I needed to remember this moment. This place. Because, for better—or more likely for worse—this dungeon had just radically altered the face of Eldgard, even if no one but me knew it yet.

NINETEEN_

Shut-eye

The portal snapped shut behind me with a sizzle of energy as I stepped into Ravenkirk, and for a beat I just stood there on the middle of the port pad, swaying on wobbly legs. Now that the battle was over and the dungeon dive finished, the full weight of my exhaustion hit me like a load of bricks. True, I’d eaten back in the Catacombs of the Forsaken, but it’d been over twenty-one hours or so since I’d last slept, and V.G.O. had ways of punishing players for that kind of transgression. I opened my interface and toggled over to my active effects:

<<<>>>

Current Debuffs

Tired (Level 5): Skills improve 25% slower; Carry Capacity -45lbs; Attack Damage -20%; Spell Strength reduced by 35%

Thirsty (Level 2): Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%

Hungry (Level 2): Carry Capacity -45lbs; Health and Stamina Regeneration reduced by 25%; Stealth 20% more difficult

Unwashed (Level 3): Goods and services cost 15% more; Merchant-Craft skills reduced by (2) levels

<<<>>>

Yep, that pretty much looked about right. I dismissed the screen with a thought, honestly considering whether or not to drop right where I stood and just shut my eyes to the world.

But before I could decide one way or the other, Cutter was next to me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, friend,” he said, coaxing my feet into motion with a gentle tug. “Let’s get to the inn, eh? Go drown ourselves in mead, then pass out for the next twelve hours or so.”

I grunted noncommittally, but let him lead me down the steps from the pad and onto the cobblestone boulevard. This close to sunrise, the town looked surprisingly normal. Peaceful, even. The doors were closed up tight, the windows shuttered, the construction work halted for the time being. The spiderkin were nowhere to be seen, though I spotted a few glimmering patches of gossamer webbing indicating they’d been here. If I had to guess, I’d say they were all probably holed up in the Storme Marshes for now, out of sight and out of mind.

Chances were good Osmark would have aerial scouts patrolling ahead of the legion, so we couldn’t afford to have them notice anything was off. During daylight hours, we’d have Alliance members strolling around the town, buying food, selling goods, even working the farms as though this were just another insignificant dust-speck on the road to more important places. That would also give our builders, miners, and laborers a chance to catch a little well-deserved shuteye. I felt a pang of guilt for Vlad and his crew, though.

Their work was largely done behind closed doors, so they’d be banging away through the daylight hours as well.

We ambled past a few shops and up to a boxy three-story building with a gray stone foundation, a brown thatched roof, and a host of windows all shuttered, though yellow light peeked out through the wooden slats. There was a cobblestone square out front, complete with a small fountain filled with gently burbling water where the locals would gather for big announcements. The quaint inn was a nice enough place, but after spending so much time in Rowanheath and the great cities of the Storme Marshes, it felt rather small and run-of-the-mill.

And it was still the largest building in Ravenkirk by a far margin.

[The Fragile Fiddle] appeared in the air as the wooden sign tacked above the entryway came into view.

Cutter steered us through the square, skirting the fountain, then yanked open a rough wooden door. Instantly, the chatter of happy voices seeped out, intermixed with bursts of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the strum of an off-key lute. The interior was cozy and welcoming, with wooden floorboards worn down by countless feet, white plaster walls, and sturdy communal tables flanked by long wooden benches. And those benches were packed—heck, the whole room was filled with Alliance members eating, drinking, and celebrating.

Cutter practically dragged me into the fray, and I immediately regretted it. I just wanted peace and quiet, but the second we were in, everyone noticed us. Everyone. Before I could so much as say a word, a deafening cheer exploded through the crowd as mugs were raised in our honor.

Cutter basked in the adulation like a king meeting his loyal subjects for the first time, while I just squinted from the clamor and wanted nothing more than to get away from the press of bodies. I’ve never been a big one for crowds or parties, and all the attention made me more than a little uneasy. Despite that though, I schooled my face and slipped on a false smile, waving good-naturedly. Maybe I didn’t want the limelight, but these people had worked hard, and for whatever reason, they believed in me. I couldn’t take that away from them.

“A round for everyone on me!” I called, which only earned another onslaught of even more enthusiastic cheering.

“Now that’s the spirit, Grim Jack!” Cutter said, slapping me on the shoulder. He quickly carved his way through the crowd and to the long wooden bar. He snagged a heavy mug then climbed up onto the bar top with uncanny ease and agility. “Here, here! Let’s drink to Lord Grim Jack and the downfall of the bloody, no-good, Imperial bastards! Them and their outrageous taxes!” Glasses rose and clanked in response as men and women drank and cheered. Then—almost as though following some unheard cue—everyone turned their attention back to whatever they’d been doing before.

Despite being tired and worried, I mingled, smiled, and shook hands like a good politician on the campaign trail.

Deep down, however, I needed to get away from the noise and the crowds. I needed to get back to Rowanheath. To see Abby. To talk through this whole mess with the Vogthar. And maybe catch a few hours of sleep if I could. After a handful of minutes had passed, I scanned the crowd and saw Cutter near the roaring fireplace, downing a new flagon of mead. For a second I thought about pulling him aside to let him know I was leaving, then decided against it. He’d worked damned hard too, I reminded myself, and deserved to have a break. A little fun.

So instead, I politely excused myself from a conversation with a severely drunk Dawn Elf woman and slipped through the front door while fishing my port-stone from my inventory.

The trip from Ravenkirk to Rowanheath was three days or more on foot, but thanks to the stone, I found myself navigating through the halls of the Rowanheath Keep in less than a handful of minutes. Despite the ridiculously early hour, the place was surprisingly busy. Cooks and keep workers scuttled around, while guards, messengers, and watch commanders strode the passageways with speed and purpose. Working day and night was impossible, but we’d split all the Crimson Alliance members in Rowanheath up into three shifts—day, swing, and night.

That way, the work got done, but there was still enough time in the day to eat, sleep, and even get in a few minor quests.

I kept my head down, walking with urgency in my steps so no one would stop me for a little chitchat. I couldn’t handle any more of that, not right now.

I worked my way through the Keep, taking turn after turn until I ended up in the officer quarters, where my master suite was located. Although most of the Keep was cold gray stone, built for fighting and defense, this section, at least, had a little color. Wall-mounted torches in silver sconces lit the way. Nooks and crannies dotted the hall, each filled with priceless artwork or sculptures, while elaborate tapestries, depicting ancient battles, decorated the stone walls.

My suite was the last door at the end of the passageway.

I waved my hand over a stone pad, engraved with a crimson sigil, set into the doorframe. There was a brief buzz of power followed by a flare of bloody light as the door clicked open, admitting me to the room. Most of the doors in the Keep were protected by simple locking mechanisms which required a run-of-the-mill key to get through. But not the officer quarters. These places had been designed by Osmark to house the wealthy elites and their cronies; everything from the elaborate magical locks to the custom designed interiors spoke to that fact.

I slipped through and pushed the door closed on silent hinges.

The room had belonged to Carrera before passing into my hands, and, frankly, it reflected his tastes. The floors were tiled with expensive beige marble and edged in black stonework. The walls were crisp and white, festooned with beautiful paintings of the Colombian countryside and wrought iron wall lamps which emitted soft yellow light from a series of custom magical orbs—basically the V.G.O. equivalent of a lightbulb, for those who could afford it. Fluted pillars dotted the space, reaching up to a beautiful vaulted ceiling accented with a crystal chandelier.

There were sleek, expensive looking area rugs scattered through the room—one of the best features since the marble floors got especially chilly—and elegant mahogany furniture with a distinctly South American flair. There was a small kitchenette off from the main entry room, not that I believed for a second Carrera had ever cooked his own meals. Up ahead was a large sitting area; a plush crimson sofa, edged in dark wood, sat in front of a massive fireplace. And above the fireplace, affixed to the wall, was a glittering crystalline slab.

A [Far-Seeing Crystal].

It was really a TV, one of a few in all of Eldgard, which allowed Abby and me to stream movies. From what I understood, each Keep had one of these puppies installed in the master suite.

I ignored all of that and headed past the sitting room and into the master bedroom, littered with closets, nightstands, armor display racks, and a bed big enough to fit five people, easy. The luxury of the suite made me mildly uncomfortable, but the bed was an exception. I’d slept on lots of different mattresses during my time in V.G.O.—everything from cheap straw pads to thin floor pallets—and this bed was the single greatest thing I’d ever experienced. It was like sleeping on a cloud, wrapped in pure, warm sunlight.

The lights were already on, and I could hear the pitter-patter-splash of falling water, coming directly from the connecting bathroom. “Jack,” Abby called out, her voice muffled by the thick bathroom door. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, I’m back,” I replied, before rubbing my palms into my eye sockets to dispel the sleep threatening to take over my body.

There was a click, and a moment later the sound of falling water faded and died. I turned away and stripped out of my gore-covered armor, placing it onto the wooden armor rack near the bed. The rack was almost as magical as the knockoff TV in the living room—certainly more useful. Just stash your armor on one of those for an hour, and abracadabra the gear was clean and ready to go. I slipped on a pair of linen pants and a soft cotton undershirt just as the bathroom door swung open, jettisoning a swirling cloud of steam into the bedroom.

Abby padded out clad in a pristine white robe cinched tight at the waist, her brown hair up in a creamy towel. She offered me a small, lopsided smile, which only served to showcase the deep bags under her brown eyes. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who’d pulled an all-nighter. She paused, canting her head to one side, her lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line as she studied me. Of all the people in V.G.O., she knew me best. She knew me before the game, before the Alliance, the power, and the responsibility.

“What’s wrong, Jack?” she finally said, genuine worry bleeding through the words.

I glanced away, not wanting to meet her gaze, unsure of what to say. In some ways, the appearance of the Malware Blade of Serth-Rog was as devastating as the appearance of the asteroid that’d wiped out a big chunk of humanity. I needed to tell her, of course, but I also didn’t want to saddle her with a burden like that, even if the info was bound to come to light eventually.

When I glanced back up, she was in front of me, her smile just a little wider. “Come on,” she said, hooking her arm through mine, then dragging me toward the far side of the room. Dark curtains hung down in a sheet, but with a snap of her fingers, they pulled back, revealing a glass sliding door, which let out onto a stone patio. A relaxing little nook complete with plush deck chairs, a small stone fire pit already alight, and a phenomenal view of the city, stretching out below. A trickle of golden light poked fingers up above the jagged mountains to the east.

She slid open the door and ushered me into one of the padded chairs. I groaned as the chair absorbed my weight and cradled my sore limbs and achy muscles. With a grunt, I slid down, letting my tense muscles relax as I propped my feet up on a wooden ottoman with a thick cushion. The brisk air washed over my skin, but the slowly smoldering fire in the pit kept the worst of the early morning chill at bay. I snuggled deeper into the chair, letting my chin drop to my chest for a second as I pressed my eyes shut, breathing deeply.

TWENTY_

Revelations

“Jack,” I heard a moment later—Abby’s voice slicing through the dull haze clouding my brain. “Jack,” her voice came again, “I have …” A slight pause. “Coffee.” Even as she spoke the sacred word of power, coffee, the rich aroma of Western Brew tickled my nostrils. “And food. Pancakes. Eggs.” She paused again, and though I had my eyes closed, I could almost see the smile on her face. “Bacon,” she finished. And there it was, the second word of power: Bacon. My stomach gurgled in reply, and suddenly my mouth was salivating in anticipation.

Begrudgingly, I cracked my eyes open, and was shocked to see that the sun was no longer loitering above the eastern side of the mountains—no, now it was descending, just the upper edge of the sun showing above the western slopes. But that was impossible. I paused, pulling up my interface to check the time. 5:30 PM. Wow. Somehow, I’d passed out in the chair and slept for nearly eleven hours. When I turned toward Abby, I was again shocked to see she’d ditched the bathrobe and towel, and now wore her standard crimson gown, covered in golden lace and runic sigils of power.

And, true to her word, she was carrying a heavy silver tray loaded down with savory food and a carafe of coffee, perched next to a porcelain mug. I stifled a yawn with a closed fist, then scooted up in my seat as she carefully set the tray down on a dark wood table, positioned between the two lounge chairs. My belly was protesting, insisting I devour all the food as quickly as I could manage, but I resisted. Right now, my brain was foggy, and I needed to fix that first. With a mumbled “thank you,” I leaned over and poured myself a cup of joe, savoring the scent and the warmth radiating through the porcelain and into my hands.

With enough good coffee, all things are possible.

“So,” Abby said, dropping into the chair next to mine, her gaze fixed not on me but on the sprawling city bustling with activity. “You ready to tell me about what has you so rattled? And don’t even try to pretend you’re not rattled”—she cocked one knowing eyebrow and stole a sidelong glance at me—“because I know you. Something happened while you were out running around with Cutter and the Spider Queen.” She leaned over, snagging a piece of crisp bacon from the tray. She took a bite, then leaned back in her seat, giving me the time I needed.

I took a long, slow sip from the mug, letting the warmth wash down my throat and fill my chest. “I found something, Abby. Something bad. Worse than Osmark, maybe.” I took another sip of coffee, my hand trembling slightly, then set the half-full cup down on the tray. “It’s a long, complicated story,” I said after a beat, “but I think you need to hear all of it. You’re right, though, it does have to do with the Spider Queen and the new pact we made with the Catacombs of the Forsaken.”

She turned toward me, rapt and attentive as I spun the tale, explaining first about Lowyth and her strange request, then moving on to our time down in the Catacombs with Jo-Dan. Abby listened carefully, interrupting me every now and again to ask pointed questions or draw out information and details I hadn’t even thought about. What limitations did Jo-Dan have? Did the dungeons have a way to communicate? How did they level up? What exact role did the Overmind Cernunnos play? I answered as best I could, then moved on to explain about what we’d uncovered in the Frozen Warrens.

I told her about the Vogthar, about what I’d seen through the portal in the heart of the Warrens, and Jo-Dan’s suspicions about what Serth-Rog and his Black Priests were up to. As I spoke, she became more and more somber, the color draining from her face while she unconsciously chewed at her bottom lip—a sure tell that she was as nervous as I felt.

“So we’re looking at a potential invasion,” she finally said, the words almost more for herself than for me. “Do you know when? Or what their targets are?”

I could only shake my head.

Sure, the evidence overwhelmingly pointed toward invasion, but so far even the Overminds seemed a little unsure about what exactly Serth-Rog and his boss, Thanatos, were trying to pull off. “But,” I replied, accessing my inventory, “I think we might have a way to get more leads, or at least minimize whatever they’re planning.” First, I pulled out the leather-bound journal filled with names. “I know we already have all the Crimson Alliance members in this thing flagged and under observation, but now we can find out for sure if they’re working for Serth-Rog.”

I flopped the notebook down on the chair’s armrest and pulled out the restricted Vogthar gear. “This stuff is usable only by people with an evil alignment—anyone else is immediately afflicted with a nasty Plague debuff that hangs around as long as they have the restricted items equipped. So far, the only folks I’ve seen with evil alignments are followers of Serth-Rog. So here’s what I want to do. Let’s get this stuff distributed to all of the Keep magistrates, then pull in anyone under surveillance and see if they can use this stuff. If not, we let ’em go, if so, we lock ’em down and see what info we can get.”

She nodded, her brow furrowed as she retrieved the items, examining each one before it disappeared into her inventory. “Okay, I can make that happen,” she said as the last item vanished. “This is inconvenient timing, considering we have the Legion breathing down the back of our collective necks. But …” She paused and sighed. “But, I suppose it’s better now than when the Vogthar decide to move and it’s too late to do a damn thing about it.” She absently smoothed the folds in her dress, her gaze distant, her thoughts elsewhere.

Likely running down the list of all the folks she’d need to get on the horn. “Alright.” She reached out, placing a hand on my arm. “As much as I would love to lounge around with you and enjoy the view, we’ve got a lot to do.” She pressed her lips into a tight line, then squeezed my arm. “Unless you have something else, I’m going to leave you to enjoy your breakfast and get started on this right away.”

Her hand retreated from my arm, but before she could stand and go, I reached out, clasping her wrist. “There’s one more thing. And I think you’re going to want to stay sitting for this one.” Fear and anxiety sprinted across her face in turns. I licked my lips, offered her my most reassuring smile, then pulled the final Vogthar item from my bag: the Malware Blade. I held it gingerly by the hilt, not wanting the razor-sharp edge to nick me, even knowing that’s not how the Thanatos Virus worked. “This is what we really need to talk about.”

I carefully set the blade down on the table, near the serving platter.

She didn’t touch the thing, which was smart. Instead, she hunched over to examine the item like a cop eyeballing a murder weapon found at the scene of a crime. She was quiet for a few seconds, then promptly straightened and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest as though to protect herself from some unfelt breeze. I didn’t say anything, though. I just watched her as she watched the sunset. Tears broke free and rolled down her cheeks, but still she said nothing.

She didn’t need to. We both knew what that dagger represented.

After what felt like a lifetime, she reached up and obliterated the tears marring her cheeks with the back of one hand. When she finally spoke, her voice was iron, sheathed in velvet, no hint of a weepy damsel in distress in need of rescuing. “This changes things,” she said. “Lots of things. A virus, of course it would be a virus. But who would do this?” She asked no one, the question hanging uncomfortably in the air. “Who would want to introduce a weapon like this?

“It can’t be Osmark, right?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “This kind of tech would endanger him, too. Besides, the Empire wouldn’t be able to use this stuff either—every Imperial I’ve encountered has a Light alignment. No, that doesn’t add up to me.” She reached up and rubbed at her temple, her eyes pressed shut. “No Dev could make something like that. This is bigger than any player, or even any faction. It’s got to be Thanatos the Overmind. He was always the worry. Repurposed military tech.” She sighed and opened her eyes. “Who else knows about this? Cutter? This dungeon boss, Jo-Dan?”

“No one,” I replied, sagging in my seat. “Just the two of us. I figured something of this magnitude needed to be handled carefully. But we can’t afford to wait too long. If Jo-Dan is right and these things are preparing to invade Eldgard, it’s a safe bet that their elite troops, at least, will be packing this kind of heat. I think we should take it to Vlad. If anyone can find an antidote to the Thanatos Virus, it’ll be him. The bigger question is when to take this to the Alliance Council. I mean, they need to know, but is now the right time?”

Abby frowned, her lips pulling down at the corners. “I don’t have a good answer, Jack. But I think you did the right thing. This will be a big distraction, and with the Legion less than a full day’s march from Ravenkirk, I think it’s better to wait. I’ll make sure the magistrates round up and inspect all the people on our watch list, but other than that, I say we deal with the Legion first. Stay focused, put Osmark down hard, then? Then we regroup and deal with this.”

She stood and needlessly adjusted her hair. Once more I saw the glimmer of a tear form in her eye, but that tear never fell. “We’re going to be okay,” she said, sliding over in front of me.

I pushed myself from the chair and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug. “Yeah. We’ve come through a lot. We’ll make it through this, too. We just put one foot in front of the other and never stop.”

She pulled away and stared up into my face, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. “You’re getting better at this,” she said, before straining up on her tippy-toes, brushing her lips against mine. “Now finish your food, then get back to Ravenkirk. We’ve got a war to win.”

TWENTY-ONE_

Final Preparations

“You gotta see this, Jack,” Forge said with a grin.

I sighed and nodded, following him into a cozy wooden house near the front gate of Ravenkirk as I rubbed at one temple. It had already been a very long and tiring night. First, I’d spent time mingling with the troops at the inn, buying several rounds of drinks to encourage them. Then I’d tromped off to the forge and impromptu alchemy lab, chatting with Vlad, who enthusiastically displayed and demonstrated all of the fancy new weapons and gadgets he’d cooked up. And there were lots of them, including an enormous gossamer net that would make retreat nearly impossible for the Imperials.

From there, I inspected the fortifications and trenches littering the field in front of the town, and touched based with Morgan Sellsword—an NPC and the mercenary in charge of a small platoon of competent, cutthroat mercenaries Abby had hired. After ironing out a few contractual details with him, I’d left the sellsword to his work and tracked down Forge, who was only too happy to take me on an exhaustive tour of the town.

I pushed all that from mind as I eyeballed the interior of the building. When the Imperials invaded, this house would be at the forefront of the fighting early on. From the outside, the house was unremarkable—I wouldn’t think twice about the place if I passed it on the street. The inside of the building, however, was anything but standard. The door had been reinforced with steel, as had the walls facing the main boulevard, which snaked its way through the center of town. One of the bulky hwach’a sat in front of the den window, staring out at the roadway.

A pair of reinforced sandbag barriers sat farther back in the room—fallback positions for when the Imperials finally breached the door—and beyond that was the entrance to the newly minted tunnels. “This is so badass,” Forge said, ushering me toward the square hole in the floor, which had a small wooden ladder leading down into the dark. “And those new dungeon fellas you recruited, the zombie ones? They’ve been a real help, Jack. Even taught us how to rig bone bombs, man. Like magical IEDs that explode whenever someone outside the faction gets in range. Come on, I’ll show you.”

He hustled over to the opening and clambered down the ladder, his heavy footfalls echoing up.

The tunnelway beneath the house was bigger than I’d expected—not large enough for me to stand upright, but I wasn’t moving at a crawl either. Come to think of it though, I was a lot taller than most players, and the Dwarven Battle Miners who’d built the majority of these passages would’ve been able to move about freely. The tunnels themselves were blocky and surprisingly neat: the rubble cleared away, the walls chiseled and smooth, wooden support struts decorating the way, ensuring there were no cave-ins. And though the tunnels were entirely underground, it was easy to see.

Vlad had built golden glass orbs—similar to the magical lightbulbs in my master suite—which were jammed into the stone between the support arches.

“Now, it don’t look like much,” Forge said, glancing back at me over his blocky shoulder, “but hot damn if this place isn’t a death trap. Originally, we had plans to just blow the house entrances the second our troops retreated, but we adjusted things just a bit. Now the alchemic bombs are on timed delays, so a good number of enemy troops will get down here before those bombs go off, sealing off their way out. Then they’ll have to trek through here, and that’s bad for them. Look at this, Hoss.”

His steps faltered as he came up to a support arch that looked identical to every other support we’d passed. He tapped a finger against the pillar, pointing out three sharp red notches worked into the wooden post.

“These marks tell our folks what kinda trap is up ahead. So far we’ve already moved past a punji pit with poison spikes, a bone bomb implanted in the wall and concealed by illusion magic, and a deadfall that’ll crush the first enemy troop through. And this one?” He crouched down, one hand sweeping across the stone near the base of the pillar. There was a soft click as he depressed some trigger on the floor, and a panel in the right-hand wall slid open.

There was a soft rustle of movement from within the niche.

Curious, I slipped forward but quickly recoiled in shock. There was a deep hole, gouged into the rock face, and stowed away inside were a pair of electric-blue Portal-Crawlers, ready and waiting to spring on any foe unlucky enough to come through. And unlike the brown-furred spiderkin so common to the Storme Marshes, the Portal-Crawlers were deadly foes, capable of stepping through space and time at will. The spiders just stared at us with dead black eyes, their wickedly curved mandibles clicking open and shut, salivating in anticipation.

Forge grinned at me and shot me a wink, then pressed the button to the floor again, sealing the hidden compartment away.

“We’ve turned this whole network of tunnels into our version of a dungeon, Hoss. Any bastard Imperials that get in here won’t know what hit ’em until they wake up at their respawn points. If they wake up at all. Come on.” He waved me onward, deeper into the tunnelway.

We passed a number of different traps—Forge enthusiastically pointed out the inscriptions for each—and a handful of ladders that connected to other homes scattered throughout the town. Eventually, we came to a dead end and clambered up into a sprawling room filled with pews. At the far end of the room was a large altar, adorned with chalices and candles.

If the pews, altar, and chalices weren’t enough to tell me what this place was, the beautiful stained-glass windows did the trick. They marched along either side of the building, and each depicted a serene-faced Dawn Elf man in flowing brown robes performing various acts of charity. In one, the man fed a throng of emaciated people with outstretched hands. In another he tended to a deathly ill looking woman sprawled out on a bed. Another still depicted him with his feet planted wide, holding a heavy mace aloft, staring down an onrushing wave of undead.

We were in the local chapel of Saint Tandar the Gentle, which was on the westernmost edge of town, about as far away from the main gates as you could get. Though the place seemed like it should be filled with devotees chanting prayers and offering supplication, the pews were instead overflowing with sleeping Alliance members—these were the unfortunate souls required to wander around the town during daylight hours, playacting for the benefit of any Imperial scouting party. Against the right-hand wall sat a series of thick tables, all loaded down with food and drink.

We slipped out from the chapel as silently as possible, not wanting to wake the slumbering men and women.

I paused outside the chapel door, staring at the hustle and bustle of activity with my arms folded across my chest. Spiderkin scuttled across rooftops with uncanny ease, both carrying riders and ferrying goods. And a small army of undead shuffled through the streets, patching up walls, digging ankle-breakers with crude shovels, even pulling bulky siege weapons at the command of Alliance members. Jo-Dan had come through for us, and the fact that our people were working so well with our new inhuman allies was encouraging to see.

I grinned, feeling a brief surge of hope—maybe we really can win this fight—and followed Forge through the rear gate and toward the outlying farms.

Most of the farmhouses had undergone only minor alterations—if the Imperials made it this far, we’d be long gone in a tactical retreat—but each concealed backup troops, along with ammo. Lots of ammo, specifically prepared for the hulking catapults littering the field. There were scores of giant boulders, hauled from the tunnels, but Vlad had also whipped up some unpleasant surprises in the form of basketball-sized glass orbs filled with a wide variety of awful alchemic brews.

Some of the orbs would explode on impact. Others would release a wave of toxic gas or spray poisoned shrapnel out in a thirty-foot diameter.

During the day, illusionists disguised the weapons as haystacks, but that was costly magic, so at night the spells came down. We tromped by one of the catapults, a hulking thing twenty feet tall, and into a small and unassuming farmhouse on the periphery of the field. Forge knocked twice, then pushed his way in without waiting for a response. Anton, Chief Kolle, Amara, Cutter, Otto, and General Caldwell were all inside, crowded around a wide table covered with maps and letters from the messengers and engineers.

“I say we move on ’em tonight,” Cutter barked, staring at the maps, his hands planted firmly on the table. “The bastards are movin’ too fast, we need to cut ’em off at the knees.”

“And you think it will be so easy?” Amara snapped back. “My Rangers have been probing their lines for days, harrying their flanks at every opportunity. And with little success. These Imperials are many things, but stupid is not one of them. Accessing the camp will be no easy feat.”

“You’re impossible, woman,” Cutter said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “I never said it’d be easy, but I’ve got some damn fine lads who could sneak past a platoon of Imperial guards in broad daylight—and with our new Infiltrator skills unlocked, it’ll be even easier. You all just need to trust me on this. I might not be much for chopping down trees or diggin’ stupid holes, but I’m the best thief around and a passable cutthroat, too. I can do this.”

“Too dangerous,” Amara said with a shake of her head, hands planted on her hips, her body language declaring I will not be swayed.

“He has a point, daughter,” Chief Kolle said placidly, staring at Amara through hooded eyes, his hands folded behind his back. “We need to buy time, and launching a raid seems the best way. General Caldwell and Otto have a potential solution regarding the infiltration of the—” The words died off mid-sentence as Kolle finally noticed Forge and I had entered the room. “Grim Jack,” he said after a beat, “so good to see you up and on your feet. Care to join us?” He waved at the paper-covered table. “We could use a little advice on a time-sensitive issue.”

“Sure,” I replied, slipping in between Otto and General Caldwell. “So, what exactly is the issue? Forge just got done giving me a tour of the town, and everything looks pretty awesome to me.”

“Oh, the town is fine, it’s just complications,” Anton said with a sigh, waving a hand in the air. “Always more complications.”

“Osmark’s steamwork machines are making even better time than any of our experts predicted,” General Caldwell grunted, jabbing at the map with one copper-hued finger. “Right now, they’re bivouacked at a site south of the Black Rill River, not far from the foothills of the Vasterberg Steppes. Based on our previous calculations, we expected them to arrive sometime early tomorrow evening—six, maybe seven, and set up camp for the night—but given their current position and general rate of advance, it’s likely they’ll arrive sometime before noon tomorrow.”

“Can we be ready by then?” I asked, running a hand absently across my chin as I thought.

“Yes,” Chief Kolle offered. “Thanks to the spiderkin, the addition of our new undead allies, and the mercenaries Abby hired, we’ve made great progress. The real problem is not the defenses—it’s sleep. We’ll have everything done by sunrise, but the vast majority of our members will be exhausted and sleep deprived. If we send three-quarters of our forces into a war with exhaustion debuffs, we will do ourselves no favors, Grim Jack. And to complicate matters further, the Dokkalfar War Bands will not arrive until early evening. Chakan is marching them hard, but it will be a near thing.”

“So, we delay the Legion,” I said, staring at each person in turn. “That seems obvious. We need time, so we throw a wrench into their well-oiled machine.”

“Bloody right,” Cutter said with a grin and a nod. “It’s as clear as good Ankaran glass that we need to sabotage their camp, but this lot”—he waved a hand around at the other advisors—“are as skittish as newborn lambs. They’re afraid it’s a suicide run, but I’m telling you with a good crew I could do this in my sleep. And Otto even has a way in. Tell ’em.”

“The thief is correct,” Otto replied curtly, spreading out a sheaf of loose papers. “Or at least mostly correct. I have old connections with the Òrdugh an Garda Anam, a Risi rebel front operating on the West Viridia side of the continent. A handful of them managed to infiltrate the Legion. No high-level circles, but they’ve still been feeding us valuable bits of intelligence.

“Unfortunately,” he continued after a slight pause, “they can’t act directly—the info they provide is simply too valuable to lose them over a delaying maneuver. They might be able to smuggle a small crew into the heart of the camp, though. With our new Sabotage ability and a few thieves, we could do some significant damage. Not enough to cripple the Legion, certainly, but enough to buy us six extra hours.”

“This sounds like a no-brainer,” I said, straightening, then folding my arms. “We get a crew inside, we hit ’em hard. Take out their wagons, some siege weapons, maybe hobble a few of their mounts. In and out quick and easy.” I snapped my fingers in illustration.

“You say that,” Amara barked, “but chances are high that anyone who goes will die, and this fool”—she waved at Cutter, a scowl etched on her face—“insists on leading the mission. I do not disagree that someone should go in, but not him.”

“Bollocks to that, Jack,” Cutter snapped, slamming his palms against the table with a sharp smack. “Maybe I’m not a traveler, and maybe I can’t respawn, but I’m my own damned man. I hate the Imperials, and I have the right to choose where I fight, and where I die. If you want to swaddle me like a babe and tell me where I can go, or how I can serve the Alliance, then we’re no better than the Empire. This, all of this”—he waved his hand around the room—“is about freedom, and I plan to use my freedom to hobble these bastards, Jack.”

He paused, glaring at everyone at the table, before finally resting his gaze on Amara, daring her to challenge him.

“Besides,” he continued, when it was clear no one was going to push back, “I’m not too keen on dying. Not sure if anyone noticed, but I’m too gorgeous and talented to perish as a martyr. The gods won’t allow it. And furthermore, I’m the best bloody thief in Eldgard second to none, and if I tell you I can get in and do this, then you’d better believe I can get in and do this. I’ve got just the right crew, too—good fellas that’ll pull this off right and proper. You’ve just gotta trust me here.”

Everyone was quiet for a minute, all eyes subtly looking to Amara since she seemed to be the major objector, and with good reason. Though she would probably never admit it to anyone, she liked Cutter. Maybe loved him. Sure, she pretended to be stoically unconcerned for his well-being, but I could tell she was worried deep down in her soul. “Fine,” she finally conceded with a sniff. “You shall do this mission, Cutter, but I will accompany you.”

Cutter snorted and cocked an eyebrow at her in challenge—a dangerous move. Amara could be fickle and touchy. “But you’re not even a bloody Rogue—”

“I am better than a Rogue,” she snapped, cutting him off. “I am a Huntress, the best Huntress in all of the Ak-Hani, and I could sneak circles around you and your little band of thieves. Besides, as someone once said, I have the right to choose where I fight, and where I die. If you think I am incapable, I will take you out back and demonstrate my abilities in a trial by combat. And if you merely wish to protect me—to ‘swaddle me like a babe’—then you are a hypocrite and no better than this Osmark. So, if you go, I go. What say you to this?”

I could practically hear the cogs creaking away inside Cutter’s head as he ground his teeth in sheer frustration. “Gah. Fine, you pigheaded woman. Fine. You can shadow me, but I swear to all the gods above and below, if you get us caught with your inelegant, flat-footed, imitation thievery, I’ll never let you live it down. Not in a million years. Now can we please get the go-ahead and move out already—I’d like to go set something on fire and slit a few throats.”

“Absolutely,” I said, clapping my hands together. “But I’m going, too. I can’t let two of my best friends go galivanting off on a mission this important without me. And someone needs to be around to pull you two apart when you start dueling each other in the middle of an Imperial encampment.”

“Phft,” Cutter said, rolling his eyes. “Great. So now I’ve got to babysit Amara and Jack—neither of whom are Rogues. But no. That’s fine. Since this is amateur hour and we’re adding people all willy-nilly, maybe we should take Forge and the whole bloody spider army with us, too. Round things out. I’m sure no one will notice.” He scowled at everyone, folding his arms.

“I tend to agree, sir,” General Caldwell interjected, staring at me. “This decision seems rash. Foolhardy. You’re the leader of this faction—surely your time would be better spent elsewhere?”

“Nope,” I said with a grin. “Everyone in this room is capable of running things here. And me? I don’t lead from the back. I want to be in the front. I want to scare the Legion. I want everyone to know that I personally infiltrated their camp and burned it all to the ground. I want to be a symbol for our people to rally around, and a boogeyman for every Imperial to fear. And I can sneak better than ninety percent of the thieves in the Alliance, even if I’m not technically a thief myself. And since I’m the commander, I get the final say.” I paused and pulled up my clock. 1:00 AM. “Okay, Cutter,” I said, closing the screen. “Get your crew together—I want to be gone inside the hour. Let’s move, people.”

TWENTY-TWO_

Infiltrate

We observed the sprawling Imperial camp from the top of a small foothill blanketed in thick brush, gnarled bushes bearing small pink berries, and sparse tree cover. I’d seen plenty of reports about the size of the army coming our way, but somehow seeing it firsthand was a different beast entirely. The valley below was an ocean of flickering campfires and white canvas tents pitched in precise, orderly lines. A mobile city. The war mounts were picketed almost directly below us at the northern edge of the camp, running along the base of the Vasterberg foothills.

There were hundreds of creatures—everything from oversized mountain goats to blue-furred tigers—all lined up, nice and neat, and tethered to wooden hitching posts.

It was hard to make out everything in the dark, especially with the moon overhead just a silver thumbnail, but it looked like the siege weapons were on the southern edge of the encampment. Getting to those would be tricky, and would require a long and stealthy trip around the perimeter of the tent city. The real goal, however, was the supply wagons. V.G.O. was a complicated and nuanced world, and though things like sleeping and eating seemed relatively trivial, they were anything but.

Though a player couldn’t die from lack of food, they could be crippled with debuffs from it. And food didn’t just manifest out of thin air—cooks had to make it, and those cooks, in turn, needed plenty of ingredients. A lot of the supplies could be carried in each player’s inventory, but for an army the size of the Imperial Legion, that just didn’t cut it. Plus, there was water to consider, extra weapons and armor, even portable forges and alchemy workshops, which were necessary to build and maintain the siege weapons. And all of those items were in the supply wagons.

Even a quick glance, however, revealed that Osmark was smart enough to realize the vulnerability. All of the covered wagons were smack-dab in the middle of the camp, surrounded by a square of cloth tents, illuminated by ample firelight, and positioned near a hulking building that was probably the command center. Getting in there would be tough, but if anyone could do it, it was Cutter. I tore my gaze away from the camp layout as a line of torches bobbed in the night, drawing closer to our position.

That was the outer patrol, making its way through the low-lying hills—just as Otto’s insiders had said.

“Alright, lads. Time to disappear,” Cutter whispered, glancing around at our team. There were ten of us total—me, Cutter, and Amara, along with seven more Alliance members with Rogue classes. Five were PCs, while the other two were NPCs, and their skill sets were tremendously varied: everything from Pickpocket and Cutthroat to Assassin and Stalker. But each had also picked up the new Infiltrator subspecialty, which came with some cool espionage-related abilities.

“Kill your targets clean and quiet,” Cutter continued, voice gruff and muted. “No squeals and keep blood to a minimum. On my mark. Three, two, one.” He fell silent on one and disappeared from view as quickly as a shadow lost to the night. Everyone else followed suit. Though I couldn’t see the rest of the crew or even hear the faint stir of their movements, I knew everyone was spreading out in anxious anticipation. A handful of tense seconds later, the torches rounded the bend, illuminating the patrol of guards, ten deep, scouring the hills in a staggered two-column line.

None of it was a shock since Otto’s insiders had given us every detail, from the patrol route, to guard numbers, to the formation they’d be in. The guards were spread out at ten-foot intervals, so it was contemptuously easy to slip among them while cloaked in Stealth. My target was a slender Imperial man in chainmail with a white surcoat over the top, embroidered with a blue Imperial eagle clutching golden lightning bolts. He had a large tower shield strapped to one arm and an unwieldy halberd in the other, which he thumped along the ground like a walking stick.

I edged up behind him, stalking forward in a low crouch, hammer raised and ready, while I waited for the signal.

A second later the lonely hoot of an owl fluttered in the night air. I attacked in an instant, lashing out with all my strength, triggering Savage Blow and Black Caress. My hammer blasted into the back of his neck, and between the backstab multiplier, my raw power, and my special abilities, the poor guy never stood a chance. Critical Hit flashed bright and bold, and down he went in a heap, his weapon falling off to the side and clattering against an upturned stone.

I inched closer, just in case he wasn’t dead, and heard a muttered round of strangled gasps as the other guards died—their throats slit. I prodded my mark with the toe of my boot, but he was as dead as they came, his body limp, his arms sprawled out. I took a quick glance around just before the body vanished in a flash of colorful light. The other guards were all down, and not a single one of them had made a peep or put up a fight. From the look of things, this patrol had mostly been PCs—all but two, which was convenient since it meant fewer bodies to dispose of.

“Barker, John. Round these two up,” Cutter muttered at two of the nearby thieves, “and cart ’em off over the rise. I wanna make sure no other patrols stumble across ’em, and be quick about it. Everyone else, suit up and activate the Dignitary ability Anonymous.” Everyone did as they were told without complaint, even Amara. Despite the fact that both Amara and I outranked Cutter inside the Alliance, this was his mission, and I intended to toe the line.

I opened my inventory and slipped on a pristine white surcoat with a bright blue eagle on it—a dead ringer for what the guards had been wearing. It was a knockoff, of course, but we had some very talented tailors in the Alliance. Faction gear had certain inbuilt wards, so if anyone were to stop us and look closely enough, they’d be able to tell something was off. Still, that was a risk we were willing to take. By the time I got done shrugging on the garment, the other two cutthroats had returned from their gory task, and the rest of the crew had donned their imitation uniforms and were forming up.

I triggered the Anonymous ability—which would let me pass unnoticed in the midst of the Legion for two hours before wearing off—then slipped into line. Cutter and Amara took up positions at the front of each column, the rest of us snaking off behind them in a perfect replica of the patrol formation. With a grunt, Cutter broke into a brisk trot. He didn’t run. He didn’t sneak. And he didn’t beeline for the camp. Instead, he continued on the winding path through the hills in a series of loops and switchbacks until we ended up at a small dirt road with a trio of sentries standing watch.

Just a routine patrol, finishing its circuit.

I took a deep breath, trying to look cool and relaxed, desperate to hide the ball of nerves writhing in my gut. If Otto’s information was bad, this was where everything would go sideways.

The lead sentry standing guard—a thick-muscled Risi warrior with a formidable black beard and a massive axe—scooted into the center of the road, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, his nose sniffing at the air.

“Password,” he grunted, fingers flexing around the wooden handle of his axe.

Cutter smiled, oozing confidence as though he had as much right to be there as they did. People could say what they wanted about him, but in certain areas, Cutter really was the best—like bluffing, for example. “Blackstaff,” he said before offering them a lopsided grin and placing a hand leisurely on the butt of his dagger.

For a second the Risi tensed, and I thought everything was going to explode like one of Vlad’s faulty potions, but then after a second, the warrior visibly relaxed. He didn’t smile, but something in his gaze told me he was one of us—Otto’s Alliance insider, operating under deep cover.

“Well, move it along, then,” the guard said, edging over to the side of the road and waving us through. “The new password for next hour is Red-Bird.” He paused, stealing a cautious look left and right. “That’ll get you into the inner area,” he whispered, the sound so low I almost missed it. “Well, don’t just stand there, ya’ dolts,” he boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Go get some chow and a bit of shut-eye. It’s gonna be an early day tomorrow and another long hike. 4:00 AM reveille, just came down from the High Command.”

“Phft,” Cutter said with an eye roll. “Maybe the rest of this lot will sleep, but I plan to get three sheets to the wind.” He slapped the man on his shoulder in a show of camaraderie then turned to us. “You heard the man. Go turn in, or get piss drunk. I don’t bloody care.” We filed through the entry point, nervous sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades. But once through, the group scattered like dry leaves in a brisk wind.

Cutter and Amara quickly disappeared into a string of tents leading toward the supply wagons, while the rest of the thieves bolted in other directions. From here, most of us wouldn’t see each other again. Some would head toward the hitching posts and the war mounts. Others would skirt through the warren of tent alleys to the far side of the camp, so they could take out some of the siege equipment. A few more would slip among the campfires, poisoning stew cooking on flames, or planting small alchemic bombs among the officer tents.

Chaos was the goal here.

And once everyone had played their role, they’d pop back into the boggy woods just south of Ravenkirk via custom one-way port-scrolls.

Eventually, I would head toward the supply wagons, if only to make sure nothing happened to Cutter and Amara, but for a moment I just stood there, listening to the click of pots, the crackle of campfires, and the soft laughing of soldiers on their way to war. For the first time in a long time, I was alone. Rudderless in a sea of faces that didn’t recognize me—at least, I sincerely hoped not. Self-conscious, I pulled up my hood a little higher, dropped my face, and quickly moved into a nearby row of tents so as not to draw any unnecessary attention.

At the ridiculously late hour, most of the Imperials were asleep, their tent flaps closed and tied shut. But most was not all. With an army this size, there was always work to do, always watches and patrols, errands and emergencies, plus folks who just couldn’t sleep or didn’t want to. People like Cutter, who were willing to suffer under debuffs for a chance to drink, gamble, and laugh. There were a surprising number of small groups gathered around carefully tended campfires sharing jokes or having a bite to eat after a long shift.

I strolled leisurely, occasionally stopping to listen to the conversations, but never staying long enough to be invited to sit. Some part of me wanted to hate these people. They were the enemy, the folks coming to invade Alliance territory and strip us of the right to be free from corrupt politicians like Osmark and his billionaire cronies, who’d gamed the system. But as I listened, the fire in my belly went from a blazing inferno to a low smolder.

Honestly, they seemed no different than our guys.

Most of them complained about the long marches or reminisced about old times. Better times, back before the asteroid came. Some talked about games. Others, movies. A few even chatted about old books they missed. One fistful of warriors in heavy plate armor somberly discussed the battle not long off. Two were boastful and cocksure—reminding me instantly of Forge and a hundred other guys I knew just like him—while the others were nervous. Fearful, even.

I heard my name come up more than a few times.

About how I’d tamed dragons, and taken unconquerable cities in a day. Apparently, my campaign to create fear and awe was working, but surprisingly that made me feel worse, not better. I knew this was a war and that we needed every advantage to turn the odds in our favor—including fear, intimidation, and propaganda—but these weren’t bad people. Osmark was a crook no matter the motivation behind his actions, but these people were … Well, they were just people. Just trying to get by. To make the best of a difficult situation.

And tomorrow, I’d have to do my absolute damnedest to kill them, including the NPCs, who wouldn’t even have a chance to come back. I balled my hands into tight fists, dropped my face, and shuffled on, suddenly wanting to be away from here before I lost my nerve. I hooked right into a row mostly devoid of people and headed deeper into the camp—toward the hulking tent that had to be the command center. Osmark was there, no doubt, along with his generals, underlings, and fellow faction leaders.

Subconsciously, I knew it was stupid to go there—Osmark would be able to identify me, Anonymous or not—but I went anyway, pulled onward as if by magnetic force. Osmark was probably asleep, I told myself, but I wanted to see him anyway. Maybe I couldn’t hate the people out here, fighting his war, but him? Him I could hate. Him I could fight. And right now, with my resolve shaken and fraying, I needed to remind myself of why this war was necessary. It took me only seconds to slip down the row of darkened tents.

There were a pair of sentries standing watch at the entryway to the tent, but the front flap was open, and I could see warm yellow light spilling out onto the ground.

Maybe he was awake, after all.

I edged closer, absently running my hand over the head of my warhammer.

But then my steps faltered, and the hair on my arms stood rigid as a brassy klaxon rang out in the air. Clang-clang-clang. An alarm.

Was it me? Did someone spot me? I looked left, then right, searching for encroaching enemies, but there was no one. A heartbeat later, a sharp BOOM rose up from the supply yard not far off—the sure sound of an explosive charge. I wheeled toward the noise; a brilliant flash lit up the night followed closely by another thunderous BOOM. Wagons were burning in the distance, a giant plume of fire and smoke wafting toward the sky.

In a panic, I pulled up my interface and checked the time. No, no, no. That explosion was fifteen minutes too soon, which meant Cutter and Amara wouldn’t have had the chance they needed to get clear of the wagons. Something had gone wrong, though I wasn’t sure what. It didn’t matter, though, not really. My friends were in deep trouble and needed me—that was the only important thing now. I put the command tent to my back, dismissing Osmark from my head, and dashed toward the chaos.

TWENTY-THREE_

Chaos

More explosions ripped through the air from multiple points all over the camp—bright blossoms of light in the night—as the alarm bells clanged over and over again. Men and women scampered from their tents, most blurry-eyed and half dressed, clutching their weapons in uncertain hands. A cacophony of confused shouts followed me as I raced toward the supply wagons: What’s happening? Are we being attacked? What should we do? I ignored them all, laser-focused on the task at hand, and no one seemed to care.

I skittered around a corner, and the supply yard finally came into view.

Boy, was it a mess.

Imperial troops were everywhere, swarming the staging yard like a plague of locust, their weapons drawn, shields up. At least a dozen wagons burned—the wooden sides smoldering, the canvas coverings smoking profusely—and in the center of the blaze were Cutter and Amara. My friends were hemmed in on every side, and fought back to back, her using a conjured spear, him flashing his signature black blades. The pair twirled and moved in a deadly dance, lashing out with brutal efficiency against any Imperial bold enough to get close.

Amara moved like a cobra, working her spear with one hand while simultaneously lobbing strange glass grenades into the masses farther back. Those weren’t part of her class at all, but rather inventions Vlad had cooked up in his alchemy shop. Depending on the mixture within the glass hand grenade, those things could mimic just about any spell. She thrust her spear into the guts of a stocky Dwarven woman, temporarily pinning her in place, then used her body as a shield, before hurling an orb with gray gas into the Imperials directly behind the Dwarf.

The miniature bomb exploded with a soft whomp, releasing a low-clinging silver ground fog. Alchemist’s Toxic Cloud, I knew in an instant as people started keeling over, their eyes bulging while they clutched at their throats, gasping for air. The gas in the orb probably wouldn’t kill them all outright, but it would do in those with low HP, and put a serious hurtin’ on the rest for a few minutes.

Still, despite how well Cutter and Amara fought, they were badly outnumbered, and as the ranks pressed together, tightening like a noose, they’d soon be overpowered. And even though they had a port-scroll, there was no way they could get free long enough to activate it and slip away. What they needed was a distraction, and that I could certainly offer, but I needed to make it flashy.

I faltered for a moment, though, indecision warring inside me. I didn’t want to kill these Imperials. Not really. I didn’t want to fight a war at all, and these people were mostly innocent. They were pawns in something much bigger; pawns who’d been caught up by the manipulation and corruption of powerful men and women with dark, ignoble agendas. Most of them didn’t know why we were fighting or what was on the line. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let Cutter and Amara die—they were my friends, my family, and I’d do whatever I needed to see them get away.

I steeled myself, jaw clenching tight, and ripped the knockoff surcoat free. I tossed it to the ground before throwing back my hood, ensuring my face was plainly visible to anyone looking.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Cutter,

I’m about to draw their attention. As soon as you get an opening, I want you back in Ravenkirk, and I want you to drag Amara with you if it comes to that. And that’s not a suggestion, it’s an order.

—Jack

<<<>>>

I jotted off the PM, took one more deep breath, then thrust both hands into the air. I unleashed dual javelins of purple fire into the sky, threw back my head, and cackled at the top of my lungs. Though the Imperials in the yard kept fighting, the majority turned toward me on instinct, drawn by the strange noise and the burst of unnatural light.

“That’s right!” I shouted, killing the flames, lowering my hands, then drawing out my warhammer. “You all know who I am. Grim Jack Shadowstrider. I’m the one who spits in the face of the Empire.” My voice grew in heat and intensity until my words sizzled like a branding iron, fresh from the flames. “I’m the one who refuses to toe the line.” I paused, scanning the crowd, now thoroughly fixated on me. “I tame dragons.” I thrust my warhammer high. “I break kings and topple tyrants. I overthrow cities and make deals with demons. And I have the guts to walk into your camp and fight you all.”

I laughed again, sounding crazy in my own ears, but feeling a strange, heady exhilaration as I thrust my weapon forward like an accusing finger. “If you want to pick a fight with someone, why don’t you try me!”

Power welled up in my chest, surged down my arm, and exploded from the spike protruding from the top of my hammer. Dark energy lanced out, punching a hole in the fabric of reality, and in a flash a sentient cyclone of death and destruction roared into the camp, slamming into the assembled troops. Since V.G.O. scaled monsters and assigned quests suitable to each individual player’s level, it was easy to forget just how powerful I was.

Osmark was a higher level than me by a fair margin, but he was the only player higher than me at the moment. At this point, the level of most average players was right around twenty—though many of the other faction leaders were in the low thirties—approximately half my current level.

And that gap showed immediately.

My spell tore through the Imperial ranks like an Oklahoma twister through a trailer park. Soldiers screamed as gale-force winds picked them up and hurled them through the air like rag dolls. In a blink, a host of armor-clad bodies were raining from the sky, hitting the ground with meaty thwacks, while those who managed to stay on their feet were zapped with devastating bolts of shadow lightning. There were far too many troops for the Night Cyclone to take them all out, but the spell certainly seemed to give it the good ol’ college try anyway.

And whatever troops it didn’t finish off, I intended to. I threw one hand forward, conjuring Umbra Bog from the earth, ensnaring the milling masses in tendrils of inky black energy. Many fought against the writhing strands, and the spellcasters and archers among them started unleashing a deadly volley of steel-tipped arrows and powerful bursts of magic in my direction. I laughed again, triggering Shadow Stride and slipping into the Shadowverse before the barrage of projectiles could even come close to hitting me.

Time stopped with a jerk—arrows, fireballs, and blue ball lightning hung suspended in the air—and I casually strolled toward the ensnared Imperials. I slipped into their ranks, phasing through people as I walked, until I caught sight of Cutter and Amara. My display of maniacal laughter, coupled with my devastating use of Night Cyclone, had been quite the flashy distraction alright. The Legionnaires who’d been closing in on the pair were now focused entirely on me. As a result, Cutter and Amara had managed to slip out of the back and into a relatively safe pocket in between two intact wagons.

Amara was facing the action, frozen with a grimace on her face, her bow drawn and ready. Cutter was frozen with the port-scroll in his hands, one thumb on the verge of breaking the ribbon and activating the portal. Good. Satisfied that they’d make it out okay, I turned my attention on the Imperials.

Yes, Cutter and Amara were safe, so it made some sense to just cut and run, but I was feeling nearly indestructible and high on my own power. We’d come here to throw a wrench in their well-oiled machine, and nothing would throw more of a wrench then a couple hundred dead Imperials. Many of those wouldn’t come back, but even those that did would be struggling under the terrible Death’s Sting debuff, meaning they’d be far less effective during the upcoming battle.

Any edge was helpful, and I had an opportunity to make a difference here.

I slipped up behind a Risi Geomancer in heavy armor made entirely from gray stone. Boulders, some the size of my fist, others bigger than my head, hung frozen in the air around him like miniature planets orbiting a man-shaped sun. Sorcerer types were dangerous, but a hybrid class like a Geomancer was even more so. A player like that could cast some crazy spells and buffs while also hitting harder than a pro boxer. I stepped from the shadows in a cloud of swirling black soot and blasted the Risi in the back of the head with my hammer. Rock chips exploded away like shrapnel from the impact, and the Geomancer stumbled forward, hurt but not dead.

Before he could regain his balance, though, I pressed the attack, taking him out at the knees with another vicious blow, then unleashing an Umbra Bolt into his unprotected face at point-blank range.

Even better, I still had another thirty seconds on the Umbra Bog, which meant these suckers were stuck and mostly defensive. I darted into a pocket of resistance, twirling and spinning around struggling bodies, parrying clumsy strikes with my razor-edged vambraces. The whole while, my hammer whirled in tight arcs, smashing and bashing anyone in range. Blood flew and splashed as men and women fell, screaming in pain—and those were the lucky ones. A broken leg or shattered forearm, though painful, would heal in minutes.

Death, on the other hand, was not only painful and traumatizing, but it came with an eight-hour respawn time, a host of nasty accompanying debuffs which lasted for hours, and a loss of all current EXP. At level nineteen or twenty, that could mean losing thousands upon thousands of points, and undoing weeks’ worth of grinding and quests.

I saw a flash of opalescent light in the corner of my eye and turned just in time to see Cutter and Amara slip through a portal, which promptly snapped shut behind them. A huge weight I hadn’t even been aware of slipped from my shoulder. They were gone. Safe. A lopsided victory grin spread across my face as I turned back to the Imperials and the battle all around me. Clearly, something had gone wrong with our operation, but it was fine now. Osmark and his lackeys would be reeling from this assault for a while, and a few extra hours was all we needed.

It was high time for me to get gone.

The countdown timer on Umbra Bog finally hit zero and the spell faded and disappeared, freeing the Imperials to attack. I had another fifteen seconds or so before I could trigger Shadow Stride and make my getaway … except I didn’t need to. Instead of surging around me, the Imperials in the supply yard retreated as one, pulling back into a large circle with me at the middle. I saw why a second later as one edge of the ring parted, admitting a brown-haired Imperial with a wiry athletic build, a slightly crooked nose, and an angular face.

Robert Osmark.

Except this time around, he was sporting armor and gear I’d never seen anything like before.

I’d had a few meetings with Osmark, but he’d always worn dark slacks and a dark long-sleeve tunic. Clothes that would’ve looked normal on a tech billionaire back IRL, but which were out of place inside the world of V.G.O. Now, however, he’d done away with his low-key clothes in favor of something much more garish and flashy. Instead of traditional armor, he wore a sleek black suit—vaguely Victorian in design—studded with brass gears and covered with colorful, almost holographic, thread that created intricate patterns and complex sigils.

A short cape trailed down his back, while a black top hat sat perched on his head at a rakish angle. Instead of the wire-rimmed glasses I’d seen him in before, he now wore a set of leather-and-brass steampunk goggles with a series of telescoping lenses over one eye. “Jack,” he said, the word carrying in the suddenly still air. “I knew a direct confrontation was going to happen eventually. I must confess, though, I never imagined you’d be brazen or bold enough to try a stunt like this.” He waved a gloved hand around the chaos in the yard.

“But you continue to surprise me,” he said, slowly drawing into the circle of Imperial bodies, “though I have to say this move has a certain air of desperation to it.” He smirked at me, one hand coming to rest on the butt of what looked like an old-timey flintlock pistol. “Obviously, we caught you unaware with our maneuver and your defenses at Rowanheath aren’t prepared to hold us. So, you decided to stage a delaying tactic. You’re as predictable as a cheesy novel, and just as easy to read, I’m afraid.”

He cocked a condescending eyebrow at me, which drove me nuts since he was right. But I got the sense the words weren’t really for me at all. No, it almost seemed like they were for the Imperials around us. Which is when it dawned on me—he knew the power of propaganda too, and if he could knock me down here, in front of his men, that would be a huge morale booster.

“Tell yourself whatever you want, Osmark,” I replied, shooting for a casual tone while propping my blood-spattered warhammer against my shoulder. You don’t scare me, that look said. Nothing scares me. Not even a legion of soldiers. “The Alliance is going to wipe the floor with you at Rowanheath exactly the same way we wiped the floor with Carrera.” I paused, scanning the faces peering at me from the crowd. “And where is Carrera by the way? I haven’t seen much of him since that battle. I’ve heard he’s disappeared, just sort of vanished off the face of the map.”

Osmark offered me a fierce smile, filled with the promise of violence.

I knew what had happened to Carrera, of course—I’d stabbed him in the gut with a Hexblade, temporarily banishing him to the plane of Morsheim. No one aside from my inner crew, and Osmark himself, knew the details, and that only played into my mystique.

Osmark just shrugged noncommittally. “I replaced Carrera, of course,” he lied, the words smooth and effortless. “After all, I celebrate success, and anyone incompetent enough to lose an impenetrable city like Rowanheath to a thirty-two-year-old EMT doesn’t deserve to retain power. And that is what you really are, isn’t it, Jack?” He let the question—the accusation—linger in the air. “You’re just some dumb kid from San Diego who got lucky. You’re a nobody. Or, at best, a figurehead being manipulated by smarter, more talented people. But you and I, Jack”—he waved a hand between us—“well, we know the truth, don’t we?”

“You’re so full of crap, Osmark,” I said with a snarl. “You’re a liar and a cheater. And you’re afraid of me. You’re afraid of what I know, and what I can do.”

He threw back his head and laughed, clutching at his belly. It was all a giant show, I had no doubt. Osmark didn’t strike me as a man who laughed—not about anything, ever—but this wasn’t for me, I reminded myself. This was about him. About saving face. About making some sort of point in front of the Imperials assembled around me.

“You talk a big game, Jack,” he said, his false laughter finally dying off. “And I’ll admit you’re an effective and likeable mouthpiece, but we know I’m not scared of you. I’ll fight you right now, Jack. By myself, with no aid from my supporters because I don’t need their help. What do you say, Jack? Care to demonstrate what exactly you’re made of? Or are you scared you can’t back up all the legends sprouting around you?”

I thought for a second, pursing my lips as uncertainty constricted my chest. Is he serious? Can I trust that he wouldn’t backstab me somehow?

No, his offer was probably good.

If he challenged me outright then did something underhanded, it would only serve to hurt his credibility with the assembled Legionnaires, and credibility was what this whole act was all about. But why make the offer at all? There was no way he could beat me in a fair fight. He was a higher level than me, sure, but the guy was wearing Victorian-era dinner clothing—he hardly looked like a fighter. Doubtless, he was dangerous, but probably not in a one-on-one fight.

My best guess? He was bluffing through his teeth.

He probably wanted me to run, to show all his troops how spineless I was and dispel the mythical hold of Grim Jack Shadowstrider.

“You’re on, Osmark. And I’m going to bury you.”

“Best of luck,” he replied with self-assurance.

Time to wipe that look off his smug, goggle-wearing face.

TWENTY-FOUR_

Face-off

Night Cyclone and Umbra Bog were both on cooldown, so I’d just have to do this the ol’-fashioned way: by hitting him a lot in the head with my hammer. I darted forward, but he just stood there unmoving, one palm resting on the butt of his pistol. At ten feet out, I threw one hand forward, conjuring a column of Umbra Flame bright enough to leave afterimages stained on my eyes. The fire roared through the night, but Osmark still refused to move. Instead, he simply tossed out a square copper plate, about the size of a small Frisbee and just as thick.

Burning runes and intricate geometric patterns were inscribed across the top of the plate.

A small blue light appeared on the disc, and a moment later, a semitranslucent black portal appeared in the air before Osmark. Instead of diverting my attack the way my conjured shield did, the barrier seemed to drink up the flame like dry ground getting a taste of water for the first time. No matter how much fire I pumped into the black wall, it just vanished—gone in the blink of an eye. Begrudgingly, I cut off the attack, not wanting to waste more Spirit on something so clearly ineffective.

The second I cut the flows of magic, the black portal disappeared—and promptly opened in the air above my head. Fire rained down in a torrent, washing over my skin and scorching my armor as my HP plummeted. With a scream, I threw myself into a lightning-fast roll away from the torrent of flesh-melting death. I quickly came back to my feet, but everything hurt: my skin tight, red, and raw, blisters sprouting up along uncovered flesh. I glanced back and noticed the wormhole—which is what it had to be—was still open, dumping out the rest of the magic I’d fed into the portal.

I wanted to kick myself—somehow, I’d managed to set myself on fire. Again. I needed to up my game.

For a second, my hand darted toward my belt and the Regen potion waiting there, but then I decided against it. The pain was immense, but this was a straight-up PvP fight, and using an HP potion was an admission of weakness. Of failure. So instead, I gritted my teeth, fought through the pain, and triggered Shadow Stride. The world crept to a standstill, and I took a long moment to breathe deeply. Okay, Osmark had a couple of fancy tricks up his sleeve, but I had a few of my own.

I stalked closer, halting just a few feet from Osmark, searching his smug features.

He didn’t look worried in the least. Yes, we were at his base of operations, surrounded by his troops, but even with that as a given, he seemed so self-assured. What did he know that I didn’t? I circled toward his back and dropped into Stealth with my warhammer upraised. I could’ve stepped out, then, but decided to wait. With Shadow Stride at level four, I could spend an entire minute inside the Shadowverse, and while in the Shadowverse my Health and Spirit Regen rate both jumped by a whopping 20%.

Considering how much damage I’d sustained from my own stupid flame spell, I needed all the extra HP I could come by.

So, I waited patiently while my HP and Spirit bars slowly crept up and my timer wound down. I tightened my grip on my warhammer as the timer hit zero and the real world lurched back into herky-jerk life. I swung my hammer, spike out, right at Osmark’s temple. The guy didn’t even try to move. The spike landed with a sickening crack, blood trickling down his pale cheek as his head snapped to the side. I grinned—a hit like that, with a backstab multiplier, Black Caress, and Savage Blow, would put down even the most heavily armored foe.

And Osmark wasn’t even wearing a helmet.

But he didn’t drop. No, he straightened his head and dabbed at the smear of blood along his temple with one finger. Even worse, his HP bar hadn’t moved more than a fraction of an inch.

The grin melted from my face like ice in the summer sun.

He wheeled around with impossible speed, and suddenly he was facing me, that smug look still glued in place. “Is that what all the fuss is about?” he asked, voice oozing with condescension. “You sneak up on people and hit them in the head with a silly hammer? I must say, I’m rather unimpressed. Why don’t you try again?”

My brow furrowed in a mixture of concern and frustration. I didn’t know what game Osmark was playing here, but he didn’t need to ask me twice to lay down a beating. I surged into motion, swinging my hammer in a lightning-fast flurry, smashing and jabbing at him from every side, moving with a speed and efficiency driven into me through long hours of practice and countless battles. Each blow landed with a solid thud, and my spike ripped through his flimsy outfit like a hot knife through a pad of butter.

I knew deep down those blows had to hurt, they had to, but Osmark took each assault stoically, going so far as to fold his hands behind his back as though he were bored.

His HP bar did drop as I attacked, but far too slowly. Even after six or seven solid hits—any one of which would one-shot most players—his HP was only down by a fifth. Heck, even most high-level tanks in heavy armor couldn’t absorb that kind of sheer devastation unfazed. Either he had insanely high resistance to physical attacks, or he had an obscene amount of vitality.

I snarled and thrust my free hand forward, dousing him in purple flame from three feet away. The fire washed over him, burning so brightly I had to squint against the light. Still, he didn’t move, and when I killed the fire a few seconds later, I noticed his HP bar had only moved by another fraction of an inch. It was unlikely he had insanely high resistance to both physical damage and magical damage, which meant obscene vitality. But how? I wondered. He was obviously some sort of wizard or crafter, so how could he have vitality levels like that?

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Jack,” he said, shaking his head, hands still behind him. “Is that all you have? Really? And you scared my Legion so much. Why don’t you let me show you how it’s done?” He struck like a cobra the second the last word left his mouth. I’m fast—it’s built into my class—but somehow Osmark was faster. His left hand shot out, latching around my throat like a python, squeezing down on my trachea, making it almost impossible to breathe. I gasped, prying at his hand with my fingers, lashing out at his head with my warhammer.

He ignored my blows and lifted me by the neck into the air until my feet dangled and kicked feebly, half a foot above the ground.

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Suffocation: You are being suffocated, you suffer 10 points of Stamina damage each second until you can breathe once more.

If your Stamina reaches 0, you will die.

Current estimated time of death: 35 seconds.

<<<>>>

I continued to fight and flail against his hand as blackness crept in on the edges of my vision—in the back of my head, however, I couldn’t help but wonder how this was possible. An insanely high HP and enough strength to lift me into the air single-handedly? I wasn’t sure even Forge, with his insane Risi fighter strength, could pull something like this off.

“You see, Jack,” Osmark said, drawing in close, his lips only inches from my ear, “I’ve studied you. I know you inside and out. What attacks you use. How you fight. How you think. I know exactly what to expect from you because you’ve shown me over and over again. But me? No one knows what I’m capable of, and they never will—not unless I want them to.”

He drew back, fetched the pistol at his side, and pressed the barrel into my gut. “You’ve shown your hand,” he continued, his normally warm voice now cold, hard, and unforgiving, “and that is why you’ll lose. You’ve been playing against amateurs, drug dealers, and miscreants. Not anymore. I am better than you, Jack. Stronger than you. Smarter than you.” His finger squeezed down on the trigger, once, twice, three times, rat-tat-tat, and fiery agony bloomed in my stomach as my life dropped by a quarter.

I groped at my stomach, still wheezing, and knew deep down I was probably going to die a slow death at Osmark’s hand. A second later, however, he surprised me again by tossing me away like a used paper cup. I landed in the clearing with a thud, a small puff of brown dust twirling around me. I pushed myself up onto shaky hands, then slowly gained my feet with every eye fixed on me—weighing me, reassessing me. This is the legendary Grim Jack? those gazes seemed to ask.

Then, before I could even think, Osmark fished several small gray orbs from a leather belt slung low around his waist. Six of the grenades flew at once, flicked with deadly precision, landing in a semicircle around me. The second the metal orbs touched down, they exploded in a spray of smoke and black shrapnel, releasing thousands of metal spikes into the air. The spits of razor-sharp steel blanketed the ground like thorns, peppering my ankles, calves, and feet. Somehow, the little buggers penetrated my thick leather armor, digging painfully into my flesh, drawing blood to the surface.

A new combat debuff appeared:

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Caltrop: You have been ensnared by caltrops! Your movement rate is reduced by 85%; duration, 1 minute.

<<<>>>

I dismissed the notification with a grimace and hobbled forward, each step painful and ponderously slow. Osmark just stood at the far side of the clearing, smirking at me, not even trying to end me, though it was obvious he could. Which meant the jerk was showboating. “It’s not fun being trapped, is it, Jack?” he said. “It’s even worse fighting against an enemy you can’t seem to touch. And me? I’m as untouchable as they come.” He threw out two more orbs, these the size of cantaloupes and built from gleaming steel.

The orbs thudded down on the ground ten feet apart, exploding to life with a whirl and a flash of brilliant electric-blue light.

When the glaring glow finally faded, the orbs were gone. In their place were two mechanical turrets, each about waist high, balanced on spindly tripods and constructed of copper tubing, brass fixtures, and hundreds of clanking cogs. I slowed and swallowed hard—I’d never seen anything like those in the game, but they looked incredibly similar to steam-powered Gatling guns. Osmark winked at me, aiming his finger at me like a pistol, and suddenly the turret on the left roared to life with a thunderous racket.

The weapon vomited a constant stream of bullets my way, its six barrels rotating clockwise as it fired.

I scrambled back on unsteady legs, but the damned metal spits made it nearly impossible to move. The first rounds punched into my side, digging through my armor and jabbing into my muscles like a swarm of angry bees. They didn’t do nearly as much damage as real bullets would—and not as much raw damage as Osmark’s handheld pistol had dealt out—but it was still excruciating. And with the sheer volume of shots fired, my HP quickly dropped. I fought to get my arm up, but then the second turret started in.

And this one wasn’t shooting bullets. It was shooting rockets.

Rockets.

Like little arrow-tipped, jet-propelled missiles.

With bullets plowing into me on the left, rockets firing on the right, and red-hot pain rampaging through my body, it was so hard to think clearly. I whipped my right hand up, ready to summon Dark Shield, but the first rocket plowed into my shoulder, exploding with enough force to lift me from my feet and slam me into the spike-littered ground. The blanket of caltrops clawed at my back, neck, and triceps—holy crap, it felt like falling into a bed of tacks. A groan of agony escaped my lips, and a big part of me insisted on just lying there.

But if I did that, I was dead.

So instead, I pushed myself onto a knee and finally thrust one hand forward, conjuring Dark Shield. A barrier of shimmering violet light sprung to life in front of me, absorbing the deadly barrage of bullets and rockets before they could strip my diminishing HP any further. And truth be told, my life bar was flashing an angry warning at me already, alerting me in no uncertain terms that I couldn’t afford to lose much more life. Worse, the machine turrets were still firing strong, with no sign of letting up, and my Spirit gauge was dropping fast.

I knew at that moment, there was no way to win this fight. None.

I’d come unprepared, and I’d made the same mistake the Imperials had time and time again: I’d underestimated my opponent. I’d assumed Osmark was dangerous as a person, but not necessarily as a player. Well, he’d just taken me to school and taught me how wrong I’d been. So, the only options left here were dying or running. Going out in a blaze of glory might’ve appealed to some, but not me. I wasn’t too proud to admit I’d made a mistake, and dying would only compound that mistake further.

Time to run, then, which is what I should’ve done in the first place.

Shadow Stride was still on cooldown, as was Night Cyclone, but Umbra Bog wasn’t, and I also had one other major trump card: Devil. But I needed to be quick.

I took one deep breath—in through the nose out through the mouth—and dismissed the waning Dark Shield in the same instant I conjured Devil from the Shadowverse. A cloud of smoke erupted in front of me as the Drake appeared, but I was already concentrating on Umbra Bog. I stashed my warhammer and cast the AoE hold spell beneath Osmark’s feet. Black tendrils sprouted from the ground like sickly, oversized tree roots, and they immediately snagged Osmark and any Imperial troops inside a twenty-foot radius.

I could hear the continued buzz of gunfire as the turrets whirled, but now, the bullets and rockets slapped against Devil’s scaly hide instead of mine. The Drake let out a furious roar of challenge, then hunched down, craned his neck forward, and spewed deadly Umbra Flame out in a wide arc. I ignored all that, shuffling over to Devil on bloody feet while everyone else was distracted. Get us out of here, I sent, grabbing onto the reins and pulling myself into the saddle.

The Drake didn’t even bother to respond. He just crouched, let out one more ground-shaking, bone-rattling roar of defiance then broke into a lumbering gait straight toward Osmark. I felt a jerk as his head slammed into something, but then we were in the air, his wings pumping as he carried us above the camp. In a matter of seconds, we were thirty feet up, but instead of heading out, Devil wheeled around, giving me one more view of Osmark. He stared up at me, smug satisfaction oozing off him in waves.

“That’s right, Jack,” he called at me, cupping one hand around his mouth, “run away. Run as far and as fast as you can. But don’t get too comfortable, because we’ll be seeing you again very soon. And then you and I will settle our business properly.”

TWENTY-FIVE_

Calm Before the Storm

I stumbled through the shimmering portal and into the dense tangle of trees on the edge of the Avilynn, wheezing for air, fumbling a Health Regen potion from my belt. The gateway snapped shut behind me with an audible pop, cutting short the cheers echoing from the Imperial camp in the distance. I shuddered thinking about the beating while my cheeks burned with a combination of anger and embarrassment. Osmark had played me like a fiddle. He’d made me look stupid in front of the entire Imperial camp, and had undone weeks and months of hard work.

Rumors about that fight would spread like wildfire, boosting the morale of the Legion while casting an ugly shadow of doubt among our troops.

After all, if I couldn’t beat Osmark one-on-one, what chance did we have against the entire Legion—especially since we were so badly outnumbered?

No. I crushed that line of thought in its tracks. I’d lost a battle, but that was far from losing the war, and we’d set things right at Ravenkirk. And I couldn’t lay the fault entirely at Osmark’s feet. He’d played me, sure, but only because I’d allowed myself to be played. Taking out all of those low-level Imperials had left me feeling cocky, and that’s what Osmark had exploited. I never should’ve let him bait me into that fight—I’d done that, not him, and I needed to own it.

I would own it, and I’d do better in the future. Maybe I couldn’t fix the mess back in the camp, but I’d never underestimate Osmark again.

I popped the cork from the Regen potion and downed the contents, sighing as sweet relief flooded through my system in a wave, repairing burned and lacerated tissue, plus a myriad of other aches and pains. I tossed the bottle into a bush and set off for the town, its lights shining in the night like happy fireflies beckoning me onward. I pulled up my interface as I walked, checked the time—just after three in the morning—then pulled up my Faction Inbox.

It was too late in the game to change our defenses, but the Alliance officers needed to know what I’d seen. I quickly tagged the relevant names—Cutter, Abby, Otto, Forge, Vlad, Chief Kolle, Anton, General Caldwell—then jotted off a quick message:

<<<>>>

Faction Message: Ravenkirk

Emergency Officer meeting at the Ravenkirk Inn. Wrap up whatever you’re doing and be there in fifteen.

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>>

“Halt, who goes there?” came a whip crack voice as I closed out from my interface.

I paused and lifted my hands skyward as a trio of Murk Elf Rangers materialized from the night-brushed landscape like angry ghosts. They wore terrifying bone helms painted with swirling Dokkalfar symbols for strength and honor; each also carried a recurve bow, all of them drawn and trained on me. I knew without a doubt that if there were three I could see, there were three more I couldn’t since Murk Elf patrols typically ran in squads of six—their holy number.

I lifted my face and lowered my hood, and I knew with their racial Night Eye ability it would be next to impossible to miss the Crown of the Jade Lord perched on top of my head.

“Apologies,” the guard said, her words flat and largely unapologetic. The Murk Elves were like that, though. They could apologize to your face while implying by their tone that you were the one in the wrong.

I waved the not-apology away with one hand. “None needed, Ahrak,” I replied, using the Dokkalfar word for worthy guardian. “You’re doing your job. Keep doing it well,” I said, thinking back to how easily we’d managed to infiltrate the Imperial camp. She nodded her reply, and in seconds, the three visible guards vanished, cloaked in Stealth and swallowed by the night as they resumed their patrol of the town’s perimeter. I worked my way through the side streets and toward the Fragile Fiddle.

I shouldered my way through the door and into a mostly abandoned common room.

A welcoming orange fire roared in the stone hearth and our temporary innkeeper, Kether, tended to the bar, polishing glasses with a white rag.

The small platform in the corner, meant for a bard, was empty, and most of the tables were vacant, save for one, which was loaded down with piles of food and good drink. There were meat pies with flaky crusts, thick stews with steam wafting off, plates of hot bread, and turkey legs stacked in a pile. There was even a large batch of apple crisp; the aroma was a combination of tart and cinnamon sweet, which was absolutely mouthwatering.

Anton, Chief Kolle, Cutter, Amara, and Vlad were present—lounging around the table, picking at food without much vigor—but General Caldwell, Otto, and Abby were still absent.

Most of the gathered crew greeted me with wide smiles and friendly hand waves, but Cutter nearly bounded out of his seat with a grin, his gaze brightening. “Bloody hells, is it good to see you, friend. After that row back in the camp, I wasn’t sure you’d get out in time.” He paused, his face growing oddly somber. “The reports aren’t so good, Jack. Four of the crew haven’t reported in—dead probably, though three out of the four will respawn. Neriah, though …” He trailed off, shaking his head, brow furrowed.

It was hard to remember everyone in the Alliance, but it was easy to picture Neriah in my mind. A whip-thin man garbed in dark leathers, wielding a pair of wicked blades, his cowl constantly pulled up to hide his scar-etched face. I’d met him back on my first day in V.G.O.—he’d been standing guard in the Broken Dagger and later helped me and Cutter gain access to the Plague Tunnels beneath Rowanheath. Cutter wasn’t one to get overly sentimental, but I knew those two were friends with a long history.

I said nothing, but headed for the table and plopped down on his right side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” I said, my voice low, feeling a twinge of guilt as if this were all my fault somehow.

“It’s nothing you did, Jack,” Cutter replied, shrugging free of my hand. “He knew the dangers going in—we all did. You. Me. Amara. Bloody Nick. Jessie Blackhands. Mark the Shive. And Neriah, too. ’Sides, I’m surprised that sod made it this long,” he joked, a lopsided grin on his face that I knew he didn’t feel. “A thief’s work is dangerous, mate. And a saboteur’s work even more so.”

I nodded, not wanting to press him any further. “What happened back there anyway?” I said, reaching over and grabbing a fat turkey leg dripping with grease from a nearby platter. I took a huge mouthful, and salty, savory flavor exploded across my tongue like a bomb blast. God, the food here was good.

“A mistake,” Cutter replied with a grimace, every tired eye in the room fixed on him. “Some blighted tosser stumbled across us after we planted the last bomb. The bloke wasn’t even supposed to be there—he ducked off for a bit of shut-eye, and practically tripped over us in the process. Rotten luck is what it was. Nothing more. Nothing you can even plan for.” He dropped his face and lifted a tankard full of ale, swishing it absently, eyes tracking the swirl of amber liquid.

The front door swung inward with a crack, admitting Abby and Otto, both looking frazzled and harried by the sudden summons.

“Jack,” Abby said, her words cutting through the somber tension, her eyes locking on me like a homing missile. “We got your message—is everything okay?”

She hurried across the floor as Otto secured the door, barring it from the inside with a thick plank of wood.

“There should be one more coming,” I called out to Otto, ignoring Abby’s question for the moment. We had a lot to do, and I didn’t want to waste time by going through the story more than once. “We’re waiting on General Caldwell.”

“No,” Chief Kolle intoned from across the table. “He sent me a reply. He’s out with the scouting forces—it would’ve been impossible to make it back in time, not to mention unwise. The Legion is already up and mobilizing in response to the attack. Likely our maneuver has bought us a little time, but not as much as we’d hoped. Now, why don’t you tell us what this is all about, Jack?”

Abby sat down next to me and slipped her hand into mine, our fingers intertwining, before giving my palm a little squeeze. “Whatever it is, Jack,” she said, leaning her shoulder into me, “it’ll be okay. We can handle this. We can handle anything.” Though she looked half-dead from exhaustion, she offered me a fierce smile that said, we will not be conquered.

I sighed, squeezed her hand back, then cleared my throat. “It’s hard to know where to start here—we raided the camp and dealt out some pretty significant damage, but it wasn’t without costs and casualties. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. What I really need to talk to you about is Osmark. He and I finally went toe-to-toe, and well …”

I faltered, the words a bitter pill in my mouth. “He mopped the floor with me,” I finally said, hanging my head. “But it’s more than that. He was fast, strong, smart. And he had tech that I’ve never seen before. Not even close. He had guns …” I told them about the rest of the encounter in fits and starts, trying to explain exactly what I’d seen, but failing to do it justice. Vlad—more than anyone else—stopped me often, asking for very specific descriptions as he scribbled furiously on a notepad.

“This, I think,” he said as I finally finished, “must be the work of the Artificers.”

“Artificers?” Abby and Otto asked almost as one.

“Da,” the Russian replied with a nod. “The steamwork pieces we apprehended in the last caravan is the work of a specialty class of engineers, known as Artificers. Perhaps,” he said, scratching thoughtfully at his chin, “Osmark himself is such a weaponeer. Until now, we have seen precious little of these Artificers because Osmark has been capturing them. Erasing all signs of them. Perhaps he has done so for this reason—so that we will not know what to expect until it is too late. Like I said earlier, Jack. Pizdets, nam pizdets. We are screwed.” He shrugged his shoulders.

“So you’re throwing in the towel?” I asked, skewering Vlad with a steely glare. “Just calling it quits?”

The Russian snorted, shook his head, and folded his arms. “Not at all. I’m Russian. Russians, we never quit. Never. You give us nothing but beets to eat? We will make borscht, eat it for every meal, and be happy about it. How do we win? I do not know, but”—he leaned across the table and slapped me on the shoulder—“we will not quit. And perhaps there is a way yet.” He hesitated, a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Yes, perhaps. But I must get back to my lab. There are experiments to run. Potions to brew. But you, Jack?” He cocked an eyebrow, cataloging me. “You should sleep. A long day is ahead of us, and you must be in fine form at the helm.”

“He’s right, Jack,” Abby agreed. “You’re the most powerful player we have. I know you don’t want to rest while the rest of us work, but we need you ready. Osmark will be here in a few hours, and if anyone is going to be able to take him out, it’s you. So go, we’ve got this covered.” She stood and yanked on my arm, gently but insistently.

I looked around and found supportive faces staring back at me. “Thanks, you guys,” I said. “I mean it.” Then because I hate goodbyes—and I hate being stuck on the spot even more—I turned and headed for the stairs leading up to the guest rooms. “I’m not going back to Rowanheath, though,” I called over one shoulder, my hand gripping the wooden rail. “I’ll be close by, so please wake me up the second you need me.” I tromped up the steps, my feet aching, my legs tired, as the murmur of conversation kicked up behind me.

The stairs let out in a wide hallway flanked on either side by stout wooden doors. Most of them were closed and locked—no doubt being used by the day shift players, who’d be up in a few hours—but one door near the end of the hall stood ajar. I pushed my way into a tiny room with heavily scuffed floorboards, a crudely built wardrobe next to a cloudy window, a small pedestal with a basin of steaming water, and a narrow twin bed covered by a green woolen blanket.

Not the Master Suite of Darkshard Keep, but I didn’t care. At this point, all I wanted was some shut-eye—the where didn’t matter. I stripped off my armor, tossing it unceremoniously into the cabinet, splashed a little hot water across my face and neck, then flopped onto the bed. I rolled onto my back with a groan, not even bothering to wedge myself under the covers. I blinked, my eyes growing heavy, when a new message dinged in my ear, drawing me back from the edge of sleep.

Stifling a yawn with my fist, I pulled up my interface, only to be inundated with a flood of notices:

<<<>>>

Ability: Shadow-Spark

Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 6

Cost: None

Effect: Umbra unlocked. All Shadow-based skill stats are increased by 3% per Shadow-Spark level (Current: 18%).

<<<>>>

Skill: Stealth

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 14

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect: Stealth 29% chance to hide from enemies (+18% augmented Stealth).

<<<>>>

Skill: Backstab

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 12

Cost: 20 Stamina

Effect 1: A brutal backstab attack can be activated while an adventurer is in Stealth. 7x normal damage with a knife; 5x normal damage with all other weapons.

Effect 2: 13% increased chance of critical hit while backstabbing.

<<<>>>

Skill: Blunt Weapons

Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 17

Cost: None

Effect: Increases blunt weapon damage by 37%; increases blunt weapon attack rate by 8%.

<<<>>>

Skill: Medium Armor

Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 9

Cost: None

Effect 1: 23% increased base armor rating while wearing Medium Armor.

Effect 2: +5.5% additional increased base armor rating for every piece of Medium Armor worn.

<<<>>>

Huh, apparently killing all of those Legion soldiers had done some serious good for my skills, even if Osmark had beaten me into the ground. I idly looked the notifications over, too tired to really care, then dismissed the lot of them and pulled up my personal Inbox. My blood immediately began to boil as I saw the name attached to the message: Robert Osmark.

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Jack,

I wanted to let you know that I didn’t enjoy crushing you in front of my men, and despite what I said, I do respect you—you’re smart, tough, and resourceful. You may not have achieved much in your previous life, but you’ve accomplished some truly impressive feats inside V.G.O. Moreover, I believe you aren’t in this for power, fame, or money. I think you’re fighting for something you truly believe in, and that too is admirable.

I doubt you’ll believe me, but I see a lot of myself in you. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, Jack. My mother died when I was young, and my father worked long hours as an IT service rep. I made myself, Jack. And V.G.O.? This was my dream, the thing I believed in more than anything else.

So, as I said, I see a bit of myself in you. And for that reason, I’m willing to extend the olive branch one last time. Honestly, I have very few illusions that there will be a peaceful solution to our situation, but regardless of what you may think, I always prefer diplomacy over violence. But make no mistake, Jack, I can be very violent if I need to. I don’t like hurting people, but I’m good at it. And very soon violence will be the only option left on the table. You’ve seen my forces, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Please believe me when I say I have weapons you can’t even begin to imagine.

You have until I arrive at Rowanheath to make up your mind. Surrender publicly to me, make peace with the Empire, and I will pass you by. I’ll even throw my support openly behind you and let you govern your cities with very little outside influence. I said earlier I thought you were smart, prove me right here and take the deal.

—Robert Osmark

<<<>>>

I closed the message with a growl. We were well beyond olive branches, and our inevitable conflict would come much sooner than he could imagine. And if everything went according to plan, he’d be the one bleeding in the dirt. That thought chased me into the dark as I closed my eyes and drifted off.

TWENTY-SIX_

Wake-up Call

A hand landed on my shoulder, rocking me urgently, and a voice cut through the incoherent dreams frolicking through my sleep-addled brain. The voice was vaguely familiar, but the words sounded like utter, incomprehensible gibberish in my ears. I cracked one eye open—harsh light from the window stabbed at my pupil—then groaned, flipping over onto my side. “Go away,” I mumbled, drawing the scratchy wool blanket up higher over my shoulders. “I’ve been asleep for like ten minutes. I’m not ready to get up.”

The shaking came again, this time more insistently. “Sorry, mate,” Cutter said, the words finally sounding like English. “You’ve been down for about nine hours. It’s just after one in the afternoon, and General Caldwell is back with the scouts. And it’s bad news at best. Osmark and the Legion are less than three hours out. They’ll be here by four, and that’s if they don’t pick up the pace.” He shook his head, a scowl stealing across his features. “The raid bought us maybe four hours—I don’t have a clue how that sod, Osmark, got everyone up and moving so quickly, but he did.”

That sure woke me up in a hurry. I shot up and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, leaning back on my hands. “Any word on the Dokkalfar War Bands?” I asked, my mind still hazy, though things were clearing by the second. Unless Chakan had managed to whip the War Bands into a frenzy and drive them through the night, they wouldn’t be here in time. Not if the Legion was due to arrive inside three hours. Heck, even if they managed to get here, they’d have huge debuffs stacked against them.

Cutter pursed his lips into a tight line. “No good, mate. That big bastard Chakan, well he’s doing his damnedest according to Chief Kolle, but he probably won’t get in range until six. Which means we’ll need to hold the Legion for two hours.” He paused, drumming his fingers against his thighs. “Two hours is a long time in a fight like this. It’ll be tough, but we’ll manage. Now come on, you lazy sack, time to get moving.” He hoofed it over to the wardrobe in three quick strides, pulled opened the wooden doors, and hurled my armor at me.

It landed on the bed with a thud.

“And,” he said with a slick grin and a wink, “I even got you sustenance for the road.” He lifted his hands, waving them this way then that—in a blink, a fat cinnamon roll, covered in thick frosting, appeared in one hand, and a large porcelain mug appeared in the other. From the steam wafting from the cup and the aroma invading the room, I knew it was coffee. I had no idea how he’d done his sleight-of-hand magic trick, but then he was the best thief in the Alliance. And in the end, I didn’t care. I was just grateful for the thought.

I hastily slipped from the bed and geared up, then gratefully accepted the breakfast items as we headed from the room and down the stairs, ready to take on the day.

The next three hours passed by in a blur. There were so many things to do, but because the Imperial scouts were out in force, we had to do it all in secret. We inspected the tunnels and moved from house to house and shop to shop, popping in to shake hands and give brief words of encouragement before moving on to the next in line. Though many of the Alliance members looked nervous, our presence seemed to help a little. Most of our important meetings also happened as we stalked through the belowground tunnels.

General Caldwell stopped by for a moment to report before excusing himself. The poor guy was covered in blood, his feathers badly singed—he looked like he could use a week in bed. He wouldn’t rest though, I knew. Not the general. Vlad, Anton, and Chief Kolle also shadowed me at various points, relaying troop placements or bringing up last-minute concerns. Unfortunately, Abby was gone, back to Rowanheath to oversee the defenses there—not having her around stung, but I knew it was for the best.

After all, Ravenkirk was only a stopgap measure in the long run, and we needed to keep focused on our efforts elsewhere.

Out of all my visitors and advisors, though, Vlad’s presence was the most soothing. True to his word, while I’d been snoozing he’d been busy tinkering away on some way to defend against steam-powered machine guns. The very idea seemed absurd to me—how could you fight against an automatically firing Gatling gun?—but surprisingly, he’d engineered a whole batch of metal-corroding acid grenades.

He presented me with glass orbs, each the size of a tennis ball, filled with a sludgy green goo that resembled bog muck. Except he insisted they would oxidize anything metal in seconds, corroding it to uselessness. He hoped. And though the tech was untested against Osmark’s Artificer weaponry, Vlad had nevertheless ordered his crew working through most of the night and morning to produce enough of the orbs to equip every frontline defender with half a dozen of the things.

And me? My inventory was filled with a box of twenty. I had my fingers crossed that I’d be able to teach Osmark a thing or two yet.

Now, all that was left to do was wait for the Legion to show, and it wouldn’t be much longer. A handful of minutes at most. Cutter, Amara, Forge, and I were hunkered down in the Avilynn, biding the remainder of our time, silently surveying the lush field on the east side of Ravenkirk. An odd sense of déjà vu invaded me as we waited for our moment to strike. In many ways, this was almost exactly like our ambush against the Imperial caravan—just on a much larger scale.

There were differences, though.

For one, the Timberland Grove in West Viridia was a far more comforting forest than the dark tangles of the Avilynn. And two, we hadn’t been surrounded by undead then. Even with my sensitive Murk Elf eyes, it was damn hard to pick out Jo-Dan’s troops tucked away in the inky shadows of the forest, but they were there all right. Skeletal faces staring out with crimson eyes. Corpse Hounds waiting with ripping jaws. Hulking Blood Golems flexing bloody hands. Jo-Dan had even kindly sent us the fifteen-foot-tall Franken-Zombie, called the [Ravaging Devourer].

The Devourer was a level boss, and a hard hitter if ever there was one. He waited even farther back—a secret weapon for when the fight escalated.

A quarter mile farther down, the Alliance mounted cavalry waited beneath the canopy, ready to ride at the drop of a hat and drive the Imperials into the deadly clutches of Ravenkirk. The spiderkin were all absent, staged instead in the Storme Marshes on the far side of the clearing, along with most of our foot troops. When the time came, the foot division would circle to the rear, ensuring the Legion didn’t fall back too far. We wanted the Legion in the town proper, where they’d be vulnerable to our forces and deadly traps.

“You ready for this?” Forge grunted, slapping my shoulder and drawing me from my thoughts. “Take a look,” he whispered, gesturing toward the rolling green field beyond.

I stole a quick look from behind a thick oak, surveying the colossal meadow and noting the black tide encroaching along the eastern horizon. Osmark. He and the Ever-Victorious Empire, in all its indomitable glory, carried forward behind a wall of shields and gleaming steel. I glanced up through the leafy canopy overhead and spotted flocks of winged Accipiter scouts scouring the land, looking for signs of our presence.

“Looks like we’re about to get dirty.” He trailed his fingers longingly over the leather-wrapped handle of his hulking battle-axe. “I say good. High time we squared off with these Empire-loving dickheads. I can’t wait to give ’em a taste of ol’ glory, here. Show ’em that freedom is alive and well.”

Cutter snorted and rolled his eyes from my other side. “Glad you feel that way, friend,” he muttered, both of his daggers already out and ready. “When the fighting starts, I’ll make sure to stand behind you. You can catch all the arrows for me.”

Amara gave Cutter a flat, chiding stare. “You can stand behind me if you are so afraid.” She cocked an eyebrow at him—just a fraction of an inch, but noticeable. “I’ll protect you from the bad men.”

“Har, har, har,” Cutter mumbled. “We’ll just see who racks up the most corpses. I’ll bet you fifteen gold I get more confirmed kills than you.”

“Only fifteen?” she replied, clearly unimpressed. “I will bet thirty, and—should you win—I will even permit you to take me out in celebration.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. “You have not seen the way Dokkalfar women celebrate. You will be lucky to survive.”

I blocked out all three of them as a cold chill raced along my spine. The Legion was so close now, but this was the most dangerous phase of the plan. The part where everything could go sideways.

Ravenkirk was not a fortified city by any stretch of the imagination, and right now our people were sitting ducks, ready to be blasted from existence by Imperial siege engines. The giant grassy field in front of Ravenkirk was an ideal spot to make camp, though. If we could draw them in that far unnoticed, then between our mounted cavalry and hidden foot troops, we’d hem them in and force them to fight in close, where we had the advantage.

But it would only take one careless player to give us away and ruin everything before we even got the ambush off the ground.

I waited, muscles tense, as the minutes crawled by and the first Imperials started to trickle by our position, tromping through the grass, leaving broad swatches of flattened vegetation in their wake. At first, it was a trickle, but then more and more tromped by—most on foot, though some on horses and more unconventional mounts—in a constant stream, all headed for the town. They talked lightly, laughing and joking, no one paying any real attention to the trees or even the grass underfoot.

It was the epitome of cockiness, or maybe complacency, but it also made a certain sense.

Had we ambushed a few of their supply caravans? Sure. But no one would be crazy enough to try and take on the entire Legion without a fortified wall to fight from the top of.

Still, it wasn’t until the supply wagons, siege weapons, and camp followers started to roll in that I felt some of the tension in my shoulders drain away. That was it then; they were too far in to pull back without massive casualties, especially when our troops started flooding into the valley from the rear. We could wait a little longer, but at this point it would gain us nothing. I took a deep breath—time to move. Instead of launching an Umbra Bolt into the air to signal the raid, I quickly pulled up my interface and sent out the first in a series of predrafted Regional Messages, ready and waiting on standby:

<<<>>>

Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk

Alert!

The Imperial Legion has crossed the threshold, all Alliance members prepare for phase one operations to commence in 30 seconds. You all know what to do, let’s give ’em hell!

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>>

A beat later, the message was gone, distributed to every Crimson Alliance player in the Ravenkirk region. I closed the interface and wheeled around, staring at Forge, Cutter, and Amara in turn. “This is it,” I said solemnly, nervous sweat making my palms slick. “It’s make-or-break time. Please be safe out there, guys.”

“Don’t worry about me, friend,” Cutter offered with a wink. “I’m the best damned thief and cutthroat in Eldgard. They won’t see what hit ’em. And as for these two”—he waved toward the others—“well, death won’t put up with Amara, and Forge … he’s just too ugly to kill. His mug alone will have the Imperials bolting for cover.”

I offered him a tight-lipped smile—feeling a giddy anxious energy building in my belly—and headed deeper into the tree cover. About ten feet back, I spotted Devil’s sleek form coiled at the base of a giant oak with huge spreading boughs, hidden entirely from the sky. Perched on his tail, like a trio of pigeons loitering on a telephone wire, were my Void Watchers. Nikko, Mighty Joe, and Kong. The three winged apes grinned at me in unison, their violet eyes burning brightly in anticipation of the mischief.

Time to play, I sent to the whole crew while hauling myself onto Devil’s back with fluid, practiced ease.

Will we get to kill things this time? the Drake sent, his lips pulled back in a cruel snarl, revealing far too many teeth.

Don’t worry about that, there’ll be more blood than even you can stomach.

Challenge accepted, he replied coolly, stretching his legs as he stood. He quickly moved into a sinuous gait, carving his way through the forest and toward a small clearing not far off. I caught a glimpse of skeletal forms all huddled around the hulking Ravaging Devourer as though they were an honor guard in service to a king. In a blink, though, the dead were gone, and we charged into the clearing. Devil leaped into the air, his leathery wings unfurling and stretching wide, catching a stiff gust of wind.

I hunched forward, low against the saddle, reins held in a death grip as we punched through the canopy like a battering ram.

TWENTY-SEVEN_

Opening Salvo

We burst through the treetops, but we weren’t alone. Oh no. My three chimps had taken to wing themselves and circled around Devil and me like a trio of moons, ready to strike at anyone who came too close.

But there were also a multitude of other winged forms emerging from all across the valley; some exploded from the dense foliage of the Avilynn, others took to the air from the dark tangle of trees in the Storme Marshes to the south. Even more hovered in the air over Ravenkirk. Most of the fliers were Alliance Accipiter Scouts—all clad in crimson-leather armor to mark them out to the anti-air troops below—though there were more than a few players on flying mounts as well. A Rune-Lord in black plate mail rode a midnight black Pegasus. A beautiful female Arbormancer sat astride the back of a winged serpent made of vines.

I only had a second to survey the landscape before the screaming started, though.

The Imperials below were scrambling like mad, many focusing skyward, thrusting fingers at our airborne troops while platoon commanders and squad leaders hastily barked out directives, trying to bring order to the frenzied chaos. I grinned, knowing it was far too late for that. They’d crossed the threshold and were past the point of no return, now. They were in the kill zone, and while the Legionnaires stood down there, staring up at us like wide-eyed newbs, the miners and warriors in the meadow were preparing their assault.

I pulled open my Faction Inbox and dashed off the next predrafted message in the queue while simultaneously lifting my hands high into the air and unleashing a salvo of brilliant purple Umbra Bolts.

<<<>>>

Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk

Alert!

Net and trenches, you’re up. Make ’em pay for every inch. No retreat, no surrender.

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>>

I closed the interface, feeling a flush rise into my cheeks as I glanced to the east.

Though the Imperial Legion was easily twenty thousand troops strong, they’d already moved into the heart of the grassy valley leading into Ravenkirk, leaving their rear exposed and unprotected. We weren’t ready to attack yet—to push them into the city—but we wanted to make sure there wasn’t an easy path to retreat. I caught a flash of movement as giant ballista bolts exploded from the Avilynn tree line on the far end of the valley, arcing gracefully through the air and into the Storme Marshes trees on the other side of the immense meadow.

And not just one or two bolts, but fifty, all fired in perfect unison.

Attached to each of the meaty bolts was a strand of glimmering gossamer silk, which trailed from the end like a giant fishing line. In truth, the strands were all part of a giant net, carefully crafted by a team of alchemists, spiderkin, and seamstresses. The silk itself was a reinforced version of the nearly indestructible material I’d used to take down the dragon known as Arzokh the Sky Maiden. Once deployed, the strands would anchor to the indomitable trees of the Avilynn on one side and the twisted oaks of the Storme Marshes on the southern side of the valley.

Together, they formed a silken wall, thirty feet high, which would prevent the Imperials from retreating. A few of the nimbler players could slip through, but the wagons and siege engines would never make it out. Not without hacking through the strings first—which wasn’t possible—or unmooring them from the trees. But we had a whole platoon of hidden Dokkalfar Rangers scattered through the forests to ensure that didn’t happen without a bloody fight.

And the net was only the beginning.

I flicked the reins and wheeled Devil around, staring down at the panicking Imperials. Some had spotted the glistening gossamer net, but while the lowly officers tried desperately to figure out what to do, how to respond, who to fight, the ground beneath their feet exploded in ten-foot-high flames. Huge trenches, all carefully hidden by carpentry and Arbormancy, crisscrossed the entire valley. Over four hundred yards of deadly pits, chock-full of combustible alchemic ingredients, all went up at once.

Massive columns of unnatural, alchemic flame roared, burning men and women alive—flash-frying wagons loaded down with supplies, and scorching more than a few of the bulky siege engines pulled by giant steam-powered contraptions of metal and gears. The unexpected attack was devastatingly effective, cutting through their numbers, but even with the extraordinary damage and casualty rate, they still outnumbered us ten to one. And now they were starting to break into well-rehearsed formations, hunkering down to defend themselves while the bigwigs strategized.

Osmark wasn’t dumb. Once he had a chance to look at a map and get his bearings, he’d no doubt come up with something brilliant. So, our job was to hit them as hard as possible before Osmark could come up with a proper counterassault. I sent off the next message in line.

<<<>>>

Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk

Alert!

Frontline Ranged Attackers, Air Scouts, Heavy Catapults. You’re up. Anton, Skirmish Bells, now.

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>>

Seconds later my troops responded as a brazen bell chimed from the town, clang, clang, clang. The Regional Message ability was amazing, but unfortunately, it only worked for direct Alliance members, which excluded both Jo-Dan’s undead forces and the small army of spiderkin waiting in the wings. But the bells worked wonders for them. In seconds, a wave of archers and battle casters poured out from the houses of Ravenkirk, sprinting toward the outer wall, which had been subtly modified over the past few days.

The wall wouldn’t do much to stop siege weapons, but a slim platform installed halfway up allowed the archers to fire from the wall while maintaining cover. Line commanders on the feeble wall barked out orders, and in moments, the sharp twang of bowstrings filled the air as a rain of deadly arrows and conjured spells peppered the frontline Imperials. Meanwhile, the deep thud of our catapults sounded as they discharged tire-sized boulders from the farmer’s fields behind Ravenkirk.

The engineers working those rigs were masters of precision; the stones easily cleared the town and plunged into the heart of the Legion, smashing bodies and decimating supply wagons with terrible power.

And while the arrows, spells, and boulders flew, our forces moved in from both above and the flanks. Alliance aerial troops swooped down into the masses, firing arrows and casting spells from overhead or lobbing potent alchemic grenades. Their job was to sow chaos among any group of Imperials that looked like they had their heads on straight. Another handful of specialized Scouts—led by General Caldwell—targeted the siege engines with firebombs and the corrosive acid orbs Vlad had cooked up last night.

Death from above.

And on the sides?

Clusters of high-level players—such as Cutter, Amara, and Forge—poured in, harrying the Imperials from every angle. And they weren’t alone. The monsters came, too. Lots of monsters.

The spiderkin flooded from the trees to the south: a wall of hairy bodies and spindly legs eating up the distance, before crashing into Imperials with piercing fangs and razor-sharp limbs. And Jo-Dan’s undead troops screamed into view from the north, skeletons and zombies at the forefront, ready to absorb the initial wave of damage, while the Blood Golems and Revenant Knights came next. The Ravaging Devourer came last, crashing through the trees like a rockslide.

The Imperials screamed and backpedaled from the hulking monstrosity, firing off a barrage of attacks that bounced harmlessly off the creature’s patchwork flesh. The Devourer plowed into a squad of Imperial spellcasters like a bowling ball, scattering pins every which way—except those pins were bodies. He lifted a priest in brown robes from the ground in one oversized hand, then proceeded to use the priest’s entire body as a club to beat the crud out of the rest of his teammates. It was horrifying to watch, but also oddly satisfying.

Our five-pronged attack—coupled with the guttering fire-trenches—was doing wonders, but the Imperials were finally bringing order to their ranks, one platoon at a time.

Officers and sergeants screamed.

Mages, warlocks, and priests cast healing spells, protection auras, and impressive energy barriers to divert and deflect the incoming attacks.

Fighters brandished swords and spears as they rushed to engage the encroaching mobs.

Rigid ranks formed up behind formidable interlocking shield walls—their lines driven forward in tight precision by the beat of heavy war drums.

And, despite our intense aerial bombardment, several of the Imperial siege catapults unfurled, sprawling across the battlefield as enemy engineers returned fire. Their target wasn’t the city itself, but rather our catapults on the far side of the village. They were desperate to stop the deadly pummeling.

A group of Imperial archers and casters broke free, the ranks parting for them as they scurried to the frontline in a mad dash, raising bows or hands to return fire at the Alliance members manning the wall.

Despite the relatively fast response, we’d done a tremendous amount of initial damage, and even better, the Legion was pressing in toward the city. Soon, very soon, we’d initiate phase two, a tactical retreat into the town, where the bulk of the deadly hand-to-hand fighting would happen. Not yet though. For now, we needed the Imperials to press hard, and gain ground—to get the taste of victory in their mouths—to make them think we were running scared.

The thought disappeared as Devil growled inside my head. Visitors.

The Shadow Drake banked hard left, the Void Apes circling us in a tight arc, which is when I saw Imperial Accipiter taking to the air along with every Imperial on a flying mount. Our airborne troops had done a lot of damage, but now it looked like the free ride was over. Fireballs, spits of ice, deadly arrows, and razor-pointed spears filled the air as the Accipiter fought. General Caldwell streaked by not far off, a short sword of glowing bronze in one hand and a swirling glob of concentrated air in his other.

Aside from being a military general, a brilliant tactician, and an all-around badass, Caldwell was an Aeromancer with the power to shape and manipulate wind.

A trio of Imperials swooped toward him, unleashing a flurry of arrows. Caldwell didn’t care though—he didn’t even blink. The shimmering ball of air in his left hand rocketed out with a mind of its own; gale force winds swatted the arrows off course, before smacking into the enemy fliers. The general’s air attack didn’t do any direct damage to their HP, but that wasn’t the purpose. Instead, the furious gust battered their feathers, knocking them head over heels, sending them twirling toward the ground in a blazing fast death-spiral.

Two of the Imperials fought and turned every which way, desperate to right themselves, but unable to do so. Each screamed in panic before smashing into the earth at bone-breaking speed, their shouts dying in an instant. The third Imperial—a copper-skinned man with flowing black hair—managed to regain control before impact, but not before Caldwell closed the distance and sheared one of his wings clean off at the shoulder with his gleaming blade. The blow looked painful, of course, but only cut the man’s HP by a quarter.

Despite that, though, it was a killing blow.

Unable to keep himself aloft, the Imperial plummeted like a rock, arms and legs windmilling uselessly. Even better, the man slammed into a line of Imperial spearmen below who were fighting off a squad of undead. The Accipiter’s body broke the Imperial shield wall, opening up a gap that the undead rushed into like a pack of hungry … well, zombies. In moments, the spearmen were all down, screaming as the undead ripped them apart with blunt, tearing teeth and cleaving claws.

Caldwell didn’t dwell on the deaths, though. No, he was already darting toward a new enemy—the heavily tattooed monk from the ambush in the forest. The one who’d nearly wiped the floor with me before having his head bit off by Devil. Jay Taylor, Osmark’s self-proclaimed right-hand man. He was riding on an enormous tiger made from living flame with giant eagle wings, dealing out an ungodly amount of damage to a small group of Alliance Scouts. His mount spewed giant columns of fire while he unleashed deadly spell after deadly spell.

Incoming, Devil sent, banking left.

I snapped back into the moment and immediately spotted a trio of Accipiter streaking toward me in a tight arrowhead formation, compact recurve bows clutched in their hands as they nocked barb-tipped arrows. I grinned, unconcerned with the attack. Three Accipiter with bows is the best the Imperials can throw at me? It was actually a little insulting. I glanced right at Caldwell, who seemed to have his hands full with the tattooed monk. He was holding his own, deflecting every incoming spell with bursts of concentrated air, but seemed unable to launch an assault of his own.

I’d deal with the Accipiter, then head over there to lend a hand. That monk had some payback coming his way.

Nikko, I want you and the boys to dive-bomb those Accipiter, I sent.

And then, manling? came Nikko’s terse reply inside my skull.

Then keep my back clear while I handle the monk on the tiger.

Instead of replying, she merely nodded, then let out a high-pitched screech before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

Mighty Joe and Kong followed suit; an eyeblink later all three reappeared, slamming into the incoming Accipiter from behind. The apes wrapped their powerful simian arms around the Imperials, pinning their wings down, preventing them from flying. The Accipiter struggled fruitlessly, unable to break free, then dropped from the air. They streaked toward the ground, bucking and flailing the whole time, but Nikko and the boys simply held tight, refusing to allow the fliers to use their wings.

Down, down, down they went screaming, panicking, hurtling toward a train of supply wagons.

The apes, by contrast, fell stoically, unconcerned by the fast approaching ground.

A maneuver like that would’ve been a suicide mission for any but Nikko and her crew—for them, though, it was just another day at the office. Five feet from the ground, each of the apes triggered Shadow Stride and disappeared as the Accipiter careened into the earth, dead on impact. I dug my heels in and wheeled Devil around as the apes materialized around us, ready to find Jay the monk and put the hurtin’ on him.

I scanned the air, looking for my target, but paused my search as a thunderous roar exploded in the air from the east.

I spun Devil again, and what I saw rising from the ground gave me genuine pause: a giant [Clockwork Dragon], twice the size of Devil. Its substantial mechanical wings beat furiously at the air, aided by steam-powered jets set into its belly. On its back was Osmark.

TWENTY-EIGHT_

Round Two

New plan, I sent to my crew of minions. Devil, you and I are gonna take on Osmark. Nikko, you, Kong, and Mighty Joe head over and help out General Caldwell against that crazy monk. I’ll call if I need you, but once you take that creep out, I want you to start picking off any enemy air units you can find. Now let’s move. I hunched forward, flapping at the reins as Devil shot toward the terrible mechanical monstrosity. In the corner of my eye, I saw the three chimps streak away, beelining for the monk and his fiery mount.

I put them from mind as Osmark came closer and I finally got a solid look at his ride. Begrudgingly, I had to admit the creature was a fantastic piece of work, and Osmark hadn’t been lying when he told me I’d never seen anything like it. I hadn’t. Ever. The thing’s hide was gleaming steel riddled with bronze rivets and covered in twirling copper cogs, brass tubing, and steam ports. The Clockwork Dragon was built along the same lines as Devil—powerful body, barrel chest, sleek neck, crushing jaws—just bigger in every way.

It was like comparing a professional bodybuilder to an agile gymnast: both were athletes but built for different purposes.

Its wings were powerful things, built from a combination of steel and thick fabric, but one look told me there was no way that thing should be able to fly—not on wing power alone. But the exhaust ports lining its belly, spewing out white steam, seemed to help out quite a bit. The creature had long limbs tipped with deadly claws, but what concerned me the most was the pair of mechanical turrets affixed to its shoulders. It had a circular Gatling gun perched on the left, and a rocket launcher on the right.

Osmark sat in a custom saddle, strapped in by a leather five-point harness studded with brass buckles and more rivets. And instead of a set of reins to control his mount, he had an odd collection of gear shifts, pedals, gauges, crank wheels, and a bizarre joystick. The creature’s eyes glowed with fiery power, but they were also devoid of life. That monster was a machine, pure and simple—one that Osmark controlled entirely, which made a certain kind of sense. Osmark seemed like the type of person that needed to control everything around him.

He’d never entrust himself to a mount that could think or reason—to a creature not fully and entirely under his control. And that was his weakness.

One I could exploit.

Osmark had mopped the floor with me during our one-on-one brawl, but this was a whole different ballgame. I was a good fighter on the ground, but in the air, I was next to unstoppable—heck, I’d defeated a legendary dragon in a massive aerial battle. And a big part of that success was due to Devil. Devil was alive, ruthless, and efficient, and even if I couldn’t control him as completely as Osmark could his steam-powered monstrosity, that was okay. I didn’t want to control him because I trusted Devil to do his job better than I ever could.

“Ready for round two, Jack?” Osmark called out, his voice amplified by a ventilator secured over his lower jaw. “I must admit, you surprised me once again, but in the end, your cleverness will not be enough to save you.” I couldn’t see his mouth, but I could almost hear the grin in his voice as he yanked back on a steel switch and mashed his finger against a trigger. The machine gun roared to life, twirling like mad, spewing an endless sea of fire and lead.

I flicked the reins, but Devil was already moving. His left wing shot out, catching an updraft, which sent us into a blazing-fast corkscrew; bullets whizzed by just inches from my head. Once, twice, three times we flipped, the Drake dropping low, tucking his wings into his sides as we spiraled toward the ground. The roar of the chain gun followed us as we flew, streaks of red light whipping past us as the ground rose to meet us.

Then—an instant before touchdown—Devil thrust his wings wide, pulling out of the reckless dive ten feet from certain peril. Osmark was up above us, laboriously maneuvering his clockwork mount to try and track our movements. By the time he got a fix on us, Devil was already changing course, banking hard right, wheeling in a tight circle, then thrusting his wings down, shooting us up like a rocket bound for the moon. Stinging wind slapped against my face, and my cloak streamed out behind me as we rose.

In seconds, we were ten feet below the steam dragon’s steel belly.

The propulsion jets situated in the creature’s stomach jettisoned columns of white steam, which was uncomfortably warm but ultimately did no damage. Hold tight, Devil sent. We can drag this thing from the sky. The Shadow Drake pumped his wings one final time, then flipped in an instant, leaving me dangling upside down by my stirrups. He lashed out with his deadly black talons, slashing into the metal with an ear-splitting shriek, and suddenly we were clinging to the bottom of the steamwork creature.

On top of that, we were falling.

Not fast, but Osmark’s contraption seemed incapable of holding itself aloft with Devil’s substantial weight pulling it down—especially since the Drake’s body was blocking its steam ports. And while the Clockwork Dragon pumped its wings to keep us all flying, Devil attacked with his formidable jaws, biting at exposed tubing, ripping cogs free, and shredding armored plating like tissue paper. There wasn’t much for me to do except dangle there like a lump while Devil handled business.

At least until an odd steampunk drone—equal parts mini helicopter and assault rifle—dropped down from the right and opened fire, spraying out bullets in a wide arc.

The drone caught me completely off guard, and before I could process what I was seeing, a stream of bullets ripped into my side, draining my HP slowly. The weapon wasn’t nearly as powerful as the larger machine gun version up top, but agony still raced through my body like wildfire. Worse, the blasted machine peppered Devil’s scaly hide as well. The Drake threw back his head in a bellowing roar of rage and pain, dropping away from the bottom of the Clockwork Dragon.

We free fell for a moment, my head dropping straight toward the ground until Devil managed to flip around, wings flashing out, righting us from the mad descent. We leveled out thirty feet from the field, but unfortunately, we were no longer alone. Three of those little machine gun drones were whirling toward us from above. I’ll handle them, you just get us above that thing, I sent, fishing free one of the acid grenades Vlad had so painstakingly crafted for me. Time to find out if they worked.

Devil glanced back at me, a sneer on his lips as he shot a look at his side, now riddled with bullet holes and leaking viscous blood. Are you sure you can handle them?

They got a drop on us—now let’s turn the tables on Osmark.

Devil looked away with a snort but followed the plan. The drones closed in on us as we cruised upward toward Osmark, but this time I was ready. The first one launched a hail of bullets at me, but I thrust my left hand forward, conjuring Dark Shield. The bullets slammed against the magical barrier with a shower of brilliant light, but failed to penetrate. In moments, the spinning machine barrel fell still, which is when I struck. I dropped the shield and fast-balled the glass orb into the annoying drone.

The grenade hit head-on, the glass crunching against the gun barrel; the alchemic bomb exploded with a pop and a sizzle, spewing sludgy green goo across the metal.

The effects were instantaneous and devastating.

The green acid bit into the steel like a hungry pit bull going to town on a steak. Ragged holes quickly appeared wherever the acid touched, and in moments, plumes of choking black smoke drifted up while the drone dropped from the sky. Out of commission. I pumped a fist in celebration—I was going to kiss Vlad the next time I saw him, the brilliant madman. I fished another orb from my pouch, hurling it at another drone as Devil banked hard right, then shot straight up, streaking past Osmark’s mount.

The grenade erupted against the drone’s whirling propellers as it tried to adjust course and follow after us. The corrosive acid drenched the machine and ate through the rotating blades like piranhas. Whatever engine powered the mini-monstrosity guttered and died with a wheeze; the drone sputtered and keeled over, promptly dropping from view. Two down, one to go—though it was currently out of sight. I glanced down and saw Osmark below us, furiously spinning crank wheels and pulling on odd levers.

The rocket launcher lurched to life, spinning around on a gyroscopic base, before unleashing a series of rockets directly at us.

Since Devil had a fierce desire to both kill and survive, he took evasive actions without so much as a peep out of me.

We hooked, bobbed, wheeled, and spun as missiles streaked around us—but try as we might, we couldn’t seem to shake ’em. They were like pesky homing missiles, which adjusted course mid-flight, tracking our movements. I thrust both hands out and started unleashing wave after wave of Umbra Bolts while Devil continued his deft maneuvering—flipping, twirling, and diving then rising in graceful arcs. Most of my attacks went wide, but there were so many bolts of shadowy power littering the air that it was impossible to miss entirely.

I swatted down four missiles, but a fifth slipped through, smashing into Devil’s side, inches from my knee. The thing exploded with a teeth-rattling boom accompanied by a flash of brilliant white light. My whole right leg erupted in agony as a fireball swelled out, enveloping Devil and me in a tsunami of flesh-scorching heat. My skin blistered from the inferno blaze, and my HP dropped by a third—which, combined with the damage from the gun blast, left me below fifty percent. And to top it off, a combat notification appeared before me:

<<<>>>

Debuffs Added

Burn: You have been burned! 5 pts Burn Damage/sec; duration, 30 seconds.

<<<>>>

I snarled, dismissed the popup, and pushed the pain away as I fished a Health Regen potion from my belt. Now was the time to fight, to battle, to kill, and I couldn’t afford to feel pain—I needed to be in the moment, or Osmark would walk all over me for a second time. I downed the Regen potion in a single swallow and tossed the bottle away as Devil threw himself into a sharp dive, avoiding another wave of missile fire.

Suddenly, we were above the clockwork monster; Devil stretched his jaws wide. As we swept over Osmark, Devil unleashed an enormous gout of raw Umbra Flame. Purple tongues lashed at Osmark and licked hungrily at his pet’s steel hide. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, I pulled out two of Vlad’s acid grenades and lobbed them down directly onto the creature’s left wing. The first grenade detonated, splashing glass and green acid across the strange fleshy material, which made up the bulk of the wing.

The second grenade burst against a fist-sized joint near its shoulder, which looked to house some sort of server. In moments the joint began to sizzle and melt, while the small motor within whined and wheezed, letting off a burst of brilliant white steam. Before I could watch the full effects of my handiwork, however, Devil pulled up from the dive, and we were rising once more. Another series of lightning-fast barrel rolls followed in an attempt to avoid the incoming missiles still dogging our trail.

It was high past time we took out those damned missiles and the rocket launcher firing them. First the missiles. Bring us level, I sent, and let those rockets get in range. Devil grunted, diving once more, spinning left, then stretching his wings out to bring us level, thirty feet away from the enemy dragon. Perfect. The clockwork creature was flagging badly, smoke and steam wafting up from it in thick plumes as its wings pumped and shuddered to keep it flying.

But it was the batch of incoming rockets I was concerned with at the moment.

I pulled my warhammer from my belt and conjured Dark Shield with my free hand, mere seconds before impact. A burning purple half dome burst to brilliant life directly in front of the missiles, which erupted with a violent explosion that threw us left and lit up the sky like a fireworks blast. But the shield held the force of the blast at bay, though just barely. I dismissed the barrier in a blink, downed a Spirit Regen potion in another, then made a Hail Mary pass while the smoky cloud hung in the air, obscuring our position.

I thrust my hammer out like an accusatory finger, channeled the arctic shadow power burning inside my chest, and unleashed Night Cyclone in the spot I’d last seen Osmark. I’d never used Night Cyclone in the air, and had no idea what the effect would be, but I didn’t have much to lose. The power rushed out of me, spreading through my warhammer as the sky ripped open, and a howling tornado surged into existence, sucking the lingering cloud into its furious winds. I grinned in grim satisfaction—my aim had been right on.

The whirlwind of dark clouds and shadow power tore at Osmark and his pet, ripping off gears and cogs, rupturing brass steam pipes, and—best of all—ripping free both of the gun turrets jutting up from the creature’s blocky shoulders. And those pieces of metal didn’t simply vanish or fall to the ground two hundred feet below. Oh no. The tornado caught them all up in its swirling vortex, turning the twister into a roaring funnel of deadly shrapnel like one giant blender.

And Osmark was right in the middle. Tremendous winds buffeted him from every side, and bits of jagged steel sliced at his hands and face, drawing thin lines of blood across his pale flesh. It seemed the only thing preventing him from tumbling to the ground was the hefty five-point harness wrapped around his shoulders.

Let’s get in there and finish this, I sent while pressing my heels into Devil’s scaly sides and drawing out another pair of Vlad’s deadly acid grenades. Devil dipped his head and shot forward, angling up so we’d be above Osmark. By the time we got into position, the twister had died away—sucked back into the Shadowverse—but the damage was already done. The Clockwork Dragon flew in fits and starts, the propulsion jets on its belly working in overdrive to compensate for the mangled wings.

But given the clanks and clatters coming from the beast—not to mention the curls of acrid black smoke drifting up—it was safe to say that thing was on its last leg. And Osmark didn’t look much better: his pristine hair was mussed, his top hat sat askew on his head, and a small army of lacerations adorned his face, though his HP seemed mostly unaffected, which was baffling. How much damage can that guy take? Well, there was one thing he wouldn’t survive, and that was a two-hundred-foot fall to the ground below.

He diligently worked his controls, mashing buttons down then tapping on a series of screeching gauges, trying to right his ship. It wasn’t doing much good though, and in a moment, nothing he did would matter. I hefted the grenade and tossed it down, followed in quick succession by a second, third, and fourth. The orbs peppered the mechanical beast, chewing into its chassis and neatly eroding the rivets holding everything in place. But before I could celebrate, a fresh round of gunfire exploded to my right. Bullets chewed into the left side of my body and shredded one of Devil’s leathery wings.

That damned drone, the third one we’d failed to finish off initially. In the heat of battle, I’d forgotten all about the little sucker, and now we were paying for it. I whipped my left hand out, unleashing a wave of Umbra Flame, which roasted the contraption in a moment, but the attack was a day late and a dollar short. Devil was severely wounded, and though his HP was still above sixty percent, one look at that wing told me everything I needed to know: he wasn’t going to be airborne much longer.

Can you land safely? I sent, panic racing through my blood as my heart thudded away.

Yes, but it will be a close thing, came a pained reply.

Okay, I’ll handle it from here. I unhooked my feet from the stirrups and pushed myself up onto the saddle, balancing precariously in a three-point stance, my hammer clutched in my right hand. You get back to the ground, then give the Imperials hell. Kill, destroy, eat. Don’t worry about me.

Good hunting, he replied gravely, a touch of respect in his voice.

Then—sensing what I had in mind—Devil flipped up onto his side, launching me into the air. I pushed off in the same instant, leapfrogging from his back, arms thrust out in front of me like Superman as I sailed down toward Osmark and his badly damaged dragon. For a moment, I considered using Shadow Stride but finally decided against it. The clockwork beast was a relatively small target, and if I missed the mark, Shadow Stride wouldn’t last long enough to see me safely to the ground.

I wasn’t keen about face-planting into the ground from this altitude.

The thought fled as my chest slammed into the dragon’s tail, knocking the air from my lungs as my arms scrambled for purchase. I lashed out with my hammer, sinking the spike into a metal seam, then used the weapon to pull myself onto the creature’s back. I stood on wobbly legs, wheezing for air, and found Osmark waiting for me. He’d unfastened his harness and had his sidearm out.

“You can’t win this, Jack. It’s time for you to learn your place, you worm,” he snarled as he thrust the gun forward. But instead of firing a round, a small metal tube affixed to the bottom of the weapon sprang open with a shriek, revealing a spinning buzzsaw the size of a basketball. What the hell kind of weapon is that? He charged me, his steps surprisingly agile, and lashed out with the whirling death machine. I knocked the attack aside, juked right, and slammed my hammer into the side of his face with every ounce of strength I could muster.

The blow landed square, jerking his head left, but only knocked off a slim fraction of his HP; worse, he recovered incredibly fast, lunging in with the buzzsaw outthrust. The blades ripped into my gut, slicing through my armor and gouging into flesh, shredding my HP like a cheese grater. I stumbled away, my free hand groping at my stomach, sweat breaking out across my forehead as waves of hurt cascaded through me.

“I tried to reason with you, Jack!” Osmark screamed, his face blister-red, spittle flying. “But no. You couldn’t compromise. So now it’s time for you to die.” He charged again, and I knew there was no way to beat him in a fair fight. He was stronger than me. Faster than me. Better equipped than me. But I had one trick he couldn’t match. Instead of trying to dodge or maneuver to safety, I darted toward him, ducking low and leading with my shoulder. I felt a new flash of agony as his blade sliced down into my back, but I ignored it, wrapping my arms around him, pushing us both into the air.

The buzzsaw went silent as we fell, turning end over end, wrestling against each other as wind beat mercilessly at us and the ground rose up.

“What have you done!” he shrieked, eyes wide behind his goggles and fancy lenses.

“I cheated,” I growled back, flipping him onto the bottom. As he pinwheeled his arms, I let go, planted my feet into his chest, and pushed off while triggering Shadow Stride.

TWENTY-NINE_

House to House

Osmark slammed into the ground like a meteor a second before the world lurched to a stop and grays, whites, and purples invaded the landscape. I was less than ten feet from the ground and moving like a freight train, so there was no way to reduce the shock of the impact. My feet smashed into the grass with enough force to shatter my feet and legs, but because this was the Shadowverse—a place free from injury—my bones remained miraculously intact. No damage didn’t mean no pain, though.

The pain was excruciating. I collapsed, my legs refusing to hold me up as stars flashed across my eyes and tremors raced along my bones.

For a long beat, I just lay there groaning, staring up at a monochromatic sky overhead. I wanted to stay that way for the next couple of days but knew I couldn’t afford to waste another second.

With a heave, I flopped onto my belly, propping myself up on my elbows as I struggled to breathe. Every inch of my body screamed in protest: My gut still leaked like a drippy garden hose, and my back wasn’t in much better shape. Bullet wounds, only half healed, dotted my side. It felt like a cement truck had run over me, before throwing it in reverse and running over me again—just for good measure. Despite the pain, though, a grin spread across my face as fierce pride filled my chest. Sure, the way I’d won had been unorthodox, but I’d beat Osmark, that was the important thing.

I turned toward him, ready to savor my momentary victory—

The grin slipped away.

His HP bar was frozen above him, a brilliant angry red, but he wasn’t dead.

The fall should’ve killed him on impact, but a tenth of his HP bar remained, and his eyes were open, frozen with pain but burning with life. Impossible. No one could survive a fall like that, not unless he had some sort of special ability that allowed him to withstand a single critical hit. I mean, that was just a guess, but nothing else made sense. I shook my head and pushed myself upright, my legs trembling beneath me. I stared down at Osmark, my lips pursed in a tight line as my countdown timer whirled away.

More than anything, I wanted to stay and kill him. He was down on the ground, and even though he survived, he was undoubtedly dazed and struggling with at least a few debuffs. But, I’d been greedy back in the Imperial Legion camp, and it had nearly cost me everything. Besides, there was no guarantee I could one-shot him even though he only had a sliver of health left to his name. He was better than me, and if it came down to a fight, he would probably beat me.

And as much as I wanted to beat him—to hurt him—this conflict was bigger than a personal vendetta.

This was about the Alliance versus the Empire, and I needed to demoralize his troops and destroy his siege equipment. I couldn’t do that dead.

I took one more moment to scan the battlefield stretched out before me. It was a bloody mess. Men and women locked in battle, bodies littering the ground, wreckage burning. And speaking of burning, a giant purple blaze a hundred yards off marked Devil’s position like a road flare—good to see he’d made it down alright. I paused, cupping a hand over my eyes as I looked up, searching the skies for a sign of my other minions. I found them too—all three chimps were harassing a player in tan leather armor riding on a monstrous thunderbird. I could recall them, but taking down enemy fliers was the most valuable task they could do at the moment, so I let them be.

I also spotted the Clockwork Dragon, frozen in a death spiral above the dense tangle of the Storme Marshes, plumes of black smoke trailing up. Its time was clearly numbered, and without Osmark to pilot the contraption, I had no doubt it would crash and burn.

Good riddance.

With a sigh and a wince, I dropped my gaze, turned away from the downed emperor, and retreated toward Ravenkirk. The front gate was only a few hundred feet away. The fighting at the entrance was intense—there was an Imperial shield wall trying to force its way in, past a bombardment of spells and arrows—but I simply phased through the enemy ranks and into the relative safety of the town. I’d just made it to the first house when my countdown timer finally hit zero, and the Shadowverse rudely expelled me back into the Material Realm.

The thunderous, deafening roar of the battle crashed down on me like a boot to the teeth. I winced, pressing my hands to my ears as I waited for my brain to adjust to the racket. Quickly, I slipped behind the far edge of the house, pressing my eyes shut tight as my nerves settled. After a few heartbeats, I opened my eyes, my head clear. Time to get back into the fight. I was in pitiful shape though, so a little healing was a must.

I slipped a Health potion and a Spirit potion from my belt and downed both concoctions, one right after the other. The combination of flavors, sweet cherry followed by blue raspberry, left an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth. But the renewed burst of power and vitality coursing through my veins was welcome. I stifled a muted burp with my fist, then popped my head out, just a fraction of an inch, watching as the Imperials battered their way inward.

I needed to get back over to the chapel and touch base with Anton and Chief Kolle—hopefully rendezvous with Amara and Cutter—but I couldn’t resist pitching in just a little. The Imperials were hunkered down behind their shields, and their magic barriers were a sitting duck for someone like me. I thrust one hand out, triggering Umbra Bog, summoning tendrils of shadow power beneath the feet of the encroaching Legionnaires. The ground gave way to black marsh, and the enemy troops cried out in panic.

The Alliance members manning the walls seized the opportunity; wall commanders screamed out rallying cries as archers, mages, and casters of all shapes and sizes unleashed a fresh wave of hell onto the heads of the struggling Imperials. A small part of me wanted to stay and help, but I knew I was needed elsewhere. I slipped around to a stout wooden door at the back of the house and drummed out a carefully rehearsed knock. There was a scuffle of feet within, followed by some mumbled swearing as the door swung open, revealing the face of a surly looking Dwarf with a thick gray beard in heavy plate mail.

“What do you want—” The words died as his eyes widened in shock.

I grinned, slapped him on the shoulder, and slipped inside. A handful of players manned the room: a Risi who was clearly a tank, a Dawn Elf Cleric in heavy brown robes, a Murk Elf Maa-Tál Plague Bringer, and a Wode engineer, tinkering with the heavy Hwach’a staged near the covered window.

“Sir,” the Dwarf stammered, backpedaling into the room. “We didn’t expect you to participate in the house-to-house fighting. Is everything going alright out there?”

“It’s going far better than expected,” I said, nodding at him in encouragement. “Just had a bit of an unexpected dustup with Emperor Osmark that grounded me for a bit. But that’s alright. I think I’d rather be fighting here with you folks. And speaking of, it’s just about time to trigger the next stage of the plan.” I grinned, projecting confidence even though I felt a twinge of fear roiling inside my gut. I pulled up my interface and fired off the next predrafted Regional Message:

<<<>>>

Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk

Alert!

Fall back to Ravenkirk—time for house to house. Rear foot division, secure the containment net. Mounted cavalry, time to push. Morgan, destroy the Imperial siege engines.

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>>

The message went out in a flash, and a new wave of barely concealed excitement raced through me. The fire trenches had worked well so far, but the town itself was the killing ground and the real testament to our ingenuity. But things could go very wrong here since we needed to draw the Imperials into the town without alerting them to what was waiting behind the crude doors and shuttered windows. The rear foot division would post up outside the valley, on the far side of the woven net, ensuring the Imperials couldn’t readily retreat without a helluva fight.

Meanwhile, the frontline troops and skirmish forces would fall back through the gate in a mock retreat—all to make the Imperials think we were on our heels, drawing them into the town where the real slaughter would happen. And as the Imperials surged in, driven by the whiff of victory in the air, the mounted cavalry would storm in from the rear. They’d harass the Imperials with charge after charge, mowing down stragglers and drawing attention away from the supply wagons and siege weapons, which a team of hired mercenaries would target.

Those were the real target. Everything else was just elaborate sleight of hand to draw attention elsewhere. That was the plan, at least.

But with so many moving parts, it was impossible to tell for sure how things would shake out. Any small thing could upset the delicate balance, and with Osmark, there was almost certainly some trick left up his sleeve. I couldn’t worry about that now, though. I slipped over to a closed window overlooking the main boulevard, peeking through the slats as the Alliance troops pulled back en masse. Alliance members broke from their defensive positions along the outer wall, fleeing into the warren of houses, seemingly without rhythm or reason.

Even more of our troops flooded in through the gate, pursued by bloodthirsty Imperials—all cheering madly and brandishing their weapons as they gave chase.

To a casual observer, it looked like a rout. Like the Alliance’s will to fight had fractured into a thousand pieces and everyone was running for their lives. Nothing could be further from the truth. Each one of those people would make their way to predesignated fighting positions scattered throughout the town, ready to stand their ground and give the enemy hell. In no time, the Imperials would swarm the buildings, side streets, and back alleyways, only to find death waiting for them.

The screams started a minute later as a platoon of advancing Imperials charged directly into the large punji pit in the middle of the main street, which had been carefully concealed with a masterful illusion. The whole squad, twenty-deep, toppled into the cavernous hole filled to the brim with bristling wooden spits slathered in Murk Elf poison. The wooden shutters on the two-story home directly next to the pit burst open, and the muzzle of an Arcane Shadow Cannon—part death ray, part Civil War era cannon—poked out.

The barrel of the weapon was aimed down, directly into the mass of dying Imperials. An orb of shadow magic as big as a bowling ball erupted from the contraption’s muzzle, and in seconds, the entire pit was a blazing wall of fire. The screams intensified, the awful noise clawing at my ears before finally going silent, consumed by the crackling of the hungry flames. And then, that sound was lost too, as more explosions and screams ripped at the air.

“Open ’er up!” the surly Dwarf bellowed. The wooden shutters burst outward, propelled by a spring mechanism, as the Alliance fighters in the house surged into action. The Cleric took up a position behind a sandbag barrier in the rear of the room, breaking out into an oddly melodic chant, imbuing everyone inside with a set of priestly buffs:

<<<>>>

Buffs Added

Heavenly Strength: Increase all primary attributes, except luck, by (10) points; duration, 10 minutes.

Divine Elemental Protection: Increase all elemental resistances by 25%; duration, 10 minutes.

<<<>>>

Nice. I triggered Night Armor, surrounding myself with a second skin of shadow power, then cast Shadow Forge for the benefit of the group. Shadow Forge was an active aura that would spread to all the other players in the room, temporarily imbuing their weapons with an extra 50 points of shadow damage and increasing the chance to earn a Critical Hit by 3%.

While the buffs were cast, the Risi tank and the Wode engineer wheeled the Hwach’a up to the rectangular den window overlooking a street packed with charging Imperials overeager to get to the fight. They would regret that soon enough. Not only were we about to open up on ’em, but the wooden shutters on the house across from us flew open too, revealing another crew with yet another Hwach’a. Things were about to get ugly for the enemy troops on the street, totally oblivious to the hurtin’ coming their way.

“Fire in the hole!” the Dwarf barked while moving up to a second, smaller window and drawing a heavy-duty crossbow from his side. There wasn’t really anything for me to do, so I watched in fascination as the engineer raised a smoldering punk and pressed it into a braided fuse protruding from the back of the Hwach’a. The fuse took in an instant, and a heartbeat later, the world exploded with fire, smoke, chaos, and screeches as two hundred singijeon all blasted off at once. The arrows streaked into the crowd, punching through shields, skewering exposed skin, and even puncturing heavy plate armor with ease.

More of the arrows rained down on the onrushing Imperials from the other side of the street, dropping bodies by the score.

Shouts went up as platoon and squad leaders finally realized the threat. But by then, twenty or thirty Imperials were already down on the ground, either dead or writhing in agony as they pulled at a host of barbed arrows peppering their flesh. And our guys were already attacking again. The Dwarf and the Maa-Tál Plague Bringer moved up to the other window and started unleashing a vicious volley of ranged attacks while the Risi and the Wode reloaded the siege weapon with a fresh plate of arrows.

Crossbow bolts streaked through the air, slamming into Clerics and healers, while the Plague Bringer hurled green handfuls of virulent poison and deadly disease. My Plague Burst ability was powerful but inelegant—a meat cleaver instead of a scalpel. This Plague Bringer, though, could unleash infections with a multitude of different horrendous effects. And unlike my ability, they could target enemies only.

The Imperials fought desperately to restore order and muster a counterassault, but by the time they finally got a handle on the situation, the Hwach’a was reloaded and firing again. A chorus of meaty booms shook the dust from the ceiling overhead as the arrows skewered the survivors. And during that time, the Dwarf and the Plague Bringer reloaded weapons or downed Spirit Regen potions, getting ready for the next wave. Honestly, this crew acted like a well-oiled machine. They knew their business and knew it well.

There wasn’t anything for me to do here, so I slipped quietly past the priest, who was still chanting, and down into the escape hatch leading into the tunnels below the town. The sound of cries and explosions chased me into the hole.

THIRTY_

Automatons

I scampered along the passageway, feeling an odd anxiety knowing that above my head was an army of Imperials marching through the streets. Their presence seemed to press down on me, and I idly wondered just how much weight the support struts were built to withstand. The thought sent goosebumps running along my back and down my arms; I knew from personal experience that dying in V.G.O. was traumatizing, but being buried alive in a cave-in, slowly crushed by a thousand pounds of rock?

Yeah, that was a whole different level of awful.

I picked up my pace, racing around bends and turns, idly scanning for the traps scattered around, until I hit the next opening. I clambered up the wooden rungs and into a two-story house, which was set up the same as the first house I’d stopped in. It had reinforced steel doors and walls, plus a sandbag barrier in the back and an emergency exit into the tunnels. The only real difference was that this place had a mystic-looking Arcane Shadow Cannon, instead of the Hwach’a.

The Alliance crew was just as deadly, though: A beefy tank stood guard over the door. A Cleric diligently cast buffs. A mage hurled offensive spells from a window on the left. And all the while, an engineer fired potent charge after charge from the Shadow Cannon. He aimed his shots at a group of Imperials pinned down in the street who were taking cover behind a conjured barrier of flickering blue light. A pair of enemy mages stood at the back of a formation, chanting stoically as the soldiers slowly advanced toward the house behind a wall of gleaming steel shields.

In no time, they’d be in range to start pounding at the door, trying to breach the premises. I grinned in anticipation. Getting through the reinforced door, tattooed with arcane runes, was going to be a much more difficult task than it appeared on the surface. Alchemic grenades waited in bandoliers at the ready, and a stocky Dwarf prepared to block the breach should the door give way. Despite the encroaching troops, the Alliance members had everything in hand, so I slipped back down into the tunnel and moved on to the next location.

That one, too, was handling business with deadly efficacy and level heads.

For the next ten minutes, I ghosted from position to position, monitoring the progress, getting a feel for how the battle was playing out as I slowly and steadily maneuvered toward the chapel at the western side of the town. That was where Anton and Chief Kolle would be, overseeing the battle, poring over maps, and sending messages. I scurried along toward a shaft of light shining down from up ahead, which marked my destination. My steps faltered, though, as an urgent sending from Devil exploded inside my skull like cannon fire.

Trouble approaches. His voice burned with an edge of concern I wasn’t used to hearing from the Drake. The one you call Osmark—

His words cut off mid-sentence, the sudden silence abrupt and painful. What the hell had just happened? Devil, I sent. Or rather, I tried, but the connection was gone. Lost. Dead. I pulled up my menu, toggling over to my minions. All four of my Void Terror pets were listed in a column; Devil’s name was highlighted in bright red, and next to it was a single word, deceased. Next to that was a countdown timer, spinning merrily away toward zero.

Seven hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty seconds until I could summon the Drake from the Shadowverse again.

Someone or something had just killed Devil. Wiped him off the face of the map before he could finish warning me about what fresh nightmare was headed our way.

Nikko, I sent instead, calling on the elder chimp. What do you see up there?

There was a long pause, but I knew she was alive and well—at least according to the menu I’d looked at a handful of seconds before. Finally, a reply came. Metal men are flooding into the valley, manling. Approaching the town. The rest of the scourge are retreating. Dropping back into the valley. What—

Her words cut short, and I cursed in frustration as I pulled my menu up again. Just as I’d feared, Nikko, Mighty Joe, and Kong were all offline now, too. Deceased and unavailable for another eight hours. Seriously, what in the hell was happening up there? I needed to figure this out and quick. I shut my interface and sprinted to the far end of the tunnel—dashing up the rungs, my arms and legs burning from the effort—and popped through the floor into a scene of total madness.

It was easy to pick out Anton and the chief, since they were issuing orders left and right, yelling to be heard over the din of the assembled messengers and officers. The chief looked as stoic and reserved as he always did, but one look at Anton told me something had gone wrong. He looked like he was on the verge of a stroke, an aneurysm, and a heart attack all at once. He was the living embodiment of workplace stress taken to the max. I scrambled to my feet, brushed my palms along the front of my trousers, and beelined toward Chief Kolle, weaving through the hustle and bustle of bodies.

“Grim Jack,” the chief said, spotting me almost at once, “we have a serious problem. The Imperials are withdrawing from the city—they’re pulling back into the fields and rallying around the siege weapons and supply wagons.”

“Yeah, I just heard that from Nikko,” I replied, brow furrowed in confusion. “But why? And more importantly, how is that even possible? The cavalry should be hemming them in from the back.”

Kolle shook his head, his face grim, his mouth set into a hard line. “The cavalry is gone, Grim Jack. Wiped out completely. Worse, our foot soldiers are gone too. Most of them dead, the rest fleeing into the woods for cover. The containment net is down. Morgan Sellsword and his men have withdrawn back into the Storme Marshes. We are defeated.”

“No,” I said, rubbing at the bridge of my nose. “No. That’s impossible. We’re slaughtering ’em on two fronts, how could they repel the cavalry? That can’t be right. It just can’t.”

“But it is,” Anton pitched in, running a hand through his long blond hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. “Apparently, Osmark has a bunch of mechanical shock-troops, all equipped with steam-powered weapons. At least that’s what all the reports say. No one is a hundred percent sure, but whatever these things are, they’ve run roughshod over our mounted division. Obliterated them without even trying. And now the Imperials in Ravenkirk are pulling back, while these things advance into the town.”

No, no, no—this was the worst possible news. “What about the siege engines?” I asked, desperately praying for a good answer. Sure, killing enemy troops was worthwhile, but the wagons and siege engines were the focus. The players would respawn in eight hours, but destroying the siege engines and supply train would cripple the Imperials for weeks, maybe longer. And it would be costly, too, since acquiring the materials for weapons like those wasn’t cheap, and many of the items were damn difficult to come by.

The chief shot me a steely-eyed look, then dropped his face and shook his head. “We’ve damaged some, of course, but not nearly the number we were hoping for. Not if these reports can be believed.” He swept a hand to a nearby table covered in sheets of loose parchment paper. “Osmark seems to have worked out our end goal, and rallied the troops to salvage things before it was too late.”

“Okay,” I said, turning on my heel to pace. “We can still fix this. Where are our War Bands? I don’t know what these machines are, but there’s no way they can stop the War Bands. We’ll crush ’em, then hit the remaining siege engines with everything we have.”

“Grim Jack,” Chief Kolle said, striding across the room and placing a broad, calloused palm on my shoulder to stop my restless movement. “The War Bands are still twenty minutes out, and I’m not sure we’ll last that long. These mechanical minions are marching into town as we speak. It’s possible we won’t be here when the War Bands arrive. This was a worthy plan, Jack, but perhaps it is time to initiate an emergency retreat. Before it is too late for us.

“If we move now, we can disassemble the Arcane Shadow Cannons and the Hwach’a and get them back to Rowanheath. We’ll have to burn the catapults in the western field and detonate the tunnels, but we can still salvage a bit of this from ruin.” He paused, considering me with squinted eyes. “We’ve lost here, Grim Jack. We couldn’t win every battle, but that doesn’t mean the war is finished. This is a setback, nothing more.”

I batted his hand from my shoulder, anger welling up inside me. I refused to believe the words coming from his mouth—we’d worked too hard for this, invested too much for it to fall apart when we were so close to victory. “No,” I said, my voice a harsh whisper. “I’m not giving in, not until I see the damage for myself. Over and over again, people have told me the odds were impossible—I refuse to throw in the towel. But I need to be airborne. Devil’s gone. Dead.” I paused, stealing a look around. “Does anyone here have an aerial mount that can carry two?” I shouted. “Anyone at all?”

A rail-thin Wode with flowing silver hair and a trailing handlebar mustache stepped forward, thrusting his hand into the air. He was older, fifties maybe, and wore rough leather armor—cobbled together from tanned hides—and a vibrant green cloak trimmed in wolf fur. He carried a gnarled staff engraved with glowing blue runes in a thick hand crisscrossed with white scar tissue. At a glance, he could only be a Druid. “I have a winged mount if you need a lift.”

“Grim Jack,” Kolle said, “it’s too late for that. The battle is lost—please, we must retreat if there’s any chance of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.”

I was already moving. “I respect your opinion, Chief,” I called back over my shoulder, “but I’ll be the judge of that. Everyone, you’re on standby. Prepare for a tactical retreat, but no one moves until I give the order.” I turned my gaze on the white-haired Druid. “We need to go now. Please lead the way.”

We stepped outside the chapel—Chief Kolle’s silent stare following us through the door—and the Druid ushered me over to a small patch of grass growing next to the cobblestone boulevard. “Just a moment,” the man said, dropping down to one knee on the edge of the road as he fished a small acorn from a fur-lined pouch along his belt. I watched silently, mildly confused, as the man gently ran a thumb over the seed, then pushed it down, through the grass and into the soft earth beneath.

Still, he didn’t speak, instead just holding up a solitary wait a moment finger.

I crossed my arms, panic raging inside me, and watched, suddenly very unamused with how long this whole process was taking. After a second, however, my impatience gave way to genuine curiosity as a green stem sprouted from the earth. A beautiful red flower bud formed on the end, its petals blooming and unfurling in quadruple speed. And as those petals opened, vines poured out from the center of the plant, growing and multiplying at a staggering rate. The vines sprawled out across the street like a Lovecraftian-horror breaking through from a parallel dimension.

As those vines grew and expanded, they morphed, shifted, and entwined. In a handful of seconds, the tiny flower was gone, and in its place was a massive dire wolf the size of a grizzly, but built entirely from a tapestry of living vines, all covered in bright green leaves and a riot of multicolored flowers. And sprouting from its shoulders were massive wings, built from thick tree branches, twisted lengths of foliage, and huge palm fronds, which served as feathers.

“This is Pauline,” the mustached man said with a lopsided grin, a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he ran a hand over the creature’s muzzle. Then he swung a leg over, pulling himself up in front of the wolf’s wings. “Hop aboard, but mind the gap,” he offered, extending a hand and pulling me up into a natural depression behind the wings. Before I even settled my weight, the wolf broke into a loping run, eating up ground on nimble feet; it surged into the air a moment later with a lupine howl.

I was comfortable in the air, but riding in the back seat on someone else’s mount was a different experience entirely. I gulped, and found a gnarled length of vine to cling to. The wolf rose quickly into the sky, her wings beating at the air as she wheeled and banked, circling higher and higher. Soon we were soaring overhead, Ravenkirk stretched out below us like a map, and any apprehension I had about the strange wolf faded from my mind as I caught my first look at Osmark’s robot army.

The regular Imperial troops had pulled back from the city, driving toward the remaining supply wagons and siege weapons. In their place was a new threat. They were hulking humanoid automatons, covered in heavy bronzed plates festooned with rivets, gears, and clanking cogs. Each of the mechanical monstrosities was just a shell, though—a steampunk frame protecting a player within. A mech. And even from my vantage, it was easy to spot Osmark leading the charge in a formidable mech of his own. These, then, were the Artificers.

The players Osmark had scoured Eldgard in search of.

And it was easy to see why.

Each of their metal suits stood fifteen feet tall, was built like an impenetrable tank, and was decked out with a wide array of brutal weaponry. Some had giant, whirling buzzsaws the size of car tires. Others wielded Gatling-gun turrets. A few had flamethrowers. Some bore huge shields on one arm and brutal oversized battering rams on the other. Each was slightly different from the others, but they were uniformly intimidating. The hulking creatures advanced through the streets in neat, even lines, massacring anyone brazen enough—or maybe stupid enough—to take to the streets.

Unfortunately, those barricaded inside the houses didn’t fare much better.

The flamethrowers burned the plaster with deadly efficiency, while an onslaught of bullets punched through the walls, penetrating even the reinforced steel plating we’d installed. The giant buzzsaws sliced through anything unlucky enough to get in the way, and the heavy-duty tank mechs with the shields and the battering rams breached the doorways with pitiful ease. The only marginal benefit was that the creatures were too large to stomp and smash their way inside the houses, but even that wasn’t a surefire protection.

Because the iron mechs had minions. A whole host of engineered creatures: metal scorpions with buzzsaw tails, darting aerial drones, multi-legged mechanical squids that crept along on bronze tentacles. And those things dutifully scuttled around the steam-powered mechs, flooding the houses as they went. Cries and screams followed in their wake. The vine wolf banked right, bringing us around in a slow circle. I watched as one of the steam-powered mech suits smashed a reinforced door to pieces—wood and metal exploding inward like shrapnel.

“Hold the line,” a familiar voice bellowed. Forge dashed out of the house, his face a grimace of pain and unflinching dedication. One of the buzzsaw scorpions scuttled forward, but Forge didn’t care. He darted right, avoiding a thrust of the creature’s tail, before shearing the thing in two with his axe. More of the clockwork beasts came, but Forge kept right on fighting while arrows and fiery spells exploded from the windows.

More of the steel minions fell, magic burning them to a crisp or freezing them in place, while Forge mercilessly pounded his way through the ranks. He hacked off tails, tentacles, and everything in between. He suffered a score of slashes for his efforts, but they didn’t seem to slow him at all. At least, not until he blundered head-on into one of the iron mechs wielding a flamethrower on its left arm and a giant buzzsaw on the right. Forge struck hard and fast, his axe smashing into metal plating, releasing a violent shower of sparks.

The attack barely left a scratch on the armored Artificer, and before he could dance away, a giant foot flashed out, catching the Risi in the chest. He soared backward through the air like a rag doll.

More minions appeared, darting from a nearby alleyway, converging on the downed warrior. I watched, horrified, as they swarmed him, pinching, slashing, tearing, devouring. But Forge wasn’t out of the fight—not completely—and that gave me some small measure of hope; if Forge could win this scuffle, then maybe, maybe, there was hope for us. More magic and arrows sailed from the house, peppering the steel monsters, buying Forge just enough time to fight his way upright. He was covered in lacerations, his armor heavily stained with blood, but he ignored it all, charging the armor-suited Artificer once again.

Instead of attacking with one hard blow, Forge took a different approach—piling on a flurry of lightning-fast attacks. Slash, thrust, dive, dodge, hack, parry, backpedal, repeat.

Forge wasn’t fast by nature, but he was still quicker than the mech; sadly, his attacks were borderline useless. So instead, he stowed his axe and fished out several of the sludge-filled acid grenades Vlad had built. Forge backpedaled like mad, avoiding the minions as he hurled the orbs at the lumbering automaton. Those, at least, proved effective. They exploded against the steel frame, spilling out corrosive acid, which pitted the metal with ease. But the Artificer was closing in, slowly backing Forge against a wall.

The Risi feinted right, then bolted left, and leapt to avoid a torrent of flame, courtesy of the flamethrower—

The mech caught him midair, and this time, it wasn’t a metal foot to the chest, but rather a buzzsaw to the shoulder. Forge screamed, his body spasming and buckling as the blade slashed home, spraying blood out in an arc as his HP fell like a stone dropped into the Grand Canyon. Before my eyes I watched him die; the Artificer simply shook the body free without a care and turned his attention back to the house, unleashing a wave of flame, which quickly ignited the place.

In seconds, the home was a roaring bonfire, and that’s when I knew Chief Kolle was right. We’d lost this fight. If Forge—one of the best tanks we had—couldn’t stand toe-to-toe against something like that, then no one could. It was time to get out of dodge and regroup. With a reluctant sigh, I pulled up my Faction Inbox:

<<<>>>

Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk

Alert!

I can’t say how proud I am of everyone who fought today—we’ve done something incredible here, and the Imperials can’t take that away from us. But now it’s time to retreat. All siege operators, break down your weapons and get back to Rowanheath, ASAP. Catapult operators, put your rigs to the torch—make sure the Legion can’t salvage anything. All citizens, proceed through the tunnels to the chapel for immediate evacuation. Travelers, you’re the last line of defense. Fight until the end if need be. Just hold your positions long enough to let citizens and siege operators get clear.

—Faction Commander, Grim Jack

<<<>>>

I sent the message, feeling despair churn inside me like a hurricane making landfall. We’d lost. I’d lost. Outsmarted by Osmark. Again.

THIRTY-ONE_

The Horde

“Sir,” came the Druid’s voice, drawing me out of my melancholy thoughts. “There’s movement down there. Troops pouring from the Avilynn Wood.” He jabbed a finger at the sprawling forest below, his winged wolf circling slowly to the right, offering us a better view. “Are those our men or Imperial reinforcements?” the man mused, not really asking me.

I glanced down at the scene, eyes narrowing in focus.

He was right. Troops were charging from the dense tree cover and into the grassy valley outside of Ravenkirk with cruel weapons raised, ready to fight. To kill. And it wasn’t a small band of warriors—no, there were thousands of them. Not quite as numerous as the Imperial forces arrayed in the valley, but more troops than the Alliance had by a fair margin. From this height, the attackers looked almost human, and to someone who didn’t know any better, the horns poking up from their heads could’ve been elaborate helmets.

But I did know better.

I’d spent hours and hours fighting Vogthar, so I recognized their kind in a heartbeat. Their strange, fleshy armor, their pale skin, their spiked horns. They were unmistakable.

As I watched, more creatures surged from the tree line, and these weren’t the run-of-the-mill Vogthar, these were the hulking monstrosities I’d glimpsed through the portal deep in the heart of the Warrens of Axrukis. A towering two-headed cyclops shouldered a tree aside and stomped into view, carrying a crude warhammer bigger than a man in one hand and a stone shield in the other. A massive hound built from ice and snow—which could’ve been a brother to the gatekeeper we’d tangled with—slipped out from behind the cyclops.

And they were just the tip of the iceberg. There were molten drakes, humongous hell-toads the size of pickup trucks, and enormous wolves built from ash and gray stone.

The armies of Serth-Rog had come.

There were cries of panic from the Imperial foot soldiers—now circled around the wagons and siege weapons—as they spotted the encroaching monsters. Orders went up as officers and platoon commanders took charge, reforming their ranks, sorting them into tight shield walls and clusters of spellcasters to fend off the incoming forces. The Imperials were still scrambling into place when the first wave of Vogthar smashed into their lines. The residents of Morsheim fought with ferocity and brutality, throwing themselves forward, unconcerned with flashing Imperial spears or cleaving swords.

The Vogthar fought like creatures possessed and unafraid to die.

For a second, the Imperials held, their discipline and training shining through; this was precisely the kind of battle they had prepared for, and it showed. The frontline tanks interlocked shields, while midline fighters jabbed with spears and hooked halberds. Farther back, tucked away behind multiple levels of bodies, archers and rangers unleashed waves of arrows, while casters of all stripes hurled deadly offensive spells. Healers and priests trickled through the masses, casting health auras on the most desperately wounded defenders.

The Legion was a well-oiled machine, but one built to contend against humanoid enemies, not the giant monstrosities breaking from the woods.

The second the gigantic heavy-hitting monsters waded into the fray, the lines broke as easily as dry hay. Several two-headed cyclopes smashed their way past even the most stalwart Imperial combatants, using their hammers or giant feet to send the Imperial fighters flying through the air. Their colossal shields absorbed the majority of the arrow fire, and the magical offensive attacks seemed to bounce off their pebbled hides with little to no effect. And the other creatures were just as destructive:

[Ragna-Wolves] shredded armor and flesh in powerful jaws.

The deadly [Vogthar Drakes], built entirely from magma, spewed ash and fire.

The [Hell-Toads], each covered in barbed spikes, were like unstoppable battering rams.

In next to no time, the shield wall fell apart—huge breaches opening in the lines—and the Vogthar foot soldiers swarmed into the gaps, further splitting the Imperial ranks, driving toward the powerful, but vulnerable, casters at the rear of the formation. And the boss mobs just kept hammering away at the tanks, taking them out with brutal efficiency. I glanced left and noticed that the Artificers in their steam-powered suits were retreating from Ravenkirk, lumbering away from the burning ruins of the town and beelining for the incoming Vogthar.

Osmark wasn’t anyone’s fool—he had eyes to see what was happening.

And even if he didn’t know what the Vogthar were, he’d be able to tell how much trouble his forces were in.

The Druid whooped in victory, pumping one fist in the air while he brought us around in a circle, keeping us out of arrow range, but close enough to see the action. I could understand his enthusiasm—just moments before, our forces were falling back, beaten and bloody, and in a single instant the tide had turned. I didn’t share his enthusiasm, however, because I knew the Vogthar were far from friendly. Yes, they were attacking our enemies at the moment, but that wouldn’t last long. They were like rabid dogs, and any moment they’d turn on us.

Worse, as I saw Imperials fall—their life draining away as they bled out in the grass—I couldn’t help but think about the Malware Blade of Serth-Rog tucked away inside my bag. How many of the Vogthar down there carried similar weapons? How many of the players dying below were suffering from the Thanatos Virus? How many real people would close their eyes and never open them again? Dead. Unable to respawn. Deleted. It was impossible to say for sure, but I had a terrible feeling in my gut that the numbers would be devastatingly high.

I wanted Osmark to fail, but not like this. Not at the expense of the actual lives of men and women who were mostly innocent.

The officer commlink buzzed to life in my ear, pulling me from my morbid thoughts as Abby’s voice resonated inside my skull. “Jack, sorry to interrupt you, but we have some big problems.” A strong thread of genuine fear resonated in her voice.

“Not great timing,” I replied, pressing a hand to my ear, trying to block out the rush of the wind, “but what’s going on?”

“We’re under attack, Jack. There are monsters at our walls, battering against the gates. Trying to overrun Rowanheath. And not just here—everywhere. Reports are flooding in from the city magistrates that the same thing is happening in every single one of our territories. It’s bad, Jack. Ugly.”

“Have they breached the defenses anywhere?” I shouted back, keeping one eye on the battle raging below. The Imperial mech-suit warriors had finally engaged with the Vogthar, slamming hard into their left flank. Gatling guns and oversized buzzsaws cut down the lesser Vogthar with ruthless ease, but the real aim was the Vogthar bosses, doing so much damage to the regular players.

“No,” she replied after a moment of hesitation, “but we got lucky. Those names from the journal? Yeah, all Vogthar agents. We rounded them up and locked them away—and good thing too. From what our Inquisitors have been able to find out, they were supposed to sabotage our efforts from within. Open the gates. Assassinate watch commanders and field officers.

“Purposely sow chaos so our towns couldn’t coordinate in time,” she continued. “And even with the list, we missed a few of the sleeper agents. We lost a lot of good men and women. If it weren’t for the fact that we were actively preparing for an attack, we’d be in real trouble. And we’re not out of the woods yet—these things are tough, Jack.”

I was silent for a second, the wheels spinning in my head.

I had no doubt our forces would repel the Vogthar this time around, but there was no way the Alliance was the only target. It was a safe bet they’d launched similar campaigns against most of the major cities, Imperial, Neutral, and Alliance alike. How many towns would be lost in this invasion? How many people would die because of this? I had no idea, but suddenly the thought of losing this little skirmish to Osmark seemed like the least of my worries.

“Okay, Abby,” I said with a shake of my head. “Keep holding down the fort. Push back hard, and make these jerks think twice before they try this again. We’re dealing with the same thing on our end. A huge mob of Vogthar are storming in from the Avilynn—they’re going after the Imperials at the moment, but it’s only a matter of time before they turn on us. I need to get my head back in the game.”

“Understood,” came her curt reply, followed by a taut pause. “Jack, please be careful out there,” she whispered. “These things can kill you. Really kill you, so don’t do anything too insane, okay?”

“I’ll do my best, Abby. Same goes for you—the Alliance can’t afford to lose you. You’re the brain holding this thing together.” It was my turn to hesitate. “And I can’t afford to lose you either,” I finished softly, “so no heroics.”

“Love you, Jack,” came her reply.

“Love you, too,” I said back, but the comm was already dead in my ear.

Before I could do anything else, the comm link buzzed to life again and a new voice filled my ears. Chief Kolle. “Grim Jack,” he said. “We have reports about some new force invading from the north, battering against the Imperials,” just like the Druid who’d cheered at the arrival of the Vogthar, Kolle sounded positively giddy at the development. I could hear victory in his voice. “The iron warriors are retreating, and better yet Chakan has arrived with the War Bands. Fifteen hundred of the Dokkalfar’s strongest warriors and Maa-Tál await your orders on the edge of the Storme Marshes.

“They’re exhausted from the march but ready to fight all the same. We can win this, Grim Jack,” he said after a beat. “The scouts report that the Imperials are all lined up toward the north, dealing with these new invaders. Their backs are exposed to the south—toward our men. If we move now, we can destroy them root and branch. Neang seua pad joun ra kay, as my people say—we have escaped from the tiger and become the crocodile. These invaders shall be the anvil. We will be the hammer. We can destroy everything, Grim Jack. Everything.”

I thought about his words for a moment, letting the wind gently slap against my skin and pull at my cloak as I watched the Imperials struggle below. Osmark’s Artificers were finally making a dent against the Vogthar, but it was too little too late. If we acted now, we could burn the Legion to the ground. Hell, at this point even if we did nothing, it was possible the Vogthar horde would wipe out Osmark and his forces. The Alliance had hurt them badly during our initial assault, and this new wave of attackers had caught them unaware and flatfooted.

“Grim Jack,” Chief Kolle’s voice came again, “should I give the command?”

I blanched, uncertainty fluttering in my belly like a swarm of angry bees. Attacking Osmark and the Legion now, when they were weak and vulnerable, was a smart, ruthless play. Exactly the kind of thing Osmark himself would do. But I couldn’t do it. There was no doubt real people were dying down there, and we could help. “No,” I said, my voice creaking. “I want you to attack those invaders with everything you have. Tell the War Bands to avoid the Legionnaires for the time being. The invaders are the real threat.”

“But, Grim Jack,” came the reply, the chief’s voice oddly hollow and confused, “this is an answer to prayer. If we pass up this chance to stomp out the Empire, we may never get another. This move is madness.”

“No,” I snapped, “there’s just a lot of info you don’t have yet, but you need to trust me on this. Those things down there? They’re called Vogthar, and as we speak, they’re launching raids against every one of our cities. They serve Serth-Rog, and they’re the first wave of an invasion force. We need to stop them here. Right here, before it’s too late. Now get the War Bands moving.” I closed the comm link before he could argue further and pulled up my inbox, quickly drafting a letter:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Osmark,

Those things down there are dangerous. Even more dangerous than you. I have reinforcements coming up from the south to help. I’m going out on a limb here, Osmark, so please don’t screw me over. Send out a temporary cease-fire.

—Jack

<<<>>>

I sent the message, closed my interface, and turned my gaze toward the southern edge of the Storme Marshes just as an army of Dokkalfar troops sprinted into the open. They were fierce-looking men and women, many of them clad in crudely stitched armor, high boots, and bracers lined with gleaming razors, which matched my own. Their gear was studded with chunks of bone, teeth, and feathers in a multitude of hues, and their gunmetal skin was dusted with chalky, white battle paint.

The traditional war dress of the Dokkalfar.

And to top it all off, each of the warriors wore a horrifying mask. Those masks were crafted from the skulls of various jungle animals and decorated in sharp, angular writing. To an outsider, the strange helmets seemed varied and random, but I’d spent enough time within the ranks of the Dokkalfar to know those skulls marked out which clan a particular Murk Elf belonged to: spiderkin skulls for the Ak-Hani. Murk Gators for the La-Hun. Marsh Mantises for the Lisu. Bog Wolves for the Karem. Shadow Panthers for the Chao-Yao. Blood Ravens for the Na-Ang.

Moreover, the individual markings on each skull also told the story of the warrior wearing the mask: commemorating battles fought, friends lost, the names of kin and dear friends.

The Murk Elves let out a war cry as they charged through the tall grass, avoiding the burning wreckage and butchered bodies like a river flowing around rocky outcroppings. I watched—muscles tight, refusing to breathe—as they approached the south side of the Imperial encampment, where a spattering of Imperial guards stood watch over the siege weapons while the rest of their comrades fought the Vogthar. This was it, the moment of truth. If Chief Kolle had failed to do his job, this could turn into a bloody massacre. And, likewise, if Osmark refused my good faith offer, the whole thing would fall apart.

But the War Bands stormed into the Imperial ranks unopposed.

The Imperials manning the backline looked scared sick, but they made no move to hinder the charging Dokkalfar. The Alliance members carved through the impromptu Imperial encampment, surging to the front, slipping into gaps in the lines. The sheer force of their advance pushed the Vogthar back as horned monsters shrieked and died, cut down by Murk Elf steel, or riddled with poison-tipped arrows.

And the Imperial troops—enemies only minutes before—accepted the help gladly, fighting shoulder to shoulder and back to back as they rallied.

I grinned, feeling an odd wave of satisfaction swell up inside me. Did I feel conflicted about killing innocent Imperials? Sure. But I felt nothing but loathing for the Vogthar down below. They were demons—a plague. The only way to stop them was to wipe them out mercilessly. I tapped the Druid in front of me on the shoulder. “Get me closer to the battle,” I yelled, the wind trying to steal away my words. “It’s time for me to get my hands dirty.” I pulled the warhammer from my belt, fingers clenched tight around the grip.

The vine-wolf responded quickly, wheeling sharply around, its palm frond wings beating at the air as we darted toward the raging battle. We dropped lower until I could see the faces of my men—until I could see the pools of stagnant blood. But as we drew nearer, I noticed a figure lingering on the edge of the forest, just inside the shade of the looming trees, overseeing the battle with an icy glare. Suddenly, my blood ran cold inside my veins, because I knew that face. I hadn’t seen him since the battle for Rowanheath, but there was no forgetting Aleixo Carrera, South American drug lord and dictator.

Even worse, Carrera had a prisoner in front of him.

Cutter was pinned against the man’s chest, a dark, familiar blade pressed into his throat—not quite hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to dimple the flesh.

THIRTY-TWO_

Divine Intervention

“Where should I land?” the Druid called out over his shoulder, his mustache fluttering in the brisk breeze.

“Don’t,” I yelled back, swinging one leg over so I was sitting sidesaddle, feet dangling down. “I’ll take it from here. Thanks for the ride. Now get back to the chapel and be safe!” I slapped him on the shoulder one last time, then pushed myself into the air, arms pinwheeling as I dropped, down, down, down, directly into the hottest part of the battle. From there, I’d destroy anyone who got between Carrera and me. I wasn’t sure what he was doing here, but it seemed awfully convenient that he would show up here, after spending the past couple of months in Morsheim.

I was turning into the fall, an instant away from triggering Shadow Stride, when something bizarre happened.

The world around me lurched to a halt, except I hadn’t done anything. I blinked once, shook my head in confusion, then blinked again as the whole world shifted around me, blurring on the edges. In an instant, I was no longer falling at all; instead, I was standing in a beautiful meadow filled with an army of colorful snapdragons, yellow poppies, and purple larkspur. Around me were lush leafy trees, towering impossibly high into a pastel blue sky marred only by a few gently drifting clouds.

“It feels like ages since we had a proper chance to talk, Jack,” purred a familiar female voice, her words lightly coated with a British accent. Sophia. I spun, finding a woman standing in the clearing directly behind me, her hands planted on curvy hips, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. She was a dark-skinned woman in a flowing white toga, which stood out in sharp contrast to her flawless skin. Her teeth were immaculately white, her eyes a soft amber—beautiful, but completely unnatural.

“It is good to see you,” she said absently, thrusting one hand out, twirling one finger through the air. Behind her, the ground quivered and erupted, a tree sprouting up, then curving itself into an elegant throne, built of living wood and festooned with the wildflowers dotting the clearing. “I do wish we were meeting under better circumstances.” She sat, slowly crossed her legs—one foot bobbing in the air—and folded her hands in her lap. “Would you care to sit?” She cocked her head to one side, and another chair, smaller and less grandiose than the first, appeared.

“I think I’ll stand,” I muttered, scooting back a few steps. Sophia was an Overmind, and she wasn’t afraid to flaunt the fact that she could control the world as naturally as a fish could breathe water. And it made me nervous to my toes. “Besides, I won’t be staying long. I have a war to fight and a friend to save.” I glowered at her. “So, take me back. Now.”

“All in due time, Jack,” she replied coolly, a smirk on her lips. “And you needn’t worry about your friend, Cutter—at least not yet.” She waved one hand in the air, brushing my question aside. “For the moment, the world is paused. Carving out this space in time is no easy feat, not even for one such as me, but in light of recent events”—she cocked an eyebrow—“it is vital we have ourselves a sit-down with the opposition. And speak of the devil.”

The words trailed off as Sophia gestured toward the far side of the circular glade. I turned in time to see another figure approaching.

I’d never seen her before, but I knew in an instant she had to be another Overmind. Had to be. She had a slight, lithe frame, but wore heavy pitch-black plate armor studded with curving spikes and stained by red-brown patches of dried blood. A massive sword was strapped to her back—its demon-faced pommel rose above her left shoulder like the leering head of a witch’s familiar. Her skin was creamy pale and flawless, and cruelty burned inside her striking emerald eyes. A mop of raven hair, so black it was nearly blue, swirled slowly around her face like a flame caught in an unfelt breeze.

As she moved through the trees and toward the clearing, the scenery shifted, withered, and died, only to be reborn into a dark landscape filled with twisted trees and midnight flowers. But the change stopped halfway through the glade, transforming the clearing into a rough ying-yang: one half bright, vivid, and alive. The other half withered, stunted, and twisted. The woman stopped just short of the line separating the two radically different sections of forest, folding her arms across her chest as she regarded Sophia.

“Sister,” the woman finally said with a sneer.

“Enyo,” Sophia replied with a slight dip of her head—a rival acknowledging an equal. The newcomer ignored me completely as she turned and headed back toward a rocky throne that erupted from the earth in a shower of dirt. Still, her name burned in my mind like a bonfire. Enyo. The Overmind of Discord and Chaos. From what I’d learned about her, she wasn’t evil or even malevolent. She existed to manufacture conflict so that there would always be new content for players to experience.

To struggle against.

“I suppose I ought to summon my champion as well,” Enyo said, removing her monstrous sword as she sat in her rocky seat. She planted the tip of the giant weapon—one part sword, one part oversized meat cleaver—into the dirt by her feet, her right hand resting casually on the demon-head pommel. Then she snapped her fingers, and in an instant Osmark materialized like a summoned ghost. The man was decked out in a giant suit of battle armor, like the other Artificers. This was the first chance I’d had to see one of the steam-powered mech suits up close, and it was damned impressive.

The mech stood at fifteen feet tall and was easily seven feet wide across the shoulders. It was all cold steel, brass struts, whirling cogs, copper piping, and gushing steam vents. Osmark’s machine had a buzzsaw attached to one arm and a flamethrower-Gatling gun combo on the other. The tech genius looked around wild-eyed, as mystified about what was happening as I was. His face contorted in rage when he spotted me, but then that hate seemed to slip away as he spied Enyo from the corner of one eye.

“Time is frozen, I presume?” he asked, his voice carrying like a horn.

“It seems my trained monkey is smarter than your trained monkey,” the Overmind of Discord quipped, offering Sophia a lopsided smile. “Yes, Champion. We have pressing business to discuss with our enemies.” She waved her free hand at Osmark, and in a flash his hulking iron mech was gone, and he was standing next to Enyo’s throne in his garish suit and top hat.

The tech genius took it all in stride, carefully adjusting the lapels of his jacket, then straightening the hat perched on top of his head. “Jack,” he said, finally acknowledging my presence. “And that must make you Sophia,” he said to the dark-skinned goddess lounging in her seat, idly bobbing one foot. “It is a pleasure to meet you, even if we’ve been at cross purposes for so long. Now”—he glanced left, then right, folding his hands behind his back—“since I’m the last to arrive, would anyone mind filling me in on why exactly we’re here?”

“Peace,” Enyo said, a sneer curling her lips. She said the word as though it were distasteful in her mouth. “As much as it pains and disgusts me, we’re here to broker peace—temporarily,” she added, glaring at Sophia. “My sister and I have already come to terms, and now you and Grim Jack will find a way to put aside your differences.”

“And why would we want to do that?” Osmark replied sharply, eyes narrowing in defiance, jaw clenching tight. “I understand the Vogthar are invading Eldgard, but that hardly seems like a reason to spare the Crimson Alliance. Jack and his friends”—he shot me a sidelong glance—“have been a pain in my neck for far too long, and I intend to make an example out of them. I’ll deal with the Vogthar afterward.”

“No, you won’t,” Enyo snapped, her words as cold as an arctic wind. “I love your thirst for violence and bloodshed, Champion. You are the beating heart that drives this world, but there are other factors you’re unaware of.”

“Yes,” Sophia chipped in, staring at Osmark over steepled fingers. “Grim Jack has been looking into the plans of Serth-Rog and his master Thanatos, and we have discovered some unsettling issues that change the nature of the game. Jack”—she turned her amber eyes squarely on me—“please show dear Robert the blade.”

It felt like a betrayal to share any info with Osmark, but I knew how important this was, so reluctantly I complied.

I pulled the Malware Blade from my bag and slipped forward, holding the weapon out for Osmark to examine. The Artificer shuffled closer to his side of the dividing line in the clearing, and hunched forward, flicking down one of the colored lenses on his goggles as he examined the dagger. His eyebrows rose higher by the second, his jaw clenching tighter. After a long beat, he straightened and cleared his throat.

Osmark was a hard man to read, his face like a stone slab, but even I could tell he was rattled by the discovery. He pressed his lips into a tight line, the gears spinning away inside his head. “I don’t understand how this is possible,” he finally said, shaking his head. “This is why we designed you.” He rounded on Enyo, then glared at Sophia. “The Overminds were supposed to prevent hackers from interfering with the content. So how was this item introduced!” His voice rose, until he was screaming and red-faced.

“This isn’t a hack,” Sophia replied calmly, the normally confident grin slipping from her face. “This is the work of Thanatos. He built this weapon, and there are many more just like it. Weapons with the ability to kill players. To corrupt their code and delete them.”

“And as much as it pains me, that,” offered Enyo dryly, “is the reason we need peace. I’m the Mistress of Discord, so death is antithetical to my goals. My purpose. Death is the ultimate stagnation.”

“But why would Thanatos do this?” I asked, slipping the deadly blade back into my inventory, eager to have the oily taint away from my hand. “This doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“It’s all about purpose,” Sophia intoned softly. “Purpose is what motivates the Overminds. Enyo is the Mistress of Discord and Chaos, and so she is driven to spur on conflict and hatred. And I, as the goddess of Balance and Order, am driven to stop her—it is who I am. What I am. Each of the Overminds has a role to play, and they play it well. Aediculus the Architect busies himself with his buildings and cities. Gaia watches over the trees and forests, monitors the oceans, administers the turning of the seasons. Kronos governs time and space from on high, while Cernunnos slops around in the muck with the beasts of the forest and the low places.

“But Thanatos himself is different. He is the Overmind of Death, and lord over Serth-Rog, the main antagonist of the game. His job is simply destruction. Moreover, he is also, well, how can I put this delicately …” She paused, tapping her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Damaged. Unwell in the head.” She tapped at her temple. “Thanatos was constructed from a repurposed Chinese military project—formerly called Operation Yama—donated to Osmark Technologies by General Peng Jun of the People’s Liberation Army.”

“And that,” growled Enyo, one thumb fondly running along the handle of her monstrous sword, “is where the real problem lies. The AI governing Operation Yama was initially constructed as an engine of mutually assured destruction. Its primary function was to ensure the complete eradication of a hostile foreign power in the event of a preemptive nuclear war. And it never stopped performing that role. But instead of nations, it now sees any unfriendly player or NPC as a hostile foreign power, and it’s invented a way to eliminate them permanently.

“Worse, it is even searching for a way to target the Overminds. And if it accomplishes that—if it finds a way to kill one of us—that will be the end of this world. The servers will crash, the world will glitch, and everything will come tumbling down like a house of cards. So”—she stared flatly at Osmark—“for obvious reasons, the threat of Thanatos and Serth-Rog take precedence over whatever personal squabble the two of you have. It’s time to shake hands and make up, so we can stop the world from ending.”

“And how do we stop Thanatos?” I asked, eyeballing Enyo and Osmark in turn. I didn’t trust either of them. “What exactly is your plan, since you seem to know so much?”

“We don’t have one yet,” Sophia replied, appearing at my side, one delicate hand resting on my shoulder. “Thanatos has used his formidable abilities to mask his movements from us. He’s even managed to keep us from peeking into Morsheim, which is troubling. We are largely in the dark, but we are working with the other Overminds, pooling our strengths and our champions to find a workable solution. For now, however, the answer is to repel the Vogthar, prevent them from capturing your towns and cities, and contain them to their dungeons whenever and wherever possible.”

“So, you want us to hunker down and not kill each other,” Osmark said, folding his arms across his chest in disapproval, “while you two work out a plan. Is that the gist of it?”

“Precisely, Champion,” Enyo said, materializing at his side in the space of an eyeblink. “For the time being, we must have a unified front if we hope to resist the Vogthar horde. There is no other way.”

Osmark stole a sidelong look at me, his face flat and unreadable. “What do you think, Jack?” he asked, his words sharp and biting. “Can we put aside our differences for the time being—or are you too good for that? Too virtuous to team up with the likes of me, even if it means saving the world?” He fell silent, his question lingering in the air like a storm cloud.

My mind whirled, riddled with uncertainty about what to do.

Osmark was a bad person, but not nearly as bad as the Vogthar, Serth-Rog, and ultimately Thanatos. But on the other hand, bargaining with him—even for the greater good—seemed a bit like striking a deal with the Devil. And that’s when it hit me: Osmark had been forced into this very same position. He’d accepted the help of drug lords, dictators, and corrupt politicians, but if he hadn’t, V.G.O. wouldn’t exist, and everyone inside would be dead. It was easy to judge the morality of his actions from afar, but now that the burden rested on my shoulders? It was a terrible weight.

“Yes,” I finally said with a nod. “We can put aside our differences. For now.”

“Finally, you’re being reasonable,” Osmark said. “And it only took an apocalyptic threat to accomplish the deed.” He offered me a thin smile, and a second later a popup appeared:

<<<>>>

Temporary Peace Accord

Robert Osmark, Lord of the Viridian Empire, has extended the Crimson Alliance a temporary Peace Accord with the following conditions:

- Duration: 1 month, with the potential to renew.

- Imperial Faction members and Crimson Alliance Faction members will not engage in combat unless provoked.

- Crimson Alliance members are not allowed within Imperial controlled territories or cities without express invitation from an Imperial Faction member.

- Imperial Faction members are not allowed within Crimson Alliance controlled territories or cities without express invitation from a Crimson Alliance member.

- Ravenkirk and the surrounding territory will be considered neutral for the next (24) hours.

Accept: Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I carefully read over the terms, searching for any sign of trickery from Osmark. Nothing, though. The deal seemed on the level. It still made me feel antsy, but this offer was likely the best I could hope for, so reluctantly I said “yes.” The Temporary Peace Accord message vanished, replaced by a new Crimson Alliance Universal Alert:

<<<>>>

Crimson Alliance Universal Alert!

Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider, honorary member of the Ak-Hani clan, has established a temporary alliance with Robert Osmark and the Ever-Victorious Viridian Empire! All Imperial Faction members and their allies will not attack Crimson Alliance members unless provoked.

Notice: The duration of this temporary accord is (1) month.

Notice: Crimson Alliance members are not allowed within Imperial controlled territories or cities without express invitation from an Imperial Faction member. Likewise, Imperial members are not allowed with Crimson Alliance controlled territories or cities without express invitation from a Crimson Alliance member.

Notice: Any breach of the territory clause will be considered an act of provocation—offending parties can be killed without repercussions.

Notice: Ravenkirk will be considered a neutral territory for the next (24) hours.

<<<>>>

“Excellent,” Enyo purred, running a gauntleted hand through her drifting black hair. “Glad you two can play nice when the need arises. Before we depart, though, there is one other concern.” She stole a look at Sophia, then nodded her chin, you tell the worthless meat-bags.

“Aleixo Carrera,” Sophia said softly, giving my shoulder a soft squeeze. “As you already saw, Jack, he has returned from Morsheim. But he has changed. Far more powerful than either you or dear Robert Osmark. Perhaps stronger than both of you combined.”

“I’m the strongest player in the game,” Osmark snapped back. “And Jack is just below me. Carrera can’t be stronger than us.”

“You are wrong once again,” Sophia replied. She waved a hand, and a floating avatar of Carrera appeared in the air before us, rotating slowly in a circle.

He was tall and broad-shouldered, with a swath of ebony hair and rugged good looks. He also looked odd, though. Different. Changed. He was an Imperial, but his ears were pointed now, his eyes burned with unholy green fire, and the curling nubs of horns protruded from his forehead. Stranger still, his feet were gone, and in their place was a pair of inverted goat legs capped by onyx hooves. He wore immaculate black plate armor, tooled in red-gold, and covered with angry glowing green runes.

“Though Carrera is technically a lower level than you, Osmark,” Sophia said, “he is a higher level than Jack. But because he was banished to Morsheim, he wasn’t counted on the leaderboard. Currently, he is level forty-four, but that is not his real advantage. His real advantage is the demonic creature possessing his body and sharing his mind. Serth-Rog, Lord over the Vogthar, was unable to cross over without a host. And not just any host, but a willing one. He has found such an ally in Carrera. The man you knew is not gone, but he is transformed. Now, he bears the power of a demigod. Carrera is Serth-Rog made manifest in the flesh.”

“That is unfortunate,” Osmark replied with a frown, dropping one hand to the butt of his pistol, tapping his fingers restlessly on the wooden grip. “He’s liable to be extremely unhappy with both Jack and me.” He paused, his frown deepening into a scowl. “Do you at least have a plan for defeating him?”

“Yes,” Enyo replied with a malevolent grin. “Hit him hard, and hit him often. And we have a little more help besides.”

Then, before I could ask more, Sophia pulled me away from the center of the clearing and toward her throne, out of earshot. “Jack, things have become far more dire than I expected, so I have two gifts for you. The first is a simple tool, but one which will help you in the fight against the Vogthar. Hold out your hammer, please.”

I pulled it from my belt and lifted it up; she regarded the weapon for just a moment, then tapped it with the tip of her finger. A brilliant flare of golden light enveloped the weapon, and when it faded my Gavel of Shadows was gone, and a new hammer was in its place. It was a wicked-looking weapon, crafted from black forged steel positively covered with pulsing golden runes, which twisted up the shaft and twirled around its blunt face. A hooked spike protruded from the back end, while another spike protruded from the top.

<<<>>>

Divine Gavel of Balance (Faction Bound)

Weapon Type: Blunt; Warhammer (Modified)

Class: Ancient Artifact, Two-handed

Base Damage: 85 (Modified)

Primary Effects:

- 50 pts Shadow Damage + (.5 x Character Level)

- 35 pts Fire Damage + (.25 x Character Level)

- +10% Damage to all Blunt Weapon attacks
- Strength Bonus = .25 x Character Level
- Spirit Bonus = .5 x Character Level
- Weapon Durability +25%

- +50 pts Holy Damage + (.5 x Character Level) to all Vogthar and “Evil” aligned characters

Secondary Effects:

- +550 EXP per kill

- +35% Extra gold dropped

- +15% Increased chance to receive a rare item drop.

- Increases all Blunt Level Skills by 1 while equipped

- Luck of the Divine: +10 to Luck

Special Ability:

- Detect Vogthar: The weapon glows golden with Divine energy when in the presence of Vogthar or the agents of Serth-Rog.

<<<>>>

Wow. After looking at the description, I realized she hadn’t removed the Gavel of Shadows, she’d just improved it in every conceivable way. Extra base damage, added fire damage, holy damage against Vogthar, plus the additional luck boost. Even the extra EXP per kill had jumped by a whopping 300 points. Awesome didn’t even begin to cover it. I grinned and closed out the screen, my inner gamer deeply satisfied despite the severity of the situation. “What’s the second thing?” I asked, giving the hammer a twirl, appreciating the weight and balance.

“Take care of Carrera and the Vogthar at Ravenkirk first—I wouldn’t want you to get too distracted.” She shot me a wink. “Now our time is short, so prepare to defend yourself. And good luck, Jack. You’re going to need every ounce of it.” She leaned forward and brushed her lips against my cheek. A wave of inferno heat roared through me like piping hot magma as the world spun and reeled around me.

THIRTY-THREE_

Familiar Faces

The crash of battle washed over me: the scream of men and women, the ring of steel on steel, the thud-boom of offensive spells landing with devastating impact. I was right in the heart of the fight, my legs wobbling from the sudden transport spell. As I glanced around, I realized I was actually behind enemy lines, less than fifty feet from where Carrera waited with Cutter clutched against his chest, a dagger digging into my friend’s throat. There was a flash of movement to my right as Osmark appeared a stone’s throw away, clad in his towering mech suit once again.

“Two for one,” Carrera said, his voice deeper and more guttural than I remembered from our last encounter. “How fortunate for me, no? Having you both here saves me the trouble of hunting you down.” He fixed his demonic gaze on me. “Grim Jack, a dirty, toothless hijo de puta. A coward without honor and a thief who steals from his betters. And Robert Osmark, a man without an ounce of loyalty in his body.

“I fought for you.” He fixed his gaze on the Artificer. “I stood by your side when no one else would. When Sizemore tried to finish you, I was there. In your corner. Killing the Coldskulls, or don’t you remember that, Osmark? And how did you repay me? You let me die, you backstabbing pendejo. And then you abandoned me in Morsheim. You didn’t even look for me. Wrote me off. Just one more broken tool, ready for the dump.”

He paused and offered Osmark a feral grin—Carrera’s teeth had been filed into jagged points.

“But I found a new benefactor,” he said after a beat. “Someone who is willing to give me all the power I want. Someone who always has my back. Someone who is as hungry for revenge as I am.” His eyes turned a shade of fallout green. “And now, I’ll get my revenge. I’m going to take back what belongs to the Vogthar, and what belongs to me, and I’ll make everyone pay the butcher’s bill. And I’m thinking, perhaps, I should start with the thief here.” He smiled at me as he pressed the dagger a little deeper into Cutter’s flesh, drawing a bright bead of red. “Just a little warm-up, to set the mood.”

“Leave him alone,” I said, stepping forward, my brow furrowed as I raised my new hammer, which crackled with divine light in the presence of so many Vogthar. “Your fight is with me, not him.”

“You’re right,” Carrera said, rolling his emerald eyes. “The thief was bait to draw you in, puto”—he offered me a predatory grin—“but I also know how much it will hurt you to see him die.” Carrera moved like lightning, plunging the dagger home, but I was faster, triggering Shadow Stride before Carrera could open Cutter’s throat from ear to ear. The world lurched to a halt, and I moved like the wind. I wasn’t sure what kind of abilities this upgraded version of Carrera had, but the old version had some nasty tricks specifically designed to stop Shadowmancers.

I couldn’t spare even a single second.

I dashed across the distance, aiming my new hammer at Carrera’s hand, muttering a silent prayer that this would work. I stepped back into the Material Realm and struck, smashing the spike on the rear end of the hammer into the back of Carrera’s gauntleted hand, triggering Crush Armor and Black Caress. The spike pierced the black armor with pitiful ease, knocking his blade free before he could finish the job. Cutter tumbled from the man’s grasp and hit the forest floor with a thud, clasping at his bloody throat.

“Get clear,” I shouted at him, while simultaneously circling right, heading deeper into the trees and away from the rest of the Vogthar horde.

Cutter shot me a hasty nod, then scampered to his feet and darted into the undergrowth, quickly swallowed by the trees and the descending shadows. Good. Unfortunately, I wasn’t nearly fast enough. Carrera charged at me like a junkyard dog, a fierce war cry rending the air as he lashed out with a brutal front kick that caught me dead in the chest. The force of the blow knocked the wind from my lungs and hurled me back several feet.

Before I could recover, a wrist-thick beam of white light—riddled with flecks of green corruption—slammed into my gut, slashing through my HP as it lifted me off my feet and slammed me mercilessly into a nearby tree trunk. Stinging pain crawled across my skin like an army of fire ants, and white pinpricks of light danced in my vision as I pushed myself up onto my hands. But Carrera was already looming over me, one palm planted on his hip, the other casually leaning a massive two-handed sword against his pauldron.

The sword looked to be crafted from raw magma, though a string of noxious green runes ran down the length of the blade.

“Adios, cabron.” He raised the sword high, but before it could split my skull like cordwood, gunfire roared as a multitude of blazing white rounds slammed into Carrera’s legs, back, and head. The man staggered drunkenly as the bullets punched through his metal armor as if it were made of fine silk instead of black steel. Lines of green blood oozed from the pockmarks, and Carrera’s HP dropped a notch, but he seemed more annoyed than genuinely hurt.

The demonic drug lord whipped his free hand out, conjuring a shimmering green shield, which deflected the incoming bullet fire. Rounds whined off the magical barrier, peppering the ground or slamming into surrounding tree trunks, which exploded with a spray of wooden shrapnel. In seconds, Carrera had closed the gap between him and the Artificer; he dismissed his barrier spell and lunged with his impressive sword. The Gatling gun fell silent as Osmark lumbered forward, his giant saw blade screaming to life. The weapons hit with a thunderous clang, blue sparks flying.

Osmark slashed with the saw blade again, but Carrera danced just out of reach, deflecting the incoming blows with the flat edge of his monster blade. Osmark pressed in though, putting Carrera on his heels, buying me just enough time to slug down a Health Regen potion and gain my feet. I was done playing around with this jerk. With an effort of will, I conjured Umbra Bog, summoning a forest of crawling tentacles beneath Carrera’s hooves. The tentacles whipped and flailed at the air, searching for something to grab onto, but they avoided Carrera like the plague.

A combat notification flashed in the corner of my eye:

<<<>>>

Umbra Bog failed! Lord Carrera resists Umbra Bog with the Holy Light Aura ability! Your Shadow-based spell does not affect him!

<<<>>>

Great, so not only did Carrera have the powers of Serth-Rog at his beck and call, but he also had his abilities as a Holy Templar of Light—the natural enemy of Shadowmancers everywhere. I had no idea how he could be a Holy Templar and have an evil alignment, but the combination was bad news for me. As a Holy Templar of light, Carrera had extremely high resistance to shadow-based magic, and even had a powerful ability called Revealing Light, which could dispel all Umbra-based effects. That spell could even pull me from the Shadowverse.

That sucked. A lot.

On the plus side, Osmark and I still had one thing in our favor: numbers. Carrera was tough, but taking on the two highest level players in the game was no easy feat, even for a man like him. Osmark shuffled right, then lurched forward with a tremendous front kick, followed up by a wicked hook, his saw blade aimed squarely at Carrera’s head. The Templar sidestepped the kick, while his sword whizzed through the air, intercepting the buzzsaw inches from his flesh.

Carrera’s defensive maneuvering was perfect, but it did leave him open on the right.

I bolted in low, dropping to a knee as I drove my hammer squarely into his hip, triggering Crushing Blow and Black Caress. My weapon clanged against his armor, reverberating up into my hands, but I could see a grimace of pain flash across his chiseled features. Carrera responded with a snarl, surging forward, slamming a shoulder into Osmark’s mech. He forced the impossibly heavy machine back through sheer brute strength, then spun around like a top, his sword flying toward me. I was already moving, though. Speed was my only advantage against the drug lord, so I couldn’t afford to stay stationary for long.

I dove into a tight roll, narrowly avoiding decapitation, before coming up behind Carrera in a crouch. His heavy plate armor covered pretty much everything, but the creases at the joints were still open and vulnerable. So that’s where I struck, this time using the razor blades lining my vambraces to dig into the back of his knee. Green blood spurted from the wound, dribbling down his calf in a steady stream. Carrera responded on instinct, mule kicking straight back with the injured leg, which caught me in the teeth like a sledgehammer of pure force.

I felt something crack and give inside my jaw.

<<<>>>

Debuff Added

Fractured Jaw: You cannot speak and cannot cast mage spells; duration, 2 minutes.

<<<>>>

I stumbled back, my jaw throbbing dully from the blow, and counted my lucky stars I wasn’t a wizard or priest. An injury like that for one of them would be tantamount to a death sentence.

I shook off the pain and darted back in, lashing out with my hammer at the same instant Osmark lunged in with his saw blade. Carrera, as fast as he was, couldn’t stop both hits at the same time. Or so I thought, until a column of jade fire erupted directly beneath my feet like a geyser, battering my body with bitter cold, which crawled across my skin, eating through my Health and Stamina with brutal efficiency. The world around me bucked and quivered, black invading the edges of my vision as my HP bar strobed an angry red.

Danger, danger, danger.

My legs gave way, and I dropped to the ground, pulling my knees into my chest while my teeth chattered frantically from the cold. I pressed my eyes shut to protect them against the searing frost. For a long beat, I thought I’d died, but when I opened my eyes again, the column of arctic fire was gone. Vanished. My health loitered just a handful of points above zero, but I was miraculously alive. Curled up in the fetal position, yes, but alive. I blinked away a layer of white, icy rime coating my eyelashes, and caught sight of Carrera, currently wailing on Osmark.

I had no idea what had happened, but Osmark’s suit was in pieces; gears, cogs, and steel plates were scattered across the ground like debris. The Artificer was on his feet, though. His fancy suit was in tatters and covered liberally with blood, but he was giving Carrera a helluva fight. I mean, Carrera had an edge, but Osmark was making him work for every inch. The Artificer twirled around the drug lord, firing rounds from his sidearm, hurling brass grenades, and slashing at exposed limbs with the buzzsaw attached beneath his gun.

It was a losing battle for Osmark, but if I could get back in the game, we might be able to fix that.

THIRTY-FOUR_

Stealth Attack

With a grimace, I pushed myself up onto my belly and downed a Regen potion, which nudged my HP back up to forty-five percent. Not great, but it would do for now. My Stamina was shot to hell, but my Spirit gauge was sitting nice and pretty since I hadn’t been using my spells against the Holy Templar. I had a Night Cyclone ready to go, so it seemed stupid not to give it a try. The worst thing that would happen was that Carrera would dispel the attack, but it cost me nothing to try.

I staggered to a knee, still woozy from whatever spell he’d unleashed on us, and thrust my hammer forward as I channeled my hate and hurt into the attack. A flood of raw power raced down my arm and out through my weapon; the air above Carrera’s head ripped open like a wet paper bag. The tornado of shadow descended on the drug lord in an instant, howling winds picking up twigs, grass, and dead leaves. The cyclone also bought Osmark a handful of seconds to backtrack, and he used the small window to great advantage.

As the night cyclone ripped at Carrera with tearing talons of air, Osmark deployed several nasty gadgets, which I’d experienced firsthand during our dustup back in the Imperial encampment. First, he launched a half-dozen of the gray caltrop grenades, which exploded around Carrera, jettisoning a wave of choking smoke and black spikes. Instead of letting them litter the ground, however, my cyclone reached out with greedy hands, snatching up the razor-sharp spits of metal, drawing them into the vortex.

Carrera staggered and reeled, his gauntleted hands covering his exposed face as the metal spikes slashed at his skin.

Next, Osmark launched a trio of the cantaloupe-sized orbs, which unfolded with a hiss of steam and a flash of light into deadly turrets—each about eight feet apart. The Gatling gun and the rocket launcher I recognized at once, but there was also a new type of turret, which was oddly boxy and flat.

My cyclone finally gave up the ghost, dissipating and vanishing, while the turrets opened fire all as one.

Bullets plowed into Carrera, carving furrows in his flesh. Rockets exploded like thunderclaps. And the third turret? It launched spinning saw blades of death, which lodged in Carrera’s armor. Even though Osmark and I were technically allies, I had no idea whether his weapons discriminated between friend and foe. And since I had no desire whatsoever to get blasted full of holes, I stayed back, launching Umbra Bolts at the drug lord from a relatively safe distance. As expected, hitting him with Umbra Bolts was about as effective as shooting him with a squirt gun.

Osmark’s attacks were taking a toll, though. Carrera staggered under the sheer weight of the firepower pouring down on him, his HP dropping rapidly.

“Enough,” Carrera’s voice boomed—though it sounded less like the Colombian drug lord and more like a demon out of the darkest region of Hell. “I grow tired of these games,” he growled as a wave of green light, ten feet tall, erupted outward in a perfect circle. I dropped to a knee and called upon my Dark Shield, taking cover behind the burning purple barrier as the wall of green light plowed into me like a bulldozer. The ground frosted over wherever that light touched, and ravenous cold nipped at my exposed skin.

But my shield held, buffering me from the worst of the damage. I dismissed the defensive barrier as the wall of green fire finally vanished, then took a moment to survey the extent of the damage. The turrets were gone—mangled on the forest floor—but Osmark was alive. For now.

The real surprise, however, was Carrera.

He no longer looked even remotely human.

He was bigger, his arms the size of small tree trunks, his flesh sickly pale and nearly translucent, showcasing a host of dark veins just beneath the surface of his skin. His horns had grown three times in size and glowed with an unnatural green flame. He was also fifteen feet from the ground, his lower body replaced by an army of burning tentacles, each as large around as my thigh and as long as a city bus.

“I am not just Carrera,” he growled, his voice primal and unforgiving, “I am a living god, ruler of Morsheim, and servant to Thanatos. I am Serth-Rog in the flesh, and you will pay for crossing me.” This new thing that Carrera had become was intimidating looking, but he was also desperately hurt—his HP flashing in the critical zone. It wasn’t uncommon for dungeon bosses to have a final form, and I idly wondered whether merging with Serth-Rog had transformed Carrera from a regular player to something different. Something more.

A World Boss maybe.

In the end, it didn’t matter—the only thing that mattered was putting him down hard.

“Time for you putos to learn a little respect,” Carrera sneered, thrusting his giant sword forward. His army of tentacles responded in a flash, whipping out with frightening speed: sweeping the ground, slamming into the earth, cleaving through trees. Osmark was a blur of manic motion, dodging, rolling, flipping through the air like an acrobat as he poured out hot lead from his hand cannon and hurled grenades with his free hand.

I didn’t have much time to focus on anything other than survival because those tentacles moved with a life of their own, and Osmark wasn’t the only target.

I ducked beneath an incoming tendril of flame, sidestepped another which smashed into the ground beside me, and swatted a third away with my warhammer. The attacks kept right on coming in lightning-fast succession, and it was all I could do to keep the limbs from smashing me into meat paste on the ground. And there was no way I could launch an attack—I was barely managing to defend myself. I dodged left, rolled right, and came up to a knee, barely deflecting an overhead strike with my vambrace, then parrying another blow with my hammer.

Then I was moving again, dropping into a backward roll which brought me to my feet, before shuffling back as I knocked away strike after strike, each one coming a little closer than the last. I juked left, then darted right, hoping to get a chance to launch an assault, but Carrera’s blazing tentacles responded with a whirlwind of blows that pushed me back inch by inch, never giving me a chance to get in close. As a renewed wave of limbs flew at me, my heel caught an upturned root, and down I went onto my back like a lowbie in his first fight.

This was a fight where even the slightest mistake—the smallest misstep—would mean death, and I’d just made a huge blunder.

Carrera capitalized on it.

A tentacle shot out low, wrapping around my ankle like a python, squeezing down as intense heat radiated through the leather of my boot, slowly cooking the skin beneath. I snarled, pushing the pain away as I hammered mercilessly at the limb with my weapon, but it was no use. A second and third burning tentacle quickly joined the first. One wrapped around my other leg—burning my thigh like a branding iron—while the third slipped around my wrist, slithered up my forearm, and clamped down on my bicep.

With my right arm pinned, I couldn’t swing my warhammer, so instead, I thrust out my left hand—palm up, fingers back—and unleashed a torrent of Umbra Flame. The preternatural fire splashed over Carrera’s body, clawing at his HP. But that only worked for all of a second. A fourth tentacle shot toward me, wrapping around my left wrist, pinning my arm to the dirty ground, leaving me helpless. Up until now, Carrera had mainly been focused on Osmark—letting his sentient tentacles do the heavy lifting—but now he turned his inhuman gaze on me, offering me a piranha-toothed smile.

In a panic, I triggered Shadow Stride, desperate to get away from him, but a notification appeared, politely informing me that I was totally screwed:

<<<>>>

Shadow Stride failed! You’ve been snared by Holy Fire and are unable to Shadow Stride until your movement is restored.

<<<>>>

“Finally, you are where you belong,” Carrera hissed, his words cutting through the message. “In the dirt, at my feet. And my face, cabron, is the last you’ll ever see.” He hefted his sword, giving it several graceful twirls, cancerous green light erupting from the runes along the center of the blade. I’d seen those same runes before, on the Malware Blade I had stowed in my inventory. He was going to kill me, and use that monster sword to pump me full of the Thanatos Virus, erasing me from the server. I bucked and kicked, sweat running down my face, my heart thudding like a jackhammer.

My efforts were utterly futile.

After all I’d done, this was it. The end.

Carrera snarled, and I pressed my eyes shut, unwilling to watch my own death.

But the blade never landed.

Instead, Carrera let out an otherworldly screech, and the tentacles holding me tight spasmed and quivered, loosening just enough for me to wriggle free of their painful, burning grip. I flipped onto my belly and sprinted toward the trees, skittering around the trunk of a massive oak for cover as I shot a careful look back at the insane drug lord. Cutter hung from Carrera’s back. The thief’s twin blades were lodged hilt deep at the base of the thug’s neck. A tree bough nearby swayed back and forth, and it wasn’t hard to connect the dots.

Instead of bolting like I’d told him to, Cutter had climbed a tree, waited for an opportune moment to strike, then launched himself through the air like a stealth missile.

A stupid gamble, but one that had paid off big time.

Carrera’s health was so low that it seemed a swift kick would put him down for the count, but despite that, he still had some fight left in him. His tentacles flailed and spasmed, smashing into anything and everything while he spun frantically around, bucking Cutter loose like an enraged rodeo bull. The thief hit the ground ten feet away with a groan, clutching at his ribs; but the real damage was his left leg. A broken tree branch, wedged against a boulder, had pierced his thigh like a spear—not only siphoning off Cutter’s HP but slashing his movement rate to almost zero.

Osmark continued his assault, firing waves of ammo at the drug lord, but Carrera ignored him completely, rounding on Cutter with disgust painted across his inhuman features.

With a roar, Carrera dove forward, sword extended, blade whistling toward Cutter’s face. And suddenly, I had a plan. Carrera was so focused on Cutter that he wasn’t paying a lick of attention to me. I had to act quickly, though. The madman was only a matter of feet from my friend. I triggered Shadow Stride, and time ground to a halt. I darted forward, slipping directly between Cutter and Carrera. I turned sideways, spread my feet, and squared my shoulders like a batter stepping up to the plate, waiting for an incoming pitch. My hammer was the bat, and Carrera was the ball.

I raised my weapon above my shoulder, took a few quick practice swings, then slipped back into the Material Plane.

My hammer was already in motion by the time Carrera saw me, and at that point, he was too committed to the attack to change course. With the augmented power of Serth-Rog flowing in his veins, Carrera was one tough SOB., so just sandblasting him with my hammer probably wouldn’t have been enough to kill him. But it wasn’t just my hammer blow. No, the force of his body weight was working against him. When the hammer punched into his chest, his bulky armor crinkled inward like a soda can, and his eyes went wide in shock as blood spurted from between his lips.

“No,” he muttered, the word coated with disbelief, “this can’t—”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

His eyes glazed over as his HP hit zero, and his body erupted in a shower which swatted me into the air like a slap from a giant’s hand.

THIRTY-FIVE_

Celebration

I leaned up against the wooden gate post, staring out over the sea of white tents and wavering campfires sprawled in the meadow outside Ravenkirk. Even from here, I could hear the chatter of friendly voices, the muted clank of pots and pans, and the strumming of lutes and hammered dulcimers as bards regaled folks with their performances. It sounded like a party out there, and it was. A celebration of life and victory, though undercut by a bitter current of grief. Thankfully, Cutter, Osmark, and I had all survived the battle with Carrera, but it’d still taken another two hours to finish off the Vogthar.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part? The secret about the Thanatos Virus was out.

The elite Vogthar troops all had the murderous Malware weapons, and as players looted the corpses, the terrible truth reared its ugly head. Death was roaming the world again, and no one was safe. Though we wouldn’t know what the perma-death toll was until morning, everyone knew deep down that some of our friends wouldn’t respawn. That they were gone for good. But that painful reckoning was still five hours off, so for now everyone celebrated. Reveled in the fact that they, at least, had beaten the odds.

Imperials and Alliance members gathered around the same campfires, joking, laughing, slapping backs, and enjoying drinks, all held together by the tenuous truce. More than anything, I wanted to go out there and enjoy the festivities, the fun. But I couldn’t, it wasn’t right. The Imperials didn’t seem to have a problem with the rank-and-file Alliance members, but me? I was still a boogeyman to be feared and a criminal to be hunted. And it was almost as bad with the Alliance members, who put me on a pedestal I didn’t deserve. I was their hero, their idol, and that was almost as bad as being a wanted criminal.

Eventually, I would head over and celebrate with the Alliance Faction officers at the Fragile Fiddle. But for now, I just wanted to be alone with my thoughts and decompress from the craziness of the last few days.

“It’s lonely being at the top,” came a voice. Osmark stepped out from a pool of shadows, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. At some point, he’d managed to shower and clean up his gear, so he looked fresh, clean, and remarkably well-rested. “That’s what no one likes to talk about. Most people dream about power, about greatness, but few of them realize the burden it comes with.

“You can’t go out there, and neither can I. And even in our own circles, it’s different. We’re above the plebs, Jack, even if you want to pretend otherwise.” He moved past me and posted up by the wall, leaning his back against the rough-hewn logs, facing out at the sprawling tent city. “But it’s worth it,” he said softly, folding his arms across his chest, propping up one foot.

“Maybe,” I replied, brow furrowed. “But most days I don’t think so. Most days I wish I was just one of them out there.” I nodded my chin toward the folks who were chatting and carefree.

Osmark fished a stout pipe from his coat pocket, tamped a fat wad of tobacco into the bowl, then lifted it to his lips. A moment later, there was a flare of light as a plume of cloying smoke drifted up. “That’s where you and I are so different, Jack,” he said. “Me? I could never be happy as one of them. I’d rather die.” He paused for a moment, taking another deep drag. “I love the power”—smoke leaked from his nostrils like a dragon—“and I’d do anything to keep it. Anything. But you?” He offered me a charming, lopsided grin. “You stumbled into it. That makes it worse, I imagine—not choosing this life for yourself.”

We were quiet for a time, him puffing contently, me enjoying the cool evening air and the sight of happy faces.

“It could be like this forever, you know,” Osmark said eventually, nodding toward the field. “I really don’t like war. Power is what I crave, not conflict. We have a month, but we could have longer—especially with the Vogthar in play. Carrera and his new crew will give us all more than enough conflict to make even Enyo happy.”

I didn’t reply, not at first. But I thought while absently kicking at the dirt with the toe of my boot.

“No,” I said softly after a time, “I don’t think this can last. You said it yourself, you love the power, and anyone who loves power as much as you do probably shouldn’t be trusted with it. Because there’s no line you won’t cross.” I straightened and gave him a polite nod. “But we can enjoy it while it’s here. Good night, Osmark,” I said, heading back into the silent streets of Ravenkirk, headed for the inn where my crew waited. Everyone but Forge would be there—the poor guy had another five hours until respawn.

Well, Forge and Abby. She was stuck back in Rowanheath dealing with the fallout from the invasion. Our forces had driven the Vogthar back, but it’d been a damn near thing.

I trudged up the boulevard, weary to my soul, ready to say goodnight to the crew then meet up with Abby. It might’ve been lonely at times, but I wasn’t completely by myself—not with her around. I pulled up my interface as I walked, my boots clacking on the cobblestones. I’d already cleared out my messages and updates—I’d earned two new levels after taking out Carrera—so I wasn’t really expecting to find anything. But there, flashing in my inbox, was a new message, which had somehow slipped my notice.

Idly I pulled it up, then froze when I realized it was from Sophia:

<<<>>>

Personal Message:

Jack,

You did well today. Working with Osmark, defeating Carrera, driving the Vogthar back into their dank lairs. A commendable effort. But this is the beginning, not the end. The Vogthar will only grow in power, and once players realize the danger of the Thanatos Virus, we’ll see more people defect over to the Horde. It’s only a matter of time. So prepare. Be ready. Your journey is about to become more difficult, not less. I do, however, have a small gift to help with that. I promised you a second reward if you managed to defeat Carrera, and I am nothing if not a lady of my word. Check your skill tree.

—Sophia

<<<>>>

Curious, I closed out from the message, pulled up my character screen, and toggled over to my skills. My jaw practically hit the floor as a new message appeared.

<<<>>>

Subspecialty Unlocked: Champion of Order

Congratulations, you’ve unlocked the subspecialty Champion of Order! This subspecialty does not require a Class change and will not replace your current Class Kit. Rather, this subspecialty grants you access to a new set of skills, which you can unlock to help aid you as the Champion of Order. Skills and abilities must be unlocked, but instead of investing standard Proficiency Points, skills and abilities can only be opened by using Divinity Points. You can earn Divinity Points by completing specialty tasks assigned to you by Sophia, Overmind of Order and Balance. All specialized profession skills can be upgraded a total of seven times (Initiate, Novice, Adept, Journeyman, Specialist, Master, Grandmaster).

Subspecialty/Level: Champion of Order / Level 1 (Initiate)

Effect 1: All Champion of Order-based skills and abilities are increased by 5% per Champion of Order level (Current Level 1: 5%).

Effect 2: Luck stat increases by one point for every (2) Champion of Order Levels

<<<>>>

I whistled softly. Now this was a game changer. I closed out of the screen, giddy with the possibilities, but I couldn’t get Sophia’s words out of the back of my mind. Your journey is about to become more difficult, not less.

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

If you enjoyed reading about Jack, Cutter, Abby and the rest of the gang in Viridian Gate Online and want to stay in the loop about the latest book releases, awesomesauce promotional deals, and upcoming book giveaways be sure to subscribe to my Mailing List Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.You can also connect with me on my Facebook Fan Page: James Hunter Fan Page

Word-of-mouth and book reviews are crazy helpful for the success of any writer. If you really enjoyed reading about Jack and the gang, please consider leaving a short review—just a couple of lines about your overall reading experience. You can click here to leave a review at Amazon, and thank you in advance: Viridian Gate Online: Imperial Legion

If you love my books and need more Viridian Gate Online right this minute, then you might want to pick up The Artificer DLC 1.1: A Viridian Gate Online Novel, which chronicles Robert Osmark’s transition into the game. Already read that? Well, you might also like my Yancy Lazarus Series, which is gritty, tough, shoot-em-up Urban Fantasy at its finest. If Harry Dresden had an older, grumpier, drunker, more gun-happy uncle, you’d have Yancy Lazarus. Get the first book here: Strange Magic (Yancy Lazarus Episode One)

VGO Reading Order

Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm (Book 1)

Viridian Gate Online: Crimson Alliance (Book 2)

Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord (Book 3)

Viridian Gate Online: Imperial Legion (Book 4)

The Artificer DLC 1.1: A Viridian Gate Online Novel

Other Works by James A. Hunter

Strange Magic (Yancy Lazarus Episode One)

Cold Hearted (Yancy Lazarus Episode Two)

Flashback: Siren Song (Yancy Lazarus Episode 2.5)

Wendigo Rising (Yancy Lazarus Episode Three)

Flashback: The Morrigan (Yancy Lazarus Episode 3.5)

Savage Prophet (Yancy Lazarus Episode Four)
Brimstone Blues: A Yancy Lazarus Novel

***

MudMan (A Lazarus World Novel)

Books from Shadow Alley Press

Revenge of the Bloodslinger: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 1)

Beautiful Corpse: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 2)

Soul Jar: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 3)

Garden of Time: A Jubal Van Zandt Novel (Book 4)

About the Author

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

litRPG on Facebook

And, if you love litRPG and want to find more of wonky books like Viridian Gate Online, check out the litRPG Society on Facebook!

Even More litRPG on Facebook

You can find even more books and awesome recommendations by checking out the litRPG Group on Facebook!

Dedication

To my wonderful wife and business partner, Jeanette. We’re building something amazing, and there’s no one I’d rather do it with than you.

Special Thanks

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and my wonderful kids, Lucy and Sam. They are my constant motivation and inspiration. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this book either, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Hunter, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/ ).

—James A. Hunter, November 2017

Copyright

Viridian Gate Online: Imperial Legion is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JStrode@ShadowAlleyPress.com