Contents

Summary

James Hunter's Mailing List

ONE: Heroes and Cowards

TWO: Graf Manor

THREE: Fallback Plan

FOUR: The Citadel

FIVE: Hearth of the World

SIX: Mystic Grimoire

SEVEN: PwnrBwner_007

EIGHT: Troll Taboo

NINE: Floor Boss

TEN: Supplies

ELEVEN: It’s a Trap

TWELVE: Evolution

THIRTEEN: Ancient Tome

FOURTEEN: The Averi Marketplace

FIFTEEN: King of Wolves

SIXTEEN: The Art of Lettering

SEVENTEEN: The Griefer

EIGHTEEN: Tradecraft

NINETEEN: Choices

TWENTY: Formal Challenge

TWENTY-ONE: Getting Ahead

TWENTY-TWO: Down, Down, Down

TWENTY-THREE: Azibek the Cruel

TWENTY-FOUR: Partnerships

TWENTY-FIVE: Death Trap

TWENTY-SIX: Hammer and Steel

TWENTY-SEVEN: Fresh Meat

TWENTY-EIGHT: Backstab

TWENTY-NINE: Incoming

THIRTY: Showdown

THIRTY-ONE: Looming Threats

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

Other Works by James A. Hunter

Other Works by eden Hudson

Books from Shadow Alley Press

About the Authors

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright

Summary

Roark von Graf—hedge mage and lesser noble of Traisbin—is one of only a handful of Freedom fighters left, and he knows the Resistance’s days are numbered. Unless they do something drastic…

But when a daring plan to unseat the Tyrant King goes awry, Roark finds himself on the run through an interdimensional portal, which strands him in a very unexpected location: an ultra-immersive fantasy video game called Hearthworld. He can’t log out, his magic is on the fritz, and worst of all, he’s not even human. He’s a low-class, run-of-the-mill Dungeon monster. Some disgusting, blue-skinned creature called a Troll. At least there’s one small silver lining—Roark managed to grab a powerful magic artifact on his way through the portal, and with it he might just be able to save his world after all.

Unless, of course, the Tyrant King gets to him first …

“An excellent start to a series, this book has everything I look for in a fantasy novel: action, intrigue, and evolution!” — Dakota Kruat, author of the Divine Dungeon and the Completionist Chronicles

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ONE:

Heroes and Cowards

The last fiery red light of sunset glared over the peaked rooves of the village of Korvo, just violent and desperate enough to tear through the dark storm clouds that had been looming all day. In the snow-blown streets, women in brightly colored dresses decorated with shiny tin coins and men in dark jerkins over vibrant shirts rushed home from the afternoon’s errands, heads down, eyes on the cobblestones. The beggars and street urchins common to every settlement since the Tyrant King came into power had quietly disappeared into the dark, dank hideaways where they took shelter in times of inclement weather.

If not for the furtive glances at the heavily armed Ustars patrolling the village, the citizens could almost have been hurrying to beat the coming snowfall. But Roark von Graf knew better. The shoulders hunched as if awaiting the fall of an Ustari ax. The skirts clutched just so to muffle the jingling of the coins and avoid drawing the patrols’ attention. The silence, that cursed silence, which filled the streets. All were dead giveaways to Roark’s sharp eyes. These cheerful, friendly mountain folk didn’t fear snow—they were bred for cold nights and snow-filled days—they feared the fist of a merciless tyrant.

Roark sunk back into the shadows of the narrow alleyway as a pack of Ustars tromped past, fanged halberds in hand, snake-jawed helms all facing forward. Thick woolen cloaks emblazoned with the Tyrant King’s winged serpent whipped along behind them, protection from the cold, and one more testament to the fact that they did not belong among Korvo’s hardy people.

With all the noise they were making, passing undetected was almost too easy. Roark listened to the clank of the patrol’s heavy armor get farther away, then slipped across the street into the alley behind the butcher’s. The cold mitigated the stench of the day’s refuse, but not by much. Feral cats and a mangy stray dog looked up from the entrails, regarding him warily as he passed. A battle-scarred tomcat laid back what was left of its ears and yowled a warning to stay away from the food.

A bad omen if the Lyuko travelers who came through every year could be believed.

“This was my city before it was yours, Tom,” Roark murmured to the territorial old grouch as he passed. “And it’ll be mine again after tonight. All of bloody Traisbin will be free, and you won’t even have to thank me.”

The stench of rotting meat faded behind him as he followed the alley to its end. From there, a sharp left took him behind the motley collection of businesses that lined the street. No glow lit the windows of the dwellings over the businesses. No laughter, no children playing, no idle music or clinking of pots as food was prepared. Tonight was a night of silence, of fear, of anxious listening at the door for the sound of heavy Ustari boots thundering up the stairs.

Roark stopped in the shadows along the rear of a fabric store, searching the alleyway and darkened windows for spying eyes. No witnesses who could later relay his whereabouts to the Ustars.

As he ducked inside, a minor writ scrawled hastily at the bottom of the door caught his attention:

Shoulde any baring the wingd serpente of the Tyrante King cross this thresholde the shelfs of fabrik along the walls of this store shall colapse with a great combustione.

It was meant to sound the alarm if Ustars crossed the threshold, but it was done so badly that only someone displaying the winged serpent prominently would set it off, and then, the shelves which were supposed to collapse noisily—causing what the half-literate idiot who’d written it had probably meant to be a great commotion—would instead catch on fire, taking everyone inside the fabric store and half of the town with it.

Probably more of Albrecht’s work, that careless buffoon.

Shaking his head, Roark knelt inside and quickly rubbed the mess away with the palm of his hand. With his penknife, he carved a corrected writ into the wooden planks, adding a clause to make the carvings appear as nothing more than the scratches of a family pet begging to come inside. The moment he sealed it with the punctuation, the magick went into effect, the letters becoming incomprehensible canine scratches in the wood.

Before the Tyrant King came to power, only the nobles and wealthy in Traisbin could afford to send their children off to learn the magick of letters. Since then, only those children the tyrant handpicked to be groomed as mages for his armies were taught to read and write. The odds that a literate Ustar would happen upon the writ were nearly zero, but if one of the Tyrant King’s guards recognized it as writing, his forces would converge on the fabric shop and execute everyone inside, literate or not. Mages who didn’t bow to the Tyrant King often found themselves without a head to bow.

Potential village-destroying fire and bloody executions averted, Roark slid the penknife back into the hidden pocket inside his jerkin and eased the door closed.

As he walked through the empty store, Roark ran his fingers over the many textures of fabric. It was an old habit from childhood, back when he couldn’t believe so many different tactile sensations could exist in one place: smooth, coarse, knobbly, velvety, gauzy, woolen, ribbed, woven, embroidered, satiny. Korvo, being on one of the few roads that led through the mountains, was uniquely suited to sell goods from both sides of the continental divide—a fact his merchant-minded mother had once been quite proud of.

Behind the seller’s bench, Roark found a thick carpet pulled aside and a trapdoor leading down into the cellar. With a shake of his head, he banished the bittersweet memories and returned his mind to the matter at hand.

The stone stairs had worn uneven over the centuries, but he took them two and three at a time with the easy grace of a child of the mountains. The murmuring of voices carried into the dark corridor, ghostly whispers compared to the solid clunk of his boots on the stone. A line of jade light leaked from beneath a door up ahead.

Roark threw open the door, revealing the green-lit war room. Frightened gasps went up, hands grabbed frantically for maps, and chairs scraped away from the huge central table. Ancient tapestries flapped against the old stone walls, and the emerald burung fire burning in the sconces flickered before returning to full strength once more.

A dozen pairs of wide eyes settled on Roark’s lean form. Only a dozen. This was the T’verzet, the Rebel Council. The last unified resistance against the Tyrant King, Marek Konig Ustar. And they were cowering in a basement like kicked dogs.

“Graf, you nearly gave us a heart attack!” snapped Cambry, the elderly owner of the fabric store. The old man slammed the maps clutched in his hands back onto the table. “Shut that damn door!”

“Is it true?” Roark kicked the door closed behind him with a heel and strode farther into the room. “That he’s in Korvo? That he’s staying at the Graf Manor House—” He slammed his fist on the table, rattling the cloudy glass panes in the burung lamp at the center. “My manor house?”

Across the table, the scar-faced Albrecht snorted imperiously. “That house is as much yours as the Seat of Power is the Council of Ancients’.”

Roark raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth to point out Albrecht’s similar position in the von Herzog family’s former coastal holdings, but was cut off by an aged voice from his right.

“You walked the same streets as we did, Roark, you saw the patrols,” Morgana said, folding her gnarled, arthritic hands on the table before her. She twisted the opal ring on her thumb absently as she spoke; the fat gemstone was proof that she’d once sat on the true council, handing down decrees for the entirety of the country. “The caravan was supposed to travel on to Moseley, but they can’t get through the mountains with the blizzard coming in. They’re waiting here for the pass to clear.”

“This is it, then,” Roark said, excitement fluttering in his chest. “We couldn’t ask for a better chance. I know that manor better than anyone. All the back ways, all the ins and outs. I can get to him, kill him now before the weather clears and they move on—”

“Absolutely not.” Morgana sat back in her seat, pursing her wrinkled lips. “We’ve no plan in place for this. It’s too much of a risk. If you fail—”

“I won’t,” Roark said, brow furrowed.

Albrecht threw up his hands. “Here we go! The lost noble of Korvo knows better than the combined experience of the entire T’verzet now.”

“I know better than that gibberish you scrawled on the door up there,” Roark said, infusing his voice with a lightness he didn’t feel. “It’s a wonder you’ve only burnt off half of your face so far.”

“Know-everything poseur,” Albrecht snapped, kicking up from his seat. “Acting like you’re not as self-taught as the rest of us—”

Roark snorted. “Can you even say your letters, mate?”

“You’ll want to watch that big head, Graf, before somebody kicks it in.”

“Both of you bullheaded pups shut your yaps!” Cambry boomed with a strength that belied his aging body. He gestured to Morgana. “What the councilwoman was trying to say is, so far, we’ve been blessed lucky in hiding the seat of the resistance. One slipup—one hint that we’re here—and every Ustar in Traisbin’ll descend on this city like flies on a rotting corpse.”

“I won’t slip up,” Roark said with every ounce of the confidence he felt. “I know that manor like the back of my hand—I could walk its passages in my sleep.” In fact, he often did when he slept long enough to dream. “I can get in and back out again before Marek himself knows he’s dead.”

“The risk is too great,” Morgana said, shaking her head.

“But the payoff is everything we’ve been fighting for!” Roark tried but was unable to keep the desperation from his voice. “Twenty years of the Tyrant King’s oppression, and we could end it tonight!”

“Would you see Korvo burned to the ground?” Bran, the barrel-gutted innkeeper, asked, speaking up for the first time since Roark’s arrival. He leaned forward in his seat, bracing his meaty arms on the table, and continued in his quiet, measured voice. “Her people turned against one another as informants and snitches, turning their friends and neighbors over to the Tyrant King to save themselves and their children? Because that’s the price of failure, Graf. That’s what you’re gambling with here.”

“Laying aside the fact that this is hardly a gamble considering my familiarity with the manor house,” Roark said, “isn’t it worth at least that much? Did any of you join the resistance without realizing you were risking your life and the lives of everyone connected to you? Because you’re in the wrong line of work if you did.”

“Dammit, man, I’ve got a family!” the usually soft-spoken innkeeper thundered. Bran looked as taken aback at his outburst as anybody else. He lowered his head, collected himself, then went on in a voice once again calm. “I’ve five children and a wife to look out for, haven’t I? You may have nothing left to lose, Graf, but we do. You wouldn’t be so quick to throw it all away if you did.”

Roark felt his lips pulling up in a contemptuous snarl. He pushed down the sudden urge to leap across the table and punch Bran’s teeth into the back of his skull.

“You all feel this way?” His dark eyes slid from face to face in the green-lit war room, seeing nothing but fear and weakness reflected back at him.

One by one, the so-called rebels lowered their eyes or glared back at him as if he were the one who couldn’t understand.

“Cowards,” he spat. “If you aren’t ready to risk everything to free your people, then you don’t deserve to call yourselves T’verzet. When the right opportunity presents itself, you can’t hold anything back.”

Unable to look at them for a second longer, Roark turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

TWO:

Graf Manor

Night had long since fallen, and the blizzard had blown in. Through the driving snowfall, the mountains were dark jagged peaks against the midnight sky. Roark crouched in the trees at the edge of the Graf Manor—his manor, no matter what that dolt Albrecht said. His only concession to the cold was a dark woolen jacket. The jacket’s many pockets were filled with scraps of parchment, each one inked in his neat, precise hand.

Since leaving the Rebel Council, he’d spent the better part of the evening writing out every spell he might possibly use if this assassination became a battle for his life. Shield barriers, entanglements, stunners, illusions, elemental attacks, projectiles, poison, and plague—everything he could foresee being needed sorted carefully into offensive and defensive attacks and ready for deployment. Plus one special pocket, filled with a surprise, just in case.

And for those problems he couldn’t foresee, his penknife was tucked into the breast pocket of his jerkin. The knife was his own design, forged not long after the Bloederige Noct, the Night of Blood. Its blade was thin and small as a nib, its handle long enough to hold like a pen. With it, he could cut flesh as precisely and quickly as a pen could write. That little knife had saved his life more times than he cared to count, and his left arm was laced with the scars to prove it.

From his vantage point in the trees, Roark could see down the southern wall of the estate. A small squad of Ustars hunched inside their cloaks at the carriage gate, stomping their feet and rubbing their hands together to keep the blood flowing. He’d already been around to the west side of the manor and seen the pair of snake-helmed guards watching over the much smaller servants’ entrance, both complaining loudly about whose nether regions they hadn’t kissed enough to end up stationed outside in a bloody blizzard.

Roark stole through the forest to the north, the accumulating blanket of white silencing his steps. Snow-padded memories of late-night wolf hunts with his father, uncles, and elder cousins in these same woods flashed through his mind as he ran.

It’d been the highlight of his ninth year, finally being old enough to join them. Though he’d tired almost immediately and his stomach ached with hunger, he hadn’t complained for fear they would send him back to the house with the women and the babies. He could still remember the rush of accomplishment he’d felt when they caught up to the huge beast. His cousin Dirk had made the kill, but Roark had kept up with the men all night long, packing his own spear, never once giving away their position. He was a man just like they were, and the slap on the back he’d earned from his father as they dragged the wolf home had proven it.

Somewhere high in the mountains a lone maka-ronin—king of the wolves—howled, bringing a smile to Roark’s face. It felt good to be on the hunt again, and in his home territory, too.

He stopped at the edge of the forest, watching the northern wall of the Graf estate. The tall stone barrier lay only yards from the mountainside, a snow-covered scree of fallen rocks bridging the distance between the two. Without even a gate to guard, no Ustars had been posted along this side of the estate. Arrogant fools.

Roark slipped out of the trees and melted into the shadows along the northern wall.

What these intruders didn’t know about Graf Manor was that generations ago, the lady of the house had become somewhat … eccentric … and was convinced that one of the roaming bands of Lyuko travelers had cursed her. As a result, she’d had several secret entrances and exits built into the estate in case of attack. Of course, she’d also slept in a coffin and worn a necklace made from her late husband’s teeth, but thankfully those precautions hadn’t outlasted her ladyship. The whole family had had a good laugh at the irony when, nearly a hundred years later, Roark’s father took a Lyuko tsarina for his wife—though his mother liked to joke that the marriage was all part of the curse.

It took some kicking around in the snow and rockfall, but Roark located the heavy iron ring lying tangled in the dead grass like an ancient bit of trash. He grabbed the ring with both hands and pulled, straining until the hidden trapdoor opened with a rusty creak.

He winced. Could use a bit of grease, those hinges.

Roark took a moment to toss down a scrap of paper containing an illusion to camouflage his passing—An area fifteen foot square from the edges of this paper appears as if it has not been disturbed by humans in the past hour.—in case anyone came looking for the source of the noise. When the paper hit the snow, the magick went into effect, and he could see nothing but an undisturbed blanket of white from his boots to the tree line. The illusion would last only ten minutes or so, but that would be plenty of time for the blizzard to remedy the situation.

Satisfied with the working, Roark climbed into the blackness of the mountainside tunnel and eased the trapdoor shut behind him. The darkness felt as though it was pressing in from all directions, thick and claustrophobic. This might have almost been frightening if he hadn’t grown up playing hide and seek in these passages. He pulled another scrap of paper from his pocket and rolled it into a tube. The end smoldered for a moment, then caught, lighting the passage with a tiny green flame.

The tunnels running under the estate grounds weren’t so different from the secret corridor under Cambry’s fabric store. Mortared stone lined the walls from top to bottom, and thick wooden beams protected them against cave-ins. Roark followed the mountainside tunnel to its first fork—the right leading to the stables and the left to the eastern wing of the manor house—and took a left. From there, he hooked right, right, and then left again, easily snaking through the maze meant to confuse pursuers. He’d lost his little sister Talise in there once purposely and been spanked soundly for it.

The smirk died on Roark’s lips at the bottom of the stairs. He extinguished the burung fire and followed them up. At the top, he found the hidden window that looked out into the courtyard, its pane dusty from going so long unused. From the outside, the hidden window looked like just one more in the line of glassed-in small archer slits along the manor’s eastern wing. But from the inside, the window and the stairs were concealed behind a false wall in the corner of what his family had called the blue sitting room.

Roark’s hand came to rest on the catch that swung open the false wall, but he didn’t spring it yet. Instead, he looked out into the courtyard, the last place he’d seen his family alive. Most of them, anyway. His father had been cut down in the sleeping quarters trying to defend his mother and Talise, who still hadn’t outgrown her habit of sneaking into their bed at night. After his father, four of his uncles, an aunt, and three cousins were killed, the Ustars had dragged the remaining von Graf men, women, and children outside and executed them in the courtyard. All except for Roark.

He flinched at the memory of his mother throwing herself over the tiny shadow of his little sister as the Ustari blade fell. The two of them had died beside the well house, just over there.

That night had been chaos and screaming and the clash of steel on steel. The servants who hadn’t run were slain where they stood. Roark had done the only thing he could think to do as the Ustars closed in on him—grabbed the hunting knife from his fallen cousin and carved I am invisible. into his left forearm. It was the first time he’d improvised magick, the letters sloppy and haphazard with the overlarge blade, but mercifully, the spell hadn’t killed him.

Out of the twenty-seven members of the von Graf family, only the eleven-year-old Roark had escaped the slaughter. Fitting, then, that twenty years later, he would be the one to end the Tyrant King’s reign in the very same house. And thanks to the Rebel Council’s cowardice, he would do it alone, just like he’d done everything else since Bloederige Noct.

Roark triggered the catch and the false wall swung open, silent as a ghost. He crept out into the sitting room, his boots whispering across the faded blue rug. The musty scent of emptiness and neglect hung in the air like fog.

At the center of the room, the long blue chaise lounge had been overturned and never righted. Here and there, wingback chairs lay on their sides, their legs chopped off for firewood. The remains of an end table and an oil painting lay in the fireplace together half-burned. Though Roark remembered seeing it hanging on the sitting room wall in his youth, he couldn’t recall which of his ancestors the portrait had depicted. It was too late now to ask since anyone who might know was long dead.

Taking care to avoid the blackened floorboards in the doorway of the sitting room—old blood, marking where his Uncle Jorik had perished—Roark stole silently into the hall and toward the main sleeping quarters. The closer Roark drew, the more blood spots he encountered, the only physical memorials of his family. There was the place where Uncle Gareth fell. And there, Cousin Dirk. Cousin Res. Aunt Caena …

And in the corridor just outside his parents’ chambers, the dried pool of black where his father had made his last stand.

The heavy oak door was shut, but no Ustar stood guard outside. The short-cropped hairs down the nape of Roark’s neck prickled. No guards patrolling the halls and only a token show of force outside the manor? He’d been so caught up in memories, he hadn’t given the lack of ready adversaries a thought, but this wasn’t at all like the Tyrant King. That bastard never went anywhere without his personal entourage of the most brutal fighters in all of Traisbin.

Roark pressed his ear to the intricately carved panel of the door, holding his breath and straining to hear any hint of movement. Long seconds passed with nothing but the sound of his own pulse.

Then, finally, the muffled creak of leather.

It was like that old joke about the saucy milkmaid—How many heavily armed Ustars could fit in one antechamber?

Well, that was a problem easily solved. Roark snuck back down the corridor into the nursery his sister hadn’t lived long enough to outgrow and sprung the catch on the false panel in the wall. It swung open silently. Little Talise had used the passage as a shortcut between her bed and their parents’, though its original purpose was a quick escape. Not that the passageways had done much good on Bloederige Noct. Between the two bedchambers lay a cramped staircase leading down into a tunnel, which exited a few feet outside the carriage gate. Roark crossed the landing and pressed his ear to the panel on the opposite side.

Snoring. Deep and steady.

Roark slipped the wickedly curved Lyuko dagger from his belt. A fitting present from the son of a murdered tsarina.

Careful not to make a sound, he tripped the catch and eased the panel open a crack. The snoring continued undisturbed.

A fire crackled merrily in the fireplace, its yellow-orange light dancing along the walls. The huge canopied bed that had once belonged to his parents stood just outside the false panel, the source of the snores. The bed’s heavy green curtains had been drawn to protect against stray drafts, hiding the sleeping Tyrant King inside.

Unfortunately, it also hid the door to the antechamber, which lay on the opposite side. He couldn’t see whether it was open or shut. If Marek cried out or put up a struggle, the guards would come running, and the few seconds a closed door could afford him would be invaluable.

There was nothing to be done for it, however. Roark had come too far and would not be denied his chance at vengeance. Creeping around the bed just to check on a door only increased his chances of making a sound that would wake his quarry and end this assassination before it began. Better to get the job done and deal with the consequences as they came.

Like a Mist Wraith, Roark crept to the bed. Taking a fold of the heavy bedcurtain in hand, he raised the dagger, preparing to drive its curved blade into the Tyrant King’s black heart. Silently, he pulled the curtain back.

The bed was empty. The curtains on the opposite side hung open.

A dozen battle-scarred, bloodthirsty warriors and one red-robed mage stood at the ready. A bearded Ustar with a wide-bladed battle-ax grinned as he made exaggerated snoring sounds.

And at the center of the bodyguards stood the Tyrant King, Marek Konig Ustar.

THREE:

Fallback Plan

“So predictable,” the Tyrant King said, shaking his graying head. “Spend a night in some backwoods manor and every rat with a minor claim to the old nobility comes crawling out of his hole.”

Roark’s grip on the Lyuko dagger tightened until the leather straps around its handle creaked. His mouth was dry. His heart thundered in his ears. Crossbow bolts and spell scrolls were trained on him, but he couldn’t look away from the aging man with the salt-and-pepper hair. The first time he’d seen Marek Konig Ustar, he’d been a child and the despot had been a monster, pulling spells from thin air without paper or writing, completely disregarding the basic laws of magick.

Now, standing this close to the man in his fur-line robes, Roark realized the Tyrant King looked like nothing more than a bored aristocrat. If not for the deadly glint in his eye, it would be almost hard to believe that this was the same sorcerer who had conquered the entire continent of Terho in less than five years and kept it clutched in his bloody fist for the next fifteen.

Marek turned to the red-hooded mage standing at his right hand. “Looks as if I owe you that purse, Lowen. The T’verzet was in Korvo all along.”

Roark scowled. Lowen von Reich—heir to the first of the noble houses to flip allegiances when the Ustari Empire invaded and even more of a horse’s ass than Albrecht when they’d been at academy together. Though, unfortunately, Lowen was a far better scholar. Arrogant, cruel, and just competent enough to avoid blowing himself up by accident, which would have been a true favor to the world.

“Take him alive,” the Tyrant King said lazily, waving a dismissive hand at Roark. “We’ll need the usual who, where, and what out of him in case his accomplices try to flee the city.”

The armed Ustars started around the bed, heavy armor clanking. The mage and crossbowman held their positions, covering Roark to make sure he didn’t try to run for it.

With a great effort of will, Roark forced his fingers to fall open. The Lyuko dagger dropped harmlessly onto the empty bed.

“I surrender,” he said, scrubbing his palms up and down his woolen jacket as if to wipe frantic sweat from them. On an upward swipe, he snagged a scrap of paper from his pocket and palmed it. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

Inside the hood, Lowen’s face twisted into a condescending smirk. “Funny, that doesn’t sound like the mouthy little von Graf brat I remember.”

“Probably because I beat your ass badly enough that last day at the academy that it knocked you stupid,” Roark said, tossing down his spell.

At the sudden movement, the crossbowman let loose, but Roark was already throwing himself out of the ten-foot blast radius. The bolt tore through the shoulder of his jacket, barely scratching his flesh.

A concussion wave shook the bedroom. Armor and weapons clattered like a tinker’s cart caught in a tornado as the approaching guards were hurled into the wall. One hit the fireplace and screamed as embers found their way through the chinks in his armor.

Roark rolled to his feet in front of the false panel, a spell in each hand and a new plan forming in his mind. He would lead them into the tunnels, lose them in the maze, then double back for the Tyrant.

Lowen was already in motion, having protected himself from the burst of compressed air with a prepared shield spell. The red-hooded mage threw a ball of paper at Roark’s feet.

Roark darted into the passageway a moment before a trio of iron bolas screamed through the air at knee-height and splintered the panel behind him.

Roark grinned as he leapt to the bottom of the stairs. “I think you over-wrote it, mate!”

“You don’t need legs to tell us everything we want to know,” Lowen replied.

Three of the heavily armored Ustars pushed down into the passageway after Roark, their shoulders so wide that they had to come one at a time. The blades of their halberds glinted in the glow from the firelight above.

“Send the muscle in first to soak up the deadly spells, is that it?” Roark taunted them. “Not a bad plan unless you’re the muscle.”

With a practiced flick of his wrist, he threw the spell in his right fist at the stairs. Green light flashed when it hit. Thorny brambles erupted from the stone steps, entangling the brutes’ legs. The shocked Ustars struggled and chopped at the brambles, trying to free themselves, but for every branch they cut off, five more sprang up. In seconds, their halberds were tangled in the fast-growing thicket.

Effective, but not enough to take them out of the fight. Any mage with even basic training could write a dispel.

Roark tossed the spell in his left fist toward the stairs. This flashed an inflamed red when it landed.

“Nothing personal, gents,” he said as the sickly scarlet smoke drifted up to meet them. Then he laughed. “Well, actually, it’s incredibly personal. Enjoy your larva pox.”

“You hex-slinging cur!” the Ustar nearest the smoke shouted, the fury in his voice nearly concealing the panic. “I’ll rip your limbs off one at a time!”

“I doubt that,” Roark said with a malicious grin, retreating down the passageway and melting into the shadows. Within moments, their shouts morphed into cries of pain and choked guttural noises as the vomiting took hold.

A great boom rattled the manor on its foundations. Dirt and debris rained down from above. Firelight filled the staircase and spilled into the passageway as the bedchamber’s wall splintered.

Roark dug through his pockets searching out a shield spell in case the whole tunnel collapsed on top of him, but miraculously the braces held.

“Stop tearing up my manor, you over-writing dimwit!” he hollered back up the passageway.

“This estate and everything on it belongs to the Ustari Empire,” Lowen called down. “But if you surrender now like a good mutt, we’ll even bury what’s left of your body on the grounds when we’re done with you. Let you join your family in the afterlife.”

Roark knew that wouldn’t happen. The mage was just playing for time while he wrote another spell.

“Come down here and get me,” Roark replied.

A moment later, a flash of gold light on the stairs dispelled the brambles around the pox-ridden Ustars. The crossbowman appeared at the top of the stairs, letting a bolt fly into the shadows.

Roark pressed himself to the stone wall as the bolt whistled past and clattered down the passage.

“A little to your left, mate,” he said, stepping into the light.

The crossbowman slapped another bolt into his bow and stomped on the stirrup, cranking the screw like mad in his rush to get the contraption cocked.

Roark pressed the shield writ to his chest, then flung another spell at the stairs. Brilliant white fingers of lightning sizzled from the paper, searching out the closest sources of metal. The crossbowman and the vomiting Ustars seized and shook as the electricity danced through their bodies.

The lightning had barely dissipated when the thick-bearded brute with the battle-ax leapt through the gaping hole Lowen had blown in the wall. He landed with a weighty clang in the passageway, mere feet from Roark. With a ululating screech, the brute swung his battle-ax at Roark’s chest.

The wind from the swing ruffled Roark’s hair as he backpedaled. He pulled out another concussion spell and tossed it at the bearded berserker. The spell rebounded off an invisible barrier, and the blast threw Roark backward down the corridor.

All the air left his lungs in a whoof when he hit, and his head bounced off the stone floor. Bright lights that had nothing to do with magick flashed in his vision. Rebound spell. Lowen must’ve written it for the berserker before sending him down. No more spell attacks that could backfire, then.

Roark rolled onto his side, trying to coax his lungs to breathe again while he pushed himself up onto arms and legs still prickling from the impact.

“What’s the matter, von Graf?” Lowen’s voice rang down the stairs. “Did you outsmart yourself?”

With that idiot’s taunting, Roark almost didn’t hear the whistle of the blade at his back. He threw himself into a clumsy roll. The bearded berserker’s ax buried itself in the stone floor, slinging up sparks.

Finally, Roark’s throbbing lungs reopened, and he gulped down sweet oxygen like water. He fumbled in his pockets, searching out a defensive writ that wouldn’t ricochet.

He dropped the paper and stumbled farther down the passage as it floated to the floor. Blue light flashed onto the stone walls when it hit. The air crackled and the temperature in the tunnel plummeted. A thick layer of black ice covered the ground fifteen feet from the edges of the paper in all directions.

The berserker cursed as he tried to wrench his ax from the stone only to find it frozen in place.

Roark smiled. An unintended consequence, but a lucky one.

From the stairs came the clomp of boots running with entirely too much confidence.

“Rebound spells for everyone, then,” Roark hissed bitterly, digging into his pocket for his own version of the barrier. He stuck the spell to his chest, sending up a flash of purple light.

A moment later, the singing whine of a projectile cut through the air. His barrier tolled like a bell as a spear bounced harmlessly off.

Shouts echoed behind him as running boots found the black ice and armored bodies crashed to the floor. He chuckled and dropped another entanglement spell for any of the brutes not tripped up by the ice.

The flash of green from the brambles lit up the intersection ahead. He was only yards from the maze. Roark glanced over his shoulder.

With a flash of gold, Lowen dispelled the ice. The red-hooded mage scribbled furiously at a parchment as he approached the tangle of thorny brambles. The Ustars—bearded berserker included—had grouped behind the mage, waiting for the passageway to clear so they could charge.

Lowen ripped the spell off and tossed it at the brambles.

Instead of dispelling the thicket, the branches slithered down the passage toward Roark, gaining speed as they went.

Roark sprinted into the maze, cursing the red-hooded bastard’s cleverness. Now he either had to dispel his own entanglement or abandon his plan to lose these goons in the maze while he tried to outrun the thorny whips. Damn. With a begrudging grunt, Roark threw a dispel writ at the racing brambles. They disappeared in a flash of gold.

The clamor of running feet reverberated off the walls of the maze as they followed him in.

Roark hooked left, then right, dropping an explosive spell that would lie dormant until someone bearing the winged serpent crossed paths with it. The detonation would collapse the maze on their heads, hopefully taking Lowen by surprise and buying himself enough time to get back to the Tyrant King.

Roark raced through the last intersection, grabbing the wall to redirect his momentum around the corner. A weak glimmer of silver moonlight filtered through the hidden window above as he dashed up the steps toward the blue sitting room.

As he reached for the catch, the false wall swung open. The Tyrant King stepped into the gap.

Roark stopped so quickly that he nearly fell on his face. He threw out his hands instinctively, slapping palms to the walls and jamming several fingers in the process.

Behind him, the explosive spell detonated. The stone steps shook beneath his feet as the tunnels fell in, blocking off any means of retreat.

At the top of the stairs, Marek chuckled. “No way out now but through me.”

Roark righted himself and straightened up, glaring back at the tyrant.

“Just as well,” he said, affecting a confidence he didn’t feel. “I came here to end your worthless life, not run away.”

“Big words to hide bigger fears.” Marek descended a step, and Roark backed away as if magnetically repelled. The man he’d been so unimpressed with before now looked every inch the deadly monster he remembered from childhood. “You know what they called me before I took the throne, boy?”

Roark swallowed hard, unable to stop himself. He knew. He was the sole survivor of the massacre that had earned Marek the nickname.

“The Butcher of Korvo,” he replied in a hoarse whisper.

“Just so.” Marek dipped his head in acknowledgement. “And now I’ll finish the job properly.”

The Tyrant King surged forward, a flash of amber light filling the stairwell. Electricity seared through Roark’s nerves, passing through his barrier spell as if it didn’t exist. Just beyond the pain and disbelief, he felt himself tumbling down the stairs.

What felt like lifetimes of agony later, the electricity abated. Roark opened his eyes, blinking away the purple-green afterimages left on his retinas and struggling to get his bearings. He was lying on debris from the collapsed tunnels.

“I’ll give you one chance, boy,” Marek said. “Tell me where the Rebel Council’s hiding out and I’ll make your death quick. Refuse and I’ll draw your life out until you’re begging to die.”

Roark’s muscles shuddered and twitched with aftershocks as he pulled himself to his feet. He bowed his head, not trusting his voice, and raised one trembling palm as if to surrender. With his other hand, he dipped into his pocket and whipped out a spell.

Another flash of amber light. The scrap of parchment was incinerated. As the ashes crumbled in his grasp, Roark followed the light to the Tyrant King’s chest—a glowing topaz stone set in an intricately worked silver pendant.

“I tried to be merciful,” Marek said with a half-hearted shrug, his indifferent tone more suited to discussing a boring day in court than doling out excruciating torture. “You brought this on yourself. Remember that.”

This time when the pendant flashed that blinding amber light, Roark tried to dodge. It was a futile effort. There was nothing to dodge. No arc of electricity, no projectile or blast or bolt, just pure unadulterated agony destroying him from the inside out. It was like magma running through veins. Like a skinner’s knife slicing off flesh an inch at a time. Like acid melting his guts and dissolving his bones. All of it at once. As if from far away, he heard himself screaming. He willed himself to lose consciousness or die—one or the other, anything but awareness—but the same amber magick torturing him was blocking those too-easy escape routes. He couldn’t take it. He would lose his mind if it didn’t end soon.

He had to end it however he could. Death or betrayal, whichever one would stop the pain faster.

Without warning, the agony dropped down to a nearly bearable level. Roark realized he was on his knees at the foot of the stairs, his upper body held up by some force other than himself, sweat rolling down his face and back. The pendant glowed a furious amber on the Tyrant King’s chest.

“You were saying about the T’verzet?” Marek prompted.

“Th-the T’ver-zet,” Roark stuttered, struggling to form words through the constant stream of pain. “Th-th-they’re—”

Marek nodded like a patient tutor with a particularly slow student. The only hint that he was interested was the slight bend of his neck, leaning in closer as if he could will the information out faster.

“They’re—” Roark’s shaking hand plunged into his last-ditch pocket and scooped out sand mixed with pepper powder. He flung the mixture into the Tyrant King’s face.

Marek howled, pawing desperately at his eyes. Arrogant bastard was used to facing down academy-trained mages who relied entirely on magical attacks, not hedge mages who’d had to finish teaching themselves. And certainly not hedge mages who had grown up around the dirtiest thieves in Traisbin. The tyrant’s concentration broken, the amber light faded and the pain running through every muscle fiber of Roark’s body dissipated.

He nearly collapsed, overwhelmed by the relief, but forced himself back to his feet. He couldn’t waste this momentary advantage.

While Marek reeled from the attack, Roark stumbled up the stairs, using his hands as well as his feet like a dog. He shouldered clumsily past Marek, knocking the sorcerer into the stone wall. With a last surge of adrenaline, he reached up and snatched the pendant, ripping it from the Tyrant King’s neck.

“I’ll destroy you!” Marek screamed, any semblance of control gone. He groped blindly after Roark as the younger man staggered away. “You’ll know nothing but agony from now until eternity! Only in your wildest pain-induced hallucinations will you be able to dream of the sweet release of death!”

Roark’s strength gave out at the top of the stairs, and he fell into the blue sitting room. He could hear Marek stumbling up the stairs after him. From the sound of it, the Tyrant King was recovering quickly.

There was only one recourse left. It was beyond dangerous, but he didn’t have any other options.

With shaking hands, Roark pulled the penknife from its hidden pocket inside his leather jerkin. He slashed the sleeve of his woolen jacket open from wrist to elbow and started carving the spell into his forearm, trying to picture the pub that doubled as a resistance safehouse with as much clarity as his exhausted mind could manage. Performing blood magick, such as this, was incredibly dangerous—and deadly unstable to boot—but it was also far more powerful than regular written cantrips, and right now he needed all the power he could muster.

A portal opens in front of me, leading to the topmost floor of the Hearth of the World.

As he finished punctuating the sentence, the air before him shimmered and a violet portal split the air with the ripping sound of torn cloth.

It was a dangerous play. Reckless.

Portals were the least understood of all the branches of magick. Even with perfect spelling and grammar and the most clear and accurate wording in the world, mages often stepped through to find themselves trapped inside trees or half out of walls or creatures or other people or crushed at the bottom of the Great Sea. Or a few miles away from the destination they had in mind, mildly inconvenienced but otherwise fine. Two hundred years had passed since the founding of the academy, and still no one had discovered any difference between the portals that worked and the ones that killed the traveler in a variety of gruesome ways.

Roark pushed himself to his feet, ribbons of hot blood running down his arm and off his fingers. The dripping red shined black in the violet light from the portal.

“You fool,” came Marek’s harsh whisper from behind him. “You’ll kill yourself.”

The words were almost funny coming from the sorcerer who’d threatened him with an eternal life filled with pain only moments before. In the face of that, a grisly death in a tangle of limbs and organs or under hundreds of millions of tons of water didn’t seem like much of a risk.

“You’re as much a coward as the council,” Roark called over his shoulder. “If I survive this, I’ll find a way to make you pay for every drop of innocent blood you’ve spilled.”

Bracing himself for the worst, Roark jumped into the portal.

FOUR:

The Citadel

The blue sitting room of Graf Manor disappeared in the bright violet of the portal. Wind screamed past Roark’s ears as if he were falling from a great cliff. Then the violet light blurred and stretched, splitting into rays of lilac, amethyst, burgundy, and indigo. Waves of pain tore through his body. It felt as if he were being ripped apart one muscle fiber and bone splinter at a time, then pieced back together over and over again. On the faraway fringes of the torment, some detached part of his mind wondered whether that was how this portal killed its travelers—by shredding them endlessly until their consciousness fell apart and nothing was left.

What felt like centuries of agony later, awareness slapped Roark in the face like a wet washcloth. He wasn’t falling anymore, he was walking. Odd. Very much so. He looked around, searching for clues as to where he had come out. The crumbling remains of what looked to have once been a great citadel lay before him like the bones of some ancient beast. A cold black fog rolled along trampled muddy earth, broken up here and there by weathered cairns of vitrified stone.

It sure as all the hells wasn’t the safe house. This dead citadel was like nothing he’d ever seen in Korvo. It didn’t look as if it belonged on his home planet, let alone in his home city.

Furthermore, his body felt strange. Awkward. Clumsy. Slow. Perhaps he was still recovering from the whirlwind of torture, first at the Tyrant King’s hands, then inside the portal. If he took a moment to regroup, maybe he could make sense of this.

Roark lifted a hand to his head and froze, staring at the leathery blue flesh of a scrawny, disproportionately long arm. Where was the familiar olive skin laced with fading spell scars? He looked down, heart hammering away inside his chest. Instead of his own lean body, he found a bird-chested torso that flared into a potbelly and ended in a pair of bowlegs. A dirty loincloth strung around his waist was all that preserved his modesty, and judging by the strange, misshapen parts that had replaced the rest of his body, he didn’t want to see what was under there.

His mind spun. This was all wrong. What had that portal done to him? Had he even made it into the portal at all? Maybe the Tyrant King had killed him and now he was being resurrected as some sort of dark creature built to serve the Ustari Empire. There’d been rumors of experiments in the north, chimeras pieced together from animal and human remains.

If that was the case, then what had he been made from? Roark studied the arms again, this time with emotionless detachment. Some sort of thick, leathery blue hide, almost like that of a Great Sea whale. The stubby, dirt-caked fingers ended in black claws like a bird of prey. He ran his tongue over a set of wickedly serrated teeth. A shark, perhaps?

No, if he’d been killed and rebuilt to serve in the Tyrant King’s armies he would have weapons or armor. None of this added up.

Roark looked down again at his narrow, birdlike chest and realized with a start that the topaz pendant he’d snatched from Marek was hanging around his neck. Somehow that bit of jewelry had made it through the portal unaffected.

Before he could study himself more closely, movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He snapped his head around and spotted another small, malformed creature with blue skin hiding in the shadows of a crumbling staircase corkscrewing into the earth. Thin white letters floated over the creature’s head.

[Changeling]

Had the Tyrant King’s mages found a new way to write spells in the air? Was that what they’d been experimenting with? Was it how they had turned him into this thing … this Changeling?

Roark headed toward the staircase. At first, he tried to move carefully, not wanting to provoke an attack or frighten the other creature away. But the awkward slowness of his new body wore out his patience within seconds, and he broke into a clumsy trot.

The Changeling, loitering in the shadows of the crumbling citadel walls, didn’t attack or run. Its eyes didn’t even focus as he approached; it just stood there staring and swaying on its scraggy legs. This Changeling wore a grimy loincloth identical to Roark’s, but it also had a strip of leather around its bald head. Moth-eaten black feathers were stuck into the band and swayed in time with the creature’s body.

Roark opened his mouth to demand some answers from the Changeling, but all that came out was a croaky grunt. Anger and frustration flared, but he pushed them down. Filling his narrow chest with air, he began again.

“Where?” Speaking was like overseeing a three-way duel between his mind, his vocal cords, and his too-wide mouth while pulling every sound up from the pit of his potbelly. “What are this? Where are this?”

The Changeling grunted and pointed stupidly out at the eddying fog.

Perhaps the magick which created Changelings also damaged the brain. Working carefully through each question, Roark formed the words in his mind first, then forced them out through his serrated teeth. He felt his potbelly jump with each croaked syllable.

“Where. Are. We?” he asked. “What is this. Place?”

The Changeling continued to sway on the spot. After several moments, it cocked its head and grunted.

With a wry smile, Roark told the Changeling to slow down a bit, but in his rush the quip came out as just another meaningless croak.

Roark rubbed his pounding temples with dirty, claw-tipped fingers. This was going to be unbearable without sarcasm. A world without biting wit simply wasn’t one worth living in.

The swaying Changeling grunted as though it agreed and pointed out at the fog once more.

Roark sighed and searched the citadel for anyone or anything slightly more sentient. No other creatures wandered the muddy ground inside the ruins, but there was a gap in the top of the wall opposite the crumbling staircase where some long-ago attack had smashed the stones inward in a heap of broken rubble.

He left the Changeling swaying in the shadows and headed for the gap in the wall, hoping to get a better view of his surroundings, if nothing else. Climbing the stone pile should have been easy having grown up climbing the cliffs and mountains around Korvo, but with the unfamiliar limbs it was a slow, clumsy process. Especially since each one of his limbs seemed to be a different length. Finally, though, Roark made it to the top. He grabbed a handful of stone wall on each side of the gap and pulled himself up.

Down below lay a graveyard peppered with broken, weather-worn tombstones that shined white as bone in the moonlight. Crypts in various states of disrepair had been torn open, and crumbling mausoleums stood with doors ripped off their hinges.

Lumbering between these stone monuments on stiff legs were walking corpses. Desiccated flesh and scraps of cloth hung from their bones, and many of them had ancient-looking brass swords hanging at their sides or cracked dark-wood bows slung over their shoulders. Like the Changeling, thin white lettering glimmered over their heads.

[Shambling Revenant]

Roark settled his misshapen backside onto the wall and crossed his scrawny legs, resting an elbow on them while he thought this over.

In Traisbin, it was common practice for the handiest priest or mage-noble to make out writs for those who died to ensure that their souls would pass on undisturbed to the afterlife and remain out of reach of necromancy. It had been one of the many duties the men and women of his house had carried out for the people of Korvo. There were always stories of mages who’d gone mad and tried to build corpse armies by murdering men and leaving their bodies unwritten. For a while, rumors had even circulated that this was how the Tyrant King was sweeping the continent so quickly. Baseless rumors, Roark knew. The Tyrant King had come to power through bloody swords in the hands of regular, order-following humans while other regular humans turned a blind eye.

The writing in this place did seem to hold some sort of magic—the letters could exist with nothing more than the air as a medium—but Roark didn’t think this world was the same one he’d been born on. When looked at objectively, the evidence all seemed to be pointing toward the portal having dumped him out in some other dimension.

Just as he came to this conclusion, an arrow thudded into his leathery blue knee. He croaked in shock as white jags of pain lanced in all directions from the wound, and his leg kicked involuntarily. A strange vial decorated with intricate gold filigree appeared to his right, half full of some glowing red liquid. Before his eyes, the mysterious white lettering appeared.

[x2 Stealth Multiplier]

“Aw, hells yeah!” a voice shouted. “Get wrecked, son!”

The clash of metal on metal filled the graveyard. At the far corner, two humans in shining plate armor and one in deep purple robes were attacking the undead with greatswords and showers of lightning. The angry groans of Shambling Revenants mingled with the excited whoops of the fighters, but the rest of the Revenants continued their pointless circuits of the graveyard as if nothing were happening.

Roark had barely enough time to wonder why the Revenants weren’t simply overwhelming the humans with their superior numbers when a smoky shadow moved near the broken graveyard gate.

An arrow whistled out of the patch of darkness and slammed into his chest.

[x2 Stealth Multiplier]

Pain throbbed outward from the shaft of the arrow, and the filigreed vial at Roark’s right flashed twice as the remaining red liquid drained out. He felt his body topple backward off the wall, arms and legs flopping and flailing with an unlikely disregard for basic physics. The mysteries of this new world faded to nothingness along with everything he could see, and Roark von Graf died.

FIVE:

Hearth of the World

Music swelled inside Roark’s head, a deep, driving song of warfare. The endless black void of death receded, shedding light on two winged figures: One with midnight skin and leathery wings wielding a glowing purple scythe with a blade longer than its wingspan. The other with fiery golden flesh and wings radiating white light, brandishing a flaming longsword twice its height. The creatures whirled and slashed and danced across the sky, locked in an endless battle above the magma-filled cone of a massive volcano.

“Long ago,” a deep, rasping voice began, “the war between the infernali and the malaika destroyed our world.”

Slowly the pair of creatures grew smaller, and Roark realized with a start that he was moving away from their combat-dance, gaining a wider vantage point. He was flying, though he had no proper body. The land stretched out below the volcano was crisscrossed with streams of lava and filled with hundreds of thousands of the winged creatures, both light and dark—some wielding glowing or flaming weapons, others throwing elemental attacks, and still others leading charges with armies of strange chimeras. The noise and chaos of large-scale battle rang in his ears. The smell of fire and slag and death burned in his nostrils.

Then it all faded away.

“While the younger races—humans, elves, and rogs—chose their sides …”

Light exploded, shining down on a human in obsidian plate armor and a taller, willowier humanoid creature with azure skin and pointed ears. The Lyuko travelers had stories of elves—pointy-eared, fair-haired children of the forest—and the azure-skinned creature certainly fit the bill. The pair of them knelt before one of the winged demons. Without warning, the vision receded and vanished, giving way to an identical scene of a female elf and a muscular green-skinned humanoid with intricately carved tusks and gleaming, boxy armor—the rog?—kneeling in the brilliant glare of a winged angel.

“… and accepted their divine and infernal magics …”

By some enchantment, Roark saw the two scenes playing out at the same time now, side by side. As one, the demon and angel reached down, touching the beings pledging their service. Bright white light and deepest shadow flared and consumed the images.

“... we olms hid away in our mountains,” the rasping voice said, “trusting our intellect and cleverness to protect us while we waited for the war to end and peace to fall once again.”

Roark watched as a group of what looked like upright aquatic salamanders filed into the darkness of a mountain cave, paddlelike tails hanging from the bottom of their flowing robes. Only one stopped and turned his round slime-coated head back to look over his shoulder at the surface world he was leaving behind. This salamander-man closed his blue eyes sadly and followed his kin into the depths of the earth.

Then Roark was deep in the darkness of a cave where the salamander-people—olms, he reminded himself—stood around a glowing green table with arcane symbols etched into its granite surface. They wore ornate circlets fitted with gemstones, leaned on elaborately carved staves, and held thin pen-like sticks in hand. These sticks they waved over flasks that flashed bright pink, toxic yellow, or intense blue.

“But in the end, the Hearth tired of waiting for their arrogance and stupidity to cleanse them from her world …”

The battle at the volcano returned, though this time the humans, elves, and rogs had joined the fight. As the infernali and malaika hacked and slashed their way across the sky, the landbound armies cut one another down and incinerated each other on the lava-crossed field of combat below.

Suddenly, a deep thundering reverberated across the battlefield, and the armies on the ground were shaken from their feet. Smoke billowed from the volcano’s cone, quickly followed by chunks of porous rock and gouts of lava. The burning slag pummeled the winged infernali and malaika like a sentient rain, glomming onto their flesh and burning them out of the sky.

“However, she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—cleanse the scars their fighting left behind.”

Roark found himself looking out across the wreckage of a once-handsome citadel much like the one he’d just died in, but fresh, with the ruined bodies of combatants strewn across the rubble.

“Nor would she banish the misbegotten creatures the infernali and malaika created in their pursuit of victory and domination. Some say she left them as a reminder of the price of arrogance …”

An enormous golden boar the size of a house, with golden tusks, barreled through a village, smashing homes and businesses while townspeople ran screaming from the destruction. All around, blue-skinned Changelings pillaged dwellings and ripped into panicking cattle with their black claws and serrated teeth.

“Now, revered heroes among the younger races fight the unnatural abominations the great war left behind.”

A party of warriors stood on a wide plain. An azure-skinned elf in shining plate mail, a coppery-haired woman in a dark hood and black leathers, and a pale-skinned elf in purple robes looked on while one of the green-skinned rogs inspected a heavy set of tracks in the grass. The rog’s topknot shifted in the breeze as he stood and pointed at the columned ruins of a temple ahead.

Some great predator roared, and the scene shifted to an underground lair, where the same party attacked a huge leathery creature with gray skin and stringy white hair. It hurled blasts of infernal energy at them while cutting and hewing with the same glowing, long-bladed scythe the winged infernali had wielded in the war.

The rog and the dark elf in the shining plate mail ran in, one from each side, swinging a thin, elegant blade and a thick, cleaving longsword, respectively. Each time the warriors sustained an injury, the purple-robed elf waved her hands in an arcane pattern—another form of the mysterious air-writing? Roark wondered—and a bloody purple nimbus would surround them, healing their gashes. The black-clad human disappeared from the fray in a puff of shadow, only to reappear at the creature’s back.

The smoky shadow curling off the human’s form brought to Roark’s mind the patch of darkness which had shot him from the citadel wall. Devious. He couldn’t fault the assassin’s method—it aligned well with his personal policy of stealthy victory over forthright defeat—but he did long to appear behind her and sink his Lyuko dagger into her kidneys.

In a flash of rapier and dagger, the assassin scored the monster’s hide, then disappeared again. The behemoth roared, sweeping the scythe toward where she had been—but far too late. The rog adopted a martial pose, slim blade pointed at the colossal beast, then cried out, “Stance of the Cleansing Lotus Flame!” The rog lunged, and its blade slashed through the behemoth’s abdomen, orange flames eating away at the creature’s flesh from the wound. With a sssshinggg, the dark elf’s longsword sliced through the behemoth’s thick neck, and its head thudded to the stone floor, rolling away.

“And, as always, to the victor go the spoils,” the rasping voice said.

Behemoth dead, the party of warriors sorted through the gold, jewels, and weaponry piled around the underground lair. But when they came to the creature’s infernal scythe, the assassin, dark elf, and rog all turned to the fair elf in the purple robes. One pale hand reached out and grasped its thorny, obsidian handle. Arcs of infernal energy crackled through the air. The elf’s white hair billowed around her like a corona and her eyes flashed deepest amethyst.

“While the young, childish races seek glory, fame, and power in the extermination of these infernal and divine miscreations, we step out of our caves once more.”

Back at the mountains, an army of olms filed out of the caves, squinting against the setting sun. This time, however, the salamander-people were clad in jangling silver mail set with gemstones. Glinting silver swords hung from their belts, and they carried staves and those slim magical sticks. Roark itched to get his hands on one and study how their magick worked.

“We will bring the chaos under reign once more …”

The image shifted to squads of the olms subduing unruly humans and elves and leading a top-knotted rog to a headman, ax raised and ready. Next, a small envoy of them stood before a king. No words were uttered, but the sovereign slowly left his throne and knelt before the strange lizard folk.

“… and return order to Hearthworld by any means necessary.”

The leader of the olm envoy looked directly into Roark’s eyes, and he realized this was the same salamander who had looked back sadly on the warring world as he left it behind. The salamander’s faded blue eyes flared suddenly with aquamarine light.

“Will you be with us … or against us?”

Blackness faded in until all Roark could see was the glowing blue eyes, then they faded as well.

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Roark flinched away instinctively, expecting a magical attack. Then realizing he had no body in this void, he relaxed and studied the letters more closely. The first line of text disappeared, replaced by a second:

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Then a third: MMORPGAMERS’ CHOICE AWARD 6 years running!

A single, eerie note drifted through the blackness like a feather on the wind, deftly turning into a haunting melody, accompanied by the scent of smoke and molten earth.

HEARTHWORLD

While his mind was still struggling to discern the intentions of these spells, Roark abruptly found himself wandering bodiless through a bustling marketplace. The streets were filled with vendors under colorful canopies, their wooden stalls showcasing weapons, armor, jewelry, gemstones, food, and drinks. Warriors, assassins, sorcerers, and soldiers of every shape, size, and color combination wandered through the market wearing a mishmash of armor, robes, and helms of varied quality. Rather than attacking one another or the olms walking among them, the people chatted amiably, negotiated with the vendors, and even bartered with one another for more powerful items or items that more closely matched the ones they already wore.

They all seemed sentient and were clearly capable of speech. Interesting.

Fearing that he already knew what the outcome would be, Roark tried to speak, to get the attention of any of these people so that he could demand the answers that the feather-banded Changeling hadn’t been bright enough to supply. But of course, without a body to form the words, the effort was fruitless.

The golden text returned, stretching through the air of the market while warriors, sorcerers, and assassins walked beneath, seemingly unaware.

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As Roark struggled to understand the foreign meanings of so many words he’d once wielded with ease, a strange feeling of dissolving overtook him. Similar to when he’d leapt into the portal, but with nowhere near the amount of pain. The writing and market vanished around him, leaving nothing but blackness behind.

And from the blackness came one bloodred word: Respawning …

SIX:

Mystic Grimoire

When Roark opened his eyes again, he was standing knee-deep in black ground fog, facing the ruins of the ancient citadel. He felt a brief moment of relief at having returned to a corporeal body, but that bubble popped when he realized it was the ungainly, disproportionate Changeling’s body rather than his own. Blue leathery skin, knobby knees, spidery limbs, and claw-tipped fingers.

Around his waist, the dirty loincloth waved softly along with the swirls and eddies of the fog. Having seen the other inhabitants of this plane decked out in armor and armed to the teeth, Roark would’ve given quite a lot for some sort of combat gear of his own. At least the pendant he’d stolen from the Tyrant King was still firmly in place around his neck.

Roark turned in a slow circle, searching the derelict courtyard for any sign of sentient life. There in the shadows of the crumbling staircase, the feather-banded Changeling stood swaying and bobbing like a ship on the Great Sea. At regular intervals, the creature grunted to no one and pointed into the wisps of black fog.

Roark frowned. That hardly counted as sentient.

He dismissed the swaying Changeling from his mind and stole over to the pile of rubble that connected to the gap in the citadel’s wall. A few awkward moments of scrambling later, he heaved his potbelly over the side and dropped to the ground in the graveyard once more.

Rather than the catlike landing he had envisioned, something went wrong, and he landed in a tangle of disproportionate arms and legs. Roark croaked indignantly and picked himself up. This body was taking a lot of getting used to for what, so far, felt like an exceedingly small reward. If he hadn’t already realized that this was an entirely different world from his own, he would have wondered whether Marek had somehow imprisoned his mind in this clumsy body as a form of torture.

All around the tombstones and crypts, desiccated corpses tagged [Shambling Revenants] shuffled and groaned. They walked constantly, yet seemed to have no particular destination in mind. They shuffled a few steps in one direction, then turned around and retraced their paths back to where they’d begun.

It didn’t bode well for finding an intelligent source to speak to.

Still, after a few minutes’ observation, he noted one Shambling Revenant that followed a slightly wider variety of patterns through the graves and crypts. Three, to be exact: First, around a cracked crypt to the far gate and back. Then to a dead tree near a wrought iron fence and back once more. And finally, a shuffling beeline toward the gaping door of a mausoleum. This Revenant had a cracked blackwood bow slung over his shoulder, a quiver full of black-fletched arrows, and the tattered remains of a very scraggly beard on what was left of his jaw.

He scanned the graveyard for any bands of “heroes” like the ones who had shot him down earlier. None in sight.

Roark trotted over to the bearded Revenant, trying to imbue the tiny Changeling body he was stuck in with some amount of his accustomed agility and at least a pinch of dignity. The effect was something like a two-legged gallop, though the pace was hardly fast enough to do the word justice.

The bearded Revenant had just begun its circuit of the dead tree when Roark caught up to it. He fell into step with its shuffling gait and attempted to get its attention.

“Can you understand me?” he croaked up at it.

The Shambling Revenant opened its mouth, waggling the strings of beard attached to what was left of its decaying throat as it prepared to speak.

Roark’s heart fluttered with excitement inside his bony bird-chest.

And then sank as the bearded Revenant let out a long, meaningless groan identical to the groans of the rest of the Revenants lumbering around the graveyard. The rotting creature continued its shuffle toward the dead tree. Worthless creature.

Roark sighed and left off following the creature.

“Can anything in this world understand me?” he muttered to no one. At least it was becoming more intuitive to speak. He was going to need a way to amuse himself as he slowly went insane surrounded by useless creatures with no concept of communication.

In a way, this wasn’t so different from the last twenty years of his life. When he wanted answers, he’d had to search them out alone. When he wanted to do something, he’d had to teach himself how. In all the meaningful ways, this was that. He had to figure out what in the hells this world was and find a way back to Korvo. And he would do it the way he always had—on his own. He had made a promise to the Tyrant King that he meant to fulfill.

If the creatures here couldn’t carry on an intelligent conversation, perhaps he could find his answers through other means. A world with tombstones was a world where at least some form of marking the dead took place, even if it didn’t stick, as evidenced by the Shambling Revenants walking the graveyard. Perhaps he could find a grave marker whose symbols or letters could still be read. That would be a start, in any case.

Roark crept through the dewy grass and began searching the closest tombstones for legible markings. Their pale surfaces were weather-pitted and rough, overgrown with lichen, and many were cracked in half, obviously carved from stone too soft to stand the centuries. Though the moon above was shrouded in a film of oily black cloud, Roark found his bulging Changeling eyes had no problem seeing clearly. Each tiny flat finger of lichen stood out in perfect contrast to the eroded stone from which it grew, but he couldn’t find any discernable pattern on the grave markers. To be certain he hadn’t missed anything, he ran his leathery blue fingers over the rough, pebbled surfaces, but couldn’t detect any design or writing carved into them.

He had nearly reached the end of one haphazard row when he spotted a dull gleam in the tall grass beside a crumbling mausoleum. He waited impatiently as a female Revenant shambled past—she wore scanty, tattered armor that protected precious little—then loped over to inspect the source of the gleam.

There by the corner of the mausoleum lay a rusty sword easily twice as long as his scrawny arm. The blade curved subtly along its back, and its cutting edge pitched inward toward the hilt and outward nearer the point. Weighted correctly, a blade like that could chop with all the momentum of an ax while maintaining the maneuverability of a sword.

He picked it up, excited to test its construction.

Immediately, his vision was filled with ethereal writing.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Rusty Falcata

One-Handed Damage: 9 - 15

Durability: 25 of 30

Level Requirement: 1

Blade Class Weapon - Medium Attack Speed

╠═╦╬╧╪

Very strange. He could feel the weight of the sword in his hand, but he couldn’t see the weapon. No, now some sort of semitranslucent book hung in the air before him, commanding his field of vision to the exclusion of almost all else. True, on the peripheries of sight he caught a sliver of the graveyard—dewy grass here, crumbling mausoleum there, and a bit of leathery blue Changeling wrist—but mostly it was the book. There were several ribbons running along the top of the tome, each one elegantly labeled with a bit of flowing script: Inventory, Maps, Quests, Skills, Spells, Character, Party, Followers, WikiLore, Chat.

He squinted, studying the blank pages before him. Yes, definitely a grimoire, he decided, and it seemed as though this falcata was now bound to it in some way. Roark desperately wished that he could reach out and turn the pages, but there didn’t seem to be regular pages to turn. So instead, he read through the words on each of the ribbons again, this time more slowly. He quickly realized that each word burned with a faint golden light as he focused on it. He slowed himself down and began again. He glared at the ribbon marked Inventory, and a new page opened before him.

His breath faltered inside his chest. Incredible. On the left-hand page of the grimoire there was an image of a Changeling. But not just any Changeling. Of himself, he instinctively knew. And not merely a painting, but a perfect, floating simulacrum, slowly rotating in a circle. This vision of himself wore a dirty loincloth and gripped the curved sword in one dirt-caked hand. He was a hideous creature, really. To the right was a strange grid of boxes, most of them open, though a few were filled with items: Threadbare Loincloth. Rusty Falcata. World Stone Pendant.

As Roark skimmed each item, a slowly rotating image appeared along with various details about the item. The loincloth was self-explanatory, and the falcata’s description was a repeat of what he’d already seen. But the World Stone … The image rotating slowly before him was the amber pendant he’d taken from the Tyrant King, its intricate silver setting gleaming as if under a bright light. Fascinated, Roark devoured the description like a starving man presented with a feast.

╠═╦╬╧╪

World Stone Pendant

Durability: Indestructible

Level Restriction: 1

Property: Soul-Forge - Imbue the undead with life and will.

Current World Stone Authority: Greater Vassal 0 / 1

Property: ???

Property: ???

Property: ???

Property: ???

Property: ???

The World Stone can bend, shape, and distort reality, allowing the bearer the power of Creation and Life itself …

╠═╦╬╧╪

Vassal, as in serf or thrall. Maybe the rumors of the Tyrant King’s necrotic army hadn’t been baseless after all. Maybe that was how the bastard had amassed such a huge fighting force in so little time without tipping off the Council of Ancients, by raising the dead to fight for him.

Dismissing this thought, Roark navigated to the next page.

Maps

Maps of an area can be purchased from Cartographers or learned with the Cartography Skill.

Useless. He tried the next.

Quests

You currently have no active quests.

The Skills and Spells pages were equally empty. Roark focused on the ribbon marked Character, opening the page.

Roark felt like a child staring at a slate full of letters for the first time. The words and numbers slipped through his mind—neat, orderly, and completely meaningless.

The ring of steel filled the air, cutting through his attempt to puzzle out the page’s meaning. Instinctively, Roark slammed the book shut with a thought and searched out the source of the sound.

On the far side of the graveyard, a new band of warriors was attacking. A pale elf with dual swords chopped a Shambling Revenant in half while a burly rog—female by the shape of her armor—hacked into another of the walking corpses. Outside the stone retaining fence, a human archer looked on, picking off Revenants from afar.

Roark watched in disbelief as the Revenants scattered throughout the rest of the graveyard continued to trace their familiar paths around the tombstones and crypts as if nothing were amiss. Buffoons. Did they not realize that if they all turned on their attackers, the fight would be over in moments? Apparently not, since even the Revenants closest to the fighting appeared oblivious to the crash of battle just yards away.

“You’re under attack!” Roark croaked to the female Revenant as she passed. “At the gate, enemies!” He jabbed a clawed finger toward the entry.

She groaned and shambled on without even drawing her sword.

Roark ran to the bearded Revenant.

“Look!” He grabbed the Revenant’s arm and yanked him around to face the battle. “Your yardmates are being mowed down like wheat. But if you all launch a counterattack at the same time, you’ll overwhelm these invaders easily. To arms, man! To arms!”

An arrow thudded into the bearded Revenant’s skull. The Revenant looked from side to side, the shaft of the arrow waving back and forth with the motion, as if he couldn’t tell where it had come from.

“They’re right there!” Roark shouted, stabbing the rusty falcata at the rampaging fighters. “Are you blind, mate?!”

The rog and elf had pushed deeper into the graveyard, and the archer followed them inside, but the attack was poorly coordinated, suicidal given the number of undead opponents. If the Shambling Revenants weren’t such morons, these invaders would be dead already.

Roark tested the weight of the falcata in his hand, fingers itching for the familiar lightness of his penknife. Maybe with his magick and time to prepare, he could take these armor-clad heroes. But caught unaware with nothing but a rusty sword more than half his size? No, this battle was lost.

Roark turned and sprinted as fast as his tiny Changeling legs would carry him back to the breach in the wall. He scrambled to the top, casting a glance back over his shoulder before climbing down the opposite side into the ruined citadel.

The warriors were closing in.

SEVEN:

PwnrBwner_007

Roark hopped from the rubble pile to the citadel’s muddy ground, landing awkwardly on his strange legs and sending wisps of mist swirling and eddying away. A quick glance around the inner bailey showed nothing but scattered debris from battles long finished. Nothing that would provide a sufficient hiding spot. The little bit of shadow the feather-banded Changeling was loitering in hardly covered half of the swaying creature; it would never conceal both of them.

The crash of weapons and shouts of battle grew louder behind him. The party of warriors was decimating the graveyard. Soon they would make it into the citadel.

The crumbling staircase leading deeper into the belly of the citadel was his only option. There was no way of telling what lay at the bottom, but anything was better than being cut down out here with no time to prepare a defense. He didn’t know whether there was a limit to how many times this world would resurrect him, and he didn’t want to find out.

Pumping his short legs, Roark dashed over to the staircase.

“Raiders coming!” he croaked at the swaying Changeling.

The Changeling grunted and swayed, feathers bobbing in time with his movements.

“You’re going to be killed if you stay here,” Roark snapped.

Another grunt, this time with a finger thrust in the general direction of nothing to underline the futility of Roark’s struggle to communicate.

Days’ worth of anger, frustration, and failure boiled over inside Roark, and he grabbed the Changeling by its leathery shoulders, shaking it savagely.

“You dolt! If you don’t—”

Those thin white letters appeared above the Changeling’s head.

[Current World Stone Authority: Greater Vassal 0/1]

[Use Soul-Forge? Yes/No]

The properties of Soul-Forge raced through Roark’s mind—Imbue the undead with life and will. This Changeling hardly seemed undead, but if he could imbue it with will, then at the very least the creature could find a better hiding spot. This wasn’t the best time for an experiment, but in spite of the threat he was curious to see how the World Stone worked.

With a thought, Roark selected Yes.

Against his leathery bird-chest, the pendant turned ice cold and the cloudy stone at its center flared with bright amber power. Roark found the same amber light bleeding from beneath his hands. He let go of the Changeling’s shoulders, but the glow remained, a glaring tawny handprint tattooed against the creature’s blue skin.

Overhead, the thin white letters declaring the creature a [Changeling] disappeared, replaced by a name: [Kazko].

Then before Roark’s eyes, a new prompt appeared.

[Kazko has become your Greater Vassal!]

On the heels of this, another of the nonsensical pages of information materialized, this one in the Followers section of his strange grimoire.

Whatever sense could be made of these pages would have to be puzzled out later. Roark imagined slamming the book shut just as he’d done earlier. The feather-banded Changeling was still there, but its wide eyes met Roark’s with an unmistakable new awareness.

An arrow sailed past Roark’s face, clipped one of Kazko’s black feathers, and thudded into the citadel wall behind them.

“Over here!” a human voice shouted. “I’ve got eyes on two!”

With a rusty creak and the clanking of heavy chain, the portcullis across the bailey rose. Roark didn’t wait around for them to make it inside the citadel. He grabbed the Changeling’s leathery arm and dragged him down the crumbling staircase.

As they descended into the bowels of the citadel, Roark searched for some place to hide. The stairs led down into dank darkness, but quickly opened up on a sprawling antechamber. Torches in heavy iron sconces were spaced throughout the room, giving off a flickering orange light that illuminated the tapestries lining the walls. The floors were wide, even flagstones, worn by the passage of time and countless feet. Here and there, stained-glass windows portraying scenes of beautiful black-winged women glowed with what must have been magical light considering their depth underground.

A handful of Changelings sat on a human-sized table, guzzling from tankards and fighting over scraps of food. More wandered the length of the chamber as if they had a particular destination in mind, while others scratched their asses and stumbled blankly along. One even lay against the wall with an empty wineskin in one limp hand, snoring contentedly. Hanging from the ceiling were purple-furred beasts with large leathery wings; the white letters beneath their heads declared them [Reaver Bats].

“Invaders are coming!” Roark croaked, his voice echoing in the underground chamber. “Prepare yourselves!”

A few of the Changelings raised their eyes to him, but these went immediately back to fighting over table scraps.

Roark cursed himself for getting optimistic just because the World Stone had managed to imbue one Changeling with sentience. He jogged farther into the chamber, Kazko keeping pace beside him.

“What do I have to do to explain to them that they need to fight or they’ll be killed?” he asked.

The feather-banded Changeling blinked his bulging eyes slightly out of sync and seemed to struggle for the words.

“You cannot,” Kazko finally said in a voice like the deep, gravelly croak of a bullfrog. “They not like Kaz. They like Kaz was … before stone.” He reached out, his fingers stretching toward the amulet before falling back down. “Low level.” He grimaced and shook his head. “No choice. Choices for exalted level.” He drew the word out as though with reverence. “Them and Floor Boss. Floor Boss give orders.” He shrugged narrow shoulders. “We follow orders. Unless we no die. Then?” He paused, searching for a word, a phrase. “Then we gain level. We change. Become independent.” He cast a sheepish glance at Roark. “Like Kaz.”

“Floor Boss?” Roark asked, mind racing as they made their way down a connecting side passage. “Will he help us?”

“Oh no, Master.” He shook his head frantically. “He will punish us for abandoning our posts!”

“I’m not your—”

Kaz grabbed Roark’s arm and jerked him into a shadowy alcove behind a rusted suit of armor holding a leaning tower shield.

“We got spawns!” a human’s shout echoed through the underground chamber. Roark peeked around the corner of the shield. The archer stood at the top of the stairs, firing arrows at the creatures below.

A nameplate appeared over the archer’s head. [PwnrBwner_007]

Little red bars appeared above the Changelings and Reaver Bats the arrows hit, the red emptying as blood spilled and the creatures’ lives drained away. One affected Bat swooped down from above, and three wounded Changelings rushed up the stairs growling, but just like before in the graveyard, the rest of the creatures seemed oblivious to the attack.

The archer, PwnrBwner_007, took out one of the charging Changelings, but backpedaled as the Reaver Bat swooped down at his head. The Bat slashed with oversized talons, managing to score a line across archer’s forehead and right eye. A red bar appeared above PwnrBwner_007’s head, though only a miniscule fraction of its color seeped away from the attack.

Though they appeared preternaturally tough compared to the creatures in the antechamber, these invaders could be injured after all. Interesting. Roark hefted the rusty falcata in his hand, watching the archer for an opening. But just as it looked like the Bat and remaining Changeling might stand a chance against PwnrBwner_007, the heavily armored elf burst in from the staircase and cut the Changeling down like firewood. A moment later, the Bat dropped from the air, pin-cushioned with arrows.

The rog warrior came jogging down the steps a moment later beneath the nameplate [RogStarKel].

“Great job, Kellie, take your time,” PwnrBwner_007 sneered.

“I had to pee,” the rog snapped, her ornately carved tusks bobbing in time with her words. “I told you jerkwads to wait!”

“Come on, you guys, I’ve only got two more hours,” the elf warrior, [Dude_Farkowitz], said, raising his dual swords and resting one on each shoulder. “Let’s just get this place cleared out so I can level enough to wear my Plaguefist Gauntlets.”

A sadistic grin stretched across PwnrBwner_007’s stubbled face. “All right, let’s pop some mobs, son!”

At the archer’s word, the trio of raiders swept across the floor like a ravaging tsunami, chopping down Changelings and hewing Reaver Bats from the air. Occasionally, a Changeling or Bat managed to score an attack on one of the warriors, draining red from their overhead bar, but when the loss was too significant, that warrior dropped back and pulled out a glowing pink potion seemingly from nowhere. After gulping it down, their red bar refilled, and they waded back into the slaughter.

Then as the party was finishing off the final Changeling—the one that had been snoring drunkenly when Roark first entered—the heavily armored elf designated Dude_Farkowitz shouted in pain and jerked away from the wall.

“Stone Salamanders!” he yelled, hacking wildly at the wall with his swords. “Look out, guys, there’s Stone Salamanders all camoed up in here!”

A red bar hung beside the wall over some creature Roark couldn’t see. The elf seemed to have found it, however, because two messy swings later, a slate-gray creature the size of a large dog tumbled from the wall, where it had been perfectly disguised to match the stone, and lay dead on a threadbare rug, its head nearly hacked off.

The party began scouring every surface, searching for more of the salamanders and stabbing every shadow. The tower shield had hidden Roark and Kaz while the raiders were distracted, but Roark knew it wouldn’t stand up to such close scrutiny. They would have to make a run for it.

Little by little, the raiders were closing in on the suit of armor concealing them. Roark could feel the feather-banded Changeling beside him trembling as Kaz shimmied along the wall of the alcove, inching toward the torchlight at the edge of the shadows. It was obvious that every inch of Kaz wanted to break into a mad dash.

“Wait,” Roark whispered, his grip tightening on the rusty falcata. If PwnrBwner_007 wasn’t distracted, then the archer would shoot them down like flushed-out quail as they ran. “Wait for my signal, then run.”

Kaz whimpered, but quit edging away.

The party closed in. The rog warrior, RogStarKel, was closest to their alcove, diligently searching the stone walls, while the elf watched the opposite side. The archer was at the center, scanning the ceiling and the corridor ahead and letting arrows fly whenever he thought he saw something.

Every muscle in Roark’s body tensed as they drew nearer. What he wouldn’t trade for a triggered explosion spell. Unfortunately, he was going to have to settle for a Changeling-sized mishap. Kaz shook and shivered beside him, desperate with fear and ready to run.

Wait, Roark mouthed.

Finally, they came into range. The rog’s gaze caught Roark’s eyes a split second before he barreled into the back of the armor with all the might in his tiny Changeling body. The rog’s shout of warning turned into a startled grunt as pieces of suit and the shield flew at her with an unholy metallic clatter. She threw up her sword and sliced at the offending iron instinctively. Behind her, the archer and elf both spun to face their newest attacker.

“Now!” Roark croaked at Kaz.

The feather-banded Changeling sprinted out of the alcove and down the corridor as Roark rushed the archer. PwnrBwner_007 managed to get off one arrow, an off-balance shot that twanged into the wall behind Roark. Then Roark was too close for a bow. His falcata might not have been shiny and new like their weapons, but it was perfectly balanced. It swung with the force of a full-sized ax, but sliced through the air like the small sword it was. Roark slashed at PwnrBwner_007’s ankles, opening a gash in his right boot and tripping the flustered archer.

PwnrBwner_007 went down in a jumble of arrows and cursing. Roark ducked under dual blows from Dude_Farkowitz’s swords and dashed off down the corridor after Kaz.

Shouts of “Little turd!” and “Get him!” followed behind.

The thud of running boots and clanking armor rang out behind Roark. He willed his stumpy, mismatched legs to run faster, but he could feel the raiders catching up, their long strides eating up the distance with ease.

Kaz appeared in the doorway at the end of the hall. When he saw Roark coming, his eyes opened wide and he started shaking his head.

“No, Master, there’s—”

Roark blew past Kaz into the room.

“—no way out,” Kaz finished with a gulp.

The room was barely larger than a cell, and Kaz was right, it was a dead end. Roark searched the walls, floor, and ceiling frantically, but found only unyielding stone. Nothing to hide behind.

The rog slammed to a stop outside the door, grabbing the elf before he barreled inside.

“Wait, do you think they’re some kind of trap?” she asked.

“On level one of, like, the newbiest dungeon on the northern coast?” the elf scoffed.

“I mean, have you ever seen mobs run like that before? There’s got to be something special about them.”

“Naw, look at them, Kel—no elites, nothing.”

“But that one’s got a weapon,” the rog insisted. “When have you ever seen a Changeling with a weapon? Those little jerks use teeth and claws, period. Plus, look at their tags—Roark? Kazko? That’s straight-up quest fodder.”

“So, they’re quests,” PwnrBwner_007 said, elbowing past the elf and rog. “Who cares? Let’s waste them, and we’ll wiki who to collect our reward from later.”

Shrugging in silent agreement, the larger two warriors followed the archer into the room.

Roark swallowed hard as they fanned out, trying to herd him and Kaz into a corner. Roark knew from long years of combat experience that he couldn’t let himself be cornered. He had to take out the biggest threat and hope that would open up an avenue of escape. The archer again, then. He was the only one who could cut them down from a distance without taking any damage and the one who was blocking the best angle to the door.

Roark lunged at PwnrBwner_007, swinging his rusty falcata. An arrow thudded into the meat of his leg, making it weak with pain. The filigreed vial appeared in his vision, nearly a sixth of the red liquid draining away in a flash. But at the same moment, his blade chopped into the archer’s wrist. Roark spun on his uninjured leg, slicing across PwnrBwner_007’s guts this time and knocking his bow out of the way.

“Punk-ass little growler!” PwnrBwner_007 shouldered his bow and drew a spike-studded mace and a fragile-looking rapier from his belt.

Roark darted in for another blow while the human was vulnerable, knocking off a fraction of PwnrBwner_007’s already disappearing red bar.

“Eat steel!” the former archer screamed, taking a massive overhand swipe with the mace.

Roark backpedaled. He tried to catch his balance, but PwnrBwner_007 pressed his advantage, slicing the rapier through the air after him.

Behind Roark, Kaz cried out in pain, surprising him. He’d forgotten he wasn’t fighting alone here. There was another Changeling to worry about. Another Changeling basically helpless and fighting two well-armored and heavily armed warriors. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kaz’s rapidly draining red bar flashing a critical warning.

A spark of panic ignited in Roark’s mind. Kaz was the only creature he’d gotten any answers out of since the portal dumped him off here, and there was no telling if this world would resurrect the Changeling as it had him. He had no idea what the rules were for Greater Vassals, and the only creature he could ask was about to be killed.

In his moment of distraction, the spiked mace slammed into the back of Roark’s head, knocking him flat. Sparkling white worms squirmed in the corners of his vision. He blinked, stunned. His filigreed vial was three-quarters empty, and his falcata was gone.

PwnrBwner_007 stood over him, raising the mace for a killing blow.

If ever there was a time for desperate measures, this was it. With one black claw, Roark carved a spell into the flesh of his left arm. Cantrips worked in flesh were dangerous, and he ran the risk of casting its deadly effects upon his own body, but it was all he could think to do.

The air within ten feet compresses rapidly, then ignites.

The letters were clumsy from his dazed state and awkward from the stubborn resistance of his leathery blue hide, but Roark punctuated them as the mace fell. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the cantrip to backfire and his entire body to combust, showering the walls with red.

A boom and a flash of light shook the cell.

When Roark opened his eyes, the archer lay on the floor, the last of the man’s red bar draining away. It flashed as it hit zero. PwnrBwner_007 was dead.

Roark tried to rise. He’d killed before when forced to and knew that getting up would be that much harder once the weight of what he’d done crashed down on him. But his legs wouldn’t hold him, and he dropped back to the floor in a heap. His own filigreed vial was dangerously low—barely a sliver of red remained. The cantrip must have taken it out of him. Something to remember for the future. Cast too advanced a spell in blood and he’d be dead, too.

Stumbling and lurching, Roark managed to regain his feet. On the opposite side of the cell, Kaz had picked up his rusty falcata and was laying into the downed elf.

Close by, the rog staggered drunkenly and blinked her yellow eyes. At least Roark wasn’t the only weakened one—her red bar was nearly gone as well. He launched himself at her muscular shoulders, biting and ripping with tooth and claw. She dropped her sword and tried to tear him off, but Roark slashed the remaining red from her bar before she could extricate him.

She fell to the floor, dead, a look of disbelief frozen on her green-skinned face.

Roark spat, suddenly aware of the coppery taste of blood in his mouth. That little bit of animal savagery was going straight into the nightmare vault.

Golden light flared in a halo around Roark, and an ascending chime sounded from nowhere. Strength returned to his limbs, and the aches and pains of the battle smoothed away in a rush of warmth and vitality. As he watched, his filigreed vial refilled itself completely with the mysterious red liquid.

[LEVEL UP!] a line of glowing golden text shouted at him.

“We won?” Kaz mumbled at his side. He shook his head, sending the feathers in his leather band bobbing with confusion. “But Kaz never wins. Kaz always dies. Kaz has never leveled up before. What do we do now, Master?”

“First, I already told you, I’m not your master,” Roark said, brushing his hands off. “I’ve got no taste for kings or tyrants, mate. I’m just Roark. That’s it.”

“Roark,” Kaz grunted, nodding slowly. “Roark,” he said more slowly, tasting the word. “What must we do now, Roark?”

“Now, I ask you a lot of questions and you teach me everything. If I’m going to survive on this world long enough to find my way back home, then I need to know how this place works.” He glanced down at the cantrip etched into his arm, greenish Changeling blood oozing from the letters. “And I’m going to need some supplies.”

EIGHT:

Troll Taboo

Roark rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the hairless flesh of a Changeling rather than the scruff of short-cropped hair he was used to, and stared down at the bodies. It’d been kill or be killed, and he wasn’t sorry that he’d won. It just took a few moments to settle with taking a life. As it settled, Roark sized up the archer. The elf and rog were both comically oversized, but the human…

Roark lifted PwnrBwner_007’s right leg and tugged at his boot.

Kaz gasped. “What is Roark doing?”

“It’s not as if he’s going to need it,” Roark said, a touch defensively. “This citadel is a lightning rod for raids. I’ve been in this world less than a day and I’ve already been through two. We’re both going to need some weapons and armor if we want to survive.”

Ignoring Kaz’s incredulous stare and gaping jaw, Roark turned back to the task at hand. A grimoire page opened on his left, this time listing the items currently on the dead man’s corpse—two gold pieces, a Slender Rapier of the Falcon, and a pair of Leather Boots—while his own Inventory opened on the right. Roark concentrated on the Leather Boots. They promptly leapt from PwnrBwner_007’s page into Roark’s Inventory.

“Efficient,” he murmured, selecting the remaining items. And without the usual mess that came with looting the corpse of a fallen enemy.

He dismissed PwnrBwner_007’s now blank page, then turned to the rog and began emptying her Inventory. Two more gold pieces and a Kaiken Dagger.

“No,” Kaz said, his bulging eyes blinking wildly. The feathers on his head shuddered as he shook his head. “No, no, no. Trolls cannot loot heroes. Heroes can loot other heroes they kill, yes. But Trolls? No! What will the heroes do when they return, Roark? They will have no items to retrieve!”

Roark dismissed the rog’s Inventory and turned to Kaz before the Changeling became too agitated.

“You’re saying they’ll be back?” he asked. “This world resurrects their kind as well?”

Kaz nodded, wringing his hands. “In three hours, they will respawn and return for their belongings, but what will they retrieve if Roark takes it all?”

“Is there a way to ensure they stay dead?” Roark asked, frowning down at the bodies. “A sealing or ritual, perhaps?”

“No,” Kaz said, shaking his head. “Hearthworld is not the heroes’ home. The heroes dwell outside Hearthworld and only venture here to fight or explore. They cannot be forever-dead here.”

“So, they’re interdimensional as well.” Roark wondered whether the same rules of infinite resurrection applied to him. He gestured at Kaz. “What about you natives? Changelings and Shambling Revenants and the like? Are you resurrected after death?”

“Kaz respawns every two hours if he dies. Same for all low levels.”

Talking about something other than looting the heroes’ bodies appeared to make the Changeling forget his distress at Roark flouting decorum. Roark glanced at the elf’s unlooted corpse wondering what sorts of armor and how many gold pieces it held, but decided the best course of action would be to keep Kaz talking a while longer before sending him back into a panic.

“Before, you said there were exalted levels. How does one get from here”—Roark pointed at his birdlike chest—“to there?”

“Difficult,” Kaz said with a grimace. “Very difficult. Trolls must win to level up. Kill the heroes and survive. Kaz has never done it before. But now that Kaz leveled, he will be more difficult to kill. And to level up again, he will have to kill even more heroes. Each time Troll levels, he must win even more to level again.”

This information tumbled through Roark’s head, interlocking like gears.

“It’s an exponential system, then,” he said. “The more one advances, the harder it becomes to advance again.”

“Even more difficult because until Kaz reaches level four, if he dies, all levels are gone.” Kaz slashed his hands through the air in an X to demonstrate the loss.

“But if you do reach level four?” Roark prompted.

Kaz’s eyes shone.

“Evolution,” the Changeling whispered reverently. “Kaz could become a Thursr. Strong, mighty. No longer puny and weak.”

“Thursr?” Roark asked.

“Roark has not seen the Evolutions? It is in the Character screen.”

“I must’ve missed it.”

With a thought, Roark opened the grimoire and found the page marked Character. At the bottom, the page was dog-eared and marked with a hooked arrow as if to invite a page turn. He focused on the arrow and a new page appeared.

A chart showed the potential evolutions Trolls could take if they survived long enough. At level four, they could become Thursrs, the musclebound brutes of Trollkind, and would continue on down that path for the remainder of their lives, gaining strength as long as they continued to level up. If they waited until level six to evolve, they could choose instead to become Reavers, a sort of Troll assassin or rogue with some access to Infernal magick.

Both interesting, but neither Roark’s style. He moved on to the third evolution. If he held off evolving and somehow survived to level eight, he could become a Jotnar. These were the Troll ruling class, the most powerful, able to wield the strongest Infernal magicks.

Roark closed out of the grimoire.

“Have you ever known a Jotnar, Kaz?” he asked.

“Oh yes, Dungeon Lord Azibek the Cruel is a Jotnar Exarch,” Kaz said, glancing from side to side as if searching for any ears that might overhear and carry his words along to the Dungeon Lord. “Azibek is a great and mighty ruler. Azibek’s infernal power fills the citadel and all cower before him. It is an honor to do the Dungeon Lord’s bidding without hesitation, and all who do not receive a just end.”

Roark had seen the same anxiety in the faces of the people of Traisbin as they sang the praises of the Tyrant King. As if they could protect their families from destruction if only they sounded loyal enough.

For the time being, Roark decided he would leave the subject of the Jotnar Exarch alone. At the moment, Kaz looked as if a good sneeze would stop his heart. Anyway, the Changeling would have enough anxiety to weather when Roark finished the job of looting the elf.

He scratched his chin—as smooth and stubble-less as a newborn’s, but significantly more leathery—considering the possibilities of this new world.

“So, if I’m to survive, I need to keep leveling up.”

“Yes,” Kaz said.

“And to do that, I must kill these interdimensional heroes.”

“Yes.” Kaz nodded.

Roark paused, forehead furrowed in thought. “And what if I kill other Trolls or monsters?” he asked. “Do they likewise allow me to level up?”

Kaz shook his head. “No, no, no. Heroes. It is the only way.”

“Very well. Then I’m going to need better equipment than teeth and claws,” Roark said. “You are, too, if you want to make it to Thursr. And the only way we can get that is by taking items from the bodies of the heroes we kill.”

Kaz stared at Roark for several long seconds without blinking, then slowly raked his claw-tipped fingers down both sides of his wide head.

“Glad you see it my way.” Roark turned to the elf and quickly emptied his Inventory, coming up with one piece of gold and a Dented Buckler.

With that done, he went through his Inventory and selected the Leather Boots:

╠═╦╬╧╪

Leather Boots

Armor Rating: 8

Durability: 35 of 35

Level Requirement: 1

╠═╦╬╧╪

They appeared on the rotating Changeling simulacrum meant to represent him, and immediately Roark felt their soft leather interior on his misshapen feet. They fit perfectly, no doubt due to the inherent magick of Hearthworld. Roark tried selecting the elf’s buckler, but received a notice instead.

[You have insufficient Strength to wield Dented Buckler.]

[Dented Buckler requires 12 Strength.]

He pulled up the weapon and examined it in closer detail:

╠═╦╬╧╪

Dented Buckler

Defense: 29

Durability: 19 of 29

Level Requirement: 1

Strength Requirement: 12

╠═╦╬╧╪

Interesting. Next, he selected the rog’s Dagger.

[You have insufficient Dexterity to wield Kaiken Dagger.]

[Kaiken Dagger requires 13 Dexterity.]

Strength and Dexterity and numbers. More puzzle pieces clicked into place. He returned to his Character page. So this was the numeric quantification of his abilities.

A new notice appeared.

[You leveled up! You have 10 undistributed Stat Points!]

Roark glanced from the Stats on the right—all at a base of ten points—to the Attributes on the left. There was no way of telling how they affected one another without distributing his points, and he hated the idea of wasting them for the sake of experimentation. Luckily, at the bottom was a query: Accept changes? Yes/No

For the next several minutes, Roark tried out different combinations of Stats. First, he tried dumping them all into Intelligence. None of his Attributes changed, but the Infernali Magick and Magick Regen shot up. He shifted them all to Strength and watched as his Weapon Damage, Attack Damage, and Critical Hit Damage rose. Dexterity came next, and with it, an increased chance of Critical Hit and a faster Movement Rate. Constitution changed his Base Armor and Armor Rating and raised his Health and H-Regen.

It couldn’t be an all-or-nothing response, then. He set to fiddling about with them, tweaking and refining until he’d reached an optimal distribution. Because it was critical that he survive long enough to level up again, he invested three points apiece in Constitution, Strength, and Dexterity, and finally one to Intelligence. He also noticed that his World Stone Authority had increased to 1 / 2. His Player Class had changed as well, he realized. Where before it had said None, it now read .error (): WϪRL0CҞ.

He inspected his Character page one final time, then selected Yes to Accept Changes.

When Roark closed out of the grimoire this time, Kaz looked as if he’d been waiting for him.

“Kaz thinks …” The Changeling shifted from foot to foot nervously, and he lowered his voice, leaning in as if he were about to speak terrible blasphemies. “Kaz thinks Roark is right. To become Thursr, we must take heroes’ equipment … a-and use it.”

Roark’s toothy Changeling mouth broke into a grin. “Good.” He clapped Kaz on the back with one hand and held out the Rusty Falcata with the other. “I wanted you to have this as a reward for that fight, but I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it if you didn’t come around.”

Kaz gazed down at the falcata with wide-eyed adoration. His stumpy blue hands closed worshipfully around its hilt as he took it from Roark.

“Here, take this as well,” Roark said, passing over the buckler, hoping Kaz would have the Stats to utilize it. Roark had never been much of a buckler man—clumsy and made for getting hit—but it seemed perfect for the nervous Troll. No, Roark was a man of grace and speed. He pulled out the Slender Rapier and examined it closely.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Slender Rapier of the Falcon

One-Handed Damage: 15 - 19

Durability: 32 of 32

Level Requirement: 1

Strength Requirement: 12

Blade Class Weapon - Fast Attack Speed

+10% Attack Speed

╠═╦╬╧╪

A gentleman’s weapon. Perfect. He gripped its handle and gave it a few practice swings as he danced through familiar forms. A lunging stoccata. A feint, followed by a ridoppio. A twirl, a flick, and a wicked sottomano—an ascending cut, meant to catch the inside of the thigh. Yes, the blade would do nicely for the time being. He stowed the rapier and glanced over at Kaz, who had the buckler strapped down on his left arm and the falcata firmly in his right hand.

“You said they’ll be respawning in three hours’ time and return here for their equipment?” Roark asked.

“Yes,” Kaz said, too enthralled with brandishing his falcata and ducking behind his buckler to get caught up in having broken the Troll taboo against hero-looting.

“Then we’d best be quick,” Roark said. “We have a lot to do before they return, and I’d like to meet this Floor Boss you mentioned.”

NINE:

Floor Boss

Roark followed as Kaz led the way out of the dead-end cell and through the remainder of the floor. At Kaz’s terrified urging, Roark had finally agreed to unequip his new boots and blade and go to meet this Floor Boss in nothing but the dirty Threadbare Loincloth he’d started out with. It rankled his pride, but he gathered from Kaz’s panic that the Floor Boss would confiscate their plunder as his own—or worse—if he saw them with it.

As they negotiated the stone corridors, they passed other Changelings wandering aimlessly, gulping down flagons of ale, or swaying on the spot and staring fixedly at nothing. Overhead, colonies of Reaver Bats clung to the ceiling, crawling over each other and occasionally dropping into a graceful swoop before darting down the passageway. Roark saw one Stone Salamander near an open door—slate gray, with a long thick tail, bulbous granite eyes, and a round, nearly spherical head—but as they approached, its coloration shifted and it disappeared from sight. When Roark reached the doorway and pressed his hand to where the creature’s head had been, he felt the momentary caress of cold, velvety skin—the very end of the tail. Then it was gone.

Roark leaned in the doorway to see if the Stone Salamander had slipped into the room. Immediately, all thoughts of the creature fled. Rotting shelves lined the walls, broken and tumbled down in places. A long table stood in the center of the room. A sort of stone pedestal had been erected in one corner.

And on every surface, books.

Books, books, and more books. Some in neat stacks, others tossed down haphazardly, and still others charred and nearly disintegrated. And somewhere among all those neglected and forgotten tomes, there might be parchment … Perhaps even a quill.

Roark’s heart thundered in his chest and his head spun at the sight of all that magick in one place. The things he could learn. The havoc he could wreak. This could change everything. True, he could carve a couple of cantrips into his arm—provided he didn’t accidentally kill himself in the process—but the cost to his Health vial was too high for those to be effective in battle. But if he had paper, he could access all of his spells. With those in his arsenal, the next band of heroes wouldn’t stand a bloody infant’s chance in the blighted caverns.

“Has Roark changed his mind?” Kaz asked hopefully from behind him, drumming his fingers together in eager anticipation. “Does he not want to meet the Floor Boss anymore?”

“What? No.” Roark gave himself a mental shake and forcibly tore his eyes from the stacks. The treasure trove of words and paper could wait. None of the creatures inhabiting this place were going to run off with the books, he reassured himself, not if the ones he’d met so far were any indication. For now, the most pressing business was procuring help from the Floor Boss to better defend the citadel. “I have to speak with him. Let’s get on with it.”

Kaz shivered, his bottom lip trembling with fear and disappointment, but he led onward. They turned down a final hall, their steps echoing off the stones. It ended in an iron portcullis similar to the one in the bailey wall aboveground.

Kaz gulped. His stumpy arms were trembling too hard to pull down the heavy wooden lever that opened the gate. Roark nudged the frightened Changeling aside and shoved the lever down himself. Gears and chain links clanked. The portcullis rose with a rusty screech.

On the other side was an ornate throne room, obviously decorated with the Infernal in mind. Tattered purple tapestries hung from the ceilings. A row of twelve spikes lined one wall, each one with the rotting head of a Troll impaled on it. Stained-glass windows depicting scenes of those black-winged women luxuriating in carnality and carnage cast their soft glow onto the room. A faintly glowing, ornately carved black-and-purple chest rested in the corner.

And four midlevel Thursrs who’d been standing guard were all now staring directly at Roark and Kaz.

The Thursrs were huge creatures, each the size of a full-grown human, but nearly twice as wide across the shoulders as a typical man. They were built with thick blue muscle covered in a thin layer of coarse white hair. Their arms were the size of small tree-trunks and capped by four sausage-sized fingers, each tipped with vicious hooked claws. Their faces were ugly things with strong square jaws and deeply recessed eyes like chips of onyx peering out from underneath sloping foreheads. In addition to the fluttering filth-caked loincloths that seemed to be standard uniform for Trolls, the Thursrs were also covered with bits of spiked armor and lengths of swinging chain.

One carried a crude spike-studded club, while another leaned a pitted battle-ax against one broad shoulder. A third clutched a bulky flail, the chain crafted from a spinal column and topped by a yellowed Troll skull. So, it seemed using weaponry wasn’t completely against whatever rules these things lived by, but rather it was the act of stealing from dead Heroes that was taboo. Roark filed the tidbit away for later.

At the head of the throne room, a Brute Thursr whose size and muscle put the other four to shame sat on an immense twisted obsidian chair, the remains of a wide grin quickly souring on his face. Each of the Brute’s serrated teeth were easily the size of Roark’s hand. Above his head floated the name [Ugoraz the Vile], the white letters surrounded by a bloody red aura.

“What’s this now?” Ugoraz the Vile snarled. “Why you two ain’t at your posts, huh?”

Roark drew himself up to his full height—which barely came up to the hip on the midlevel Thursrs—and strutted into the throne room, oozing confidence and purpose. Kaz’s following footsteps were conspicuously absent.

“We’re not at our posts because we were overrun by raiders and had to retreat into the citadel to mount a better defense,” Roark said in a bitingly cheerful tone. “We’ve got to talk about your defensive strategies, mate, ’cause the way you’re deploying troops right now is about as effective as a retired whore trying to protect her virginity. The battle’s already lost. The least you could do is send your strongest warriors outside.” He gestured at the midlevel Thursrs scattered around the chamber. “With toughs like these posted in the bailey, a raider would never make it to the staircase, let alone inside.”

Ugoraz the Vile scowled.

“Will ya look at this, boys,” he said, sweeping one meaty arm toward Roark. “A little flea what knows all about dungeons come to tell me my job. What’s your level, flea?”

The Brute Thursr’s eyes lost focus for a moment and he nodded.

“A level two, comin’ into my throne room to talk down to me, a level twelve.” Ugoraz grinned down at Roark, his eyes narrowing. “You know so much, little flea, but didja know you ain’t up there to keep the adventurers out? No, you’re there to die nice and easy for ’em, to lure in as many as possible so’s we can feast on their energy. The weak die at the hands a’ you little snots, and that’s your shot at leveling. The strong’re worn down a little at a time as they traverse the dungeon, ’til they make it to the heart, where they end up food for the Uber Trolls.”

Roark felt a flicker of confusion flash across his face, but quickly smoothed it away under a mask of annoyance. Ugoraz saw and broke into a belly-rolling chuckle that thundered around the chamber. Over his shoulder, Roark heard Kaz whimper.

“Naw, you didn’t know that,” the Floor Boss snarled. “The twos of ya are just a couple runts what gained a level and now you think you can do better’n me at runnin’ this floor.”

“N-n-no,” Kaz whimpered. “No, Overseer, we don’t think that.”

“I don’t think I can do better than you,” Roark agreed with a dip of his chin. “I know I can.”

With the speed of a striking adder, Ugoraz the Vile heaved himself up from the throne and grabbed Roark by the throat. His huge fist nearly swallowed Roark’s neck. Roark clawed and pried at the Brute Thursr’s hand, but couldn’t budge a single finger.

Thinking quickly, Roark triggered his Soul-Forge ability. A notice popped up in response.

[Action failed! You may only make Greater Vassals of creatures equal to your current level or lower!]

He dismissed it, grimacing. It certainly would’ve paid to know that restriction earlier.

“Gunnin’ for my position, are ya?” Ugoraz growled, long serrated teeth just inches from Roark’s face. A stench like a tannery pit filled the little bit of air Roark still had access to through the Floor Boss’s grip. “Climbin’ the corporate ladder down here’s a bloody business, flea. I took the Overseer position from Krotz the Foul when I ripped his head off his stinkin’ shoulders. Every time a challenger steps up lookin’ to take the position from me, I do the same to them. See ’em there?” He waved his free hand at the various heads mounted about the room. “That’s what happens to those what come against me. Now I don’t answer to nobody but the Dungeon Lord hisself. You overstep, flea, and you’ll end like them, dead for good. No respawn, no nothin’.”

Roark’s vision was going fuzzy and he could feel his pulse throbbing in his eyes. His lungs burned like fire, begging for air, but he glared cold Lyuko daggers at the rank-smelling Brute crushing his windpipe. He wouldn’t be intimidated by some two-bit lackey on a power trip.

Ugoraz grinned and tossed him to the floor. Roark coughed as the air scraped across his bruised trachea. The room spun at the sudden rush of oxygen to his brain.

“Time to teach you a lesson,” the Floor Boss crowed. “One fitting for a flea what don’t know his place!”

Roark staggered to his feet, fists balled and ready to fight, but two of the much larger mid-level Thursrs grabbed him, stretching his arms wide and lifting him from the stone floor. Roark fought and kicked and cursed, but the musclebound bastards just laughed at his struggling.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Kaz moving forward, Rusty Falcata in his quaking hands. A brave move, but foolhardy. Roark gave Kaz a quick shake of his head. If they both died, they would both lose their level and be right back where they started. Smarter to take the punishment himself and keep Kaz at level two.

Kaz looked both relieved and horrified at Roark’s order to stand down, but he obeyed.

“Take a good look at my face, flea.” Ugoraz the Vile came back into Roark’s field of vision. He held a cat-o’-nine-tails in one beefy hand, each of its cords knotted with bits of rusty metal and sharp obsidian. He gave Roark a solid rap on the forehead with the whip’s handle. “Each floor can only have one boss, and on Level One, that’s me.”

Roark bit back a caustic retort before it could escape his mouth. But just barely.

Ugoraz handed off the whip to one of his Thursr flunkies, then plopped back down on his throne to enjoy the festivities, a satisfied smile on his face.

The loose ends of the whip traced Roark’s back as the Thursr took aim. As the cords lifted away from his skin, Roark gritted his teeth and tried to brace himself. He didn’t want to give this grinning buffoon the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

As it turned out, he didn’t get a choice. When the first lash landed, nine bright lines of pain burned across his back, punctuated by the resonating thuds of nine shards of metal and stone embedding themselves in his flesh. The scream tore through his teeth, and he fought against reason to break free of the Thursrs’ iron grasp, to get away from the pain any way possible. He screamed again when the shards buried in his skin ripped free, taking bloody chunks with them, a ragged howl torn from the depths of agony.

In the corner of his vision, the filigreed Health vial appeared, a tenth of his life draining away. The realization that it would take nine more lashes to die and end this torment almost undid him.

The second lash fell, the thuds of the cat’s tails lodging themselves in his flesh drowned out by his cries. Another cruelly small fraction of Health bled out of his vial. Sweat poured off his body like a river, leaving the aching wounds stinging with salt as the tails ripped free again. Roark dropped limp between the Thursrs, shaking with a combination of pain and fear of the next lash.

The third lash landed in untouched meat of his left shoulder and tore free, shredding the flesh there. The sound of his screaming faded into the background of his mind, too small and far away to compete with the hugeness and immediacy of the agony. The fourth dug into his lower back, making him arch his spine until he thought it would snap. The fifth wrapped around his upper ribs and just under his arm. The sixth tore across the back of his neck, but brutally failed to sever his spinal cord. Clearly this Thursr had been given the job of punisher on the merits of his talent for searching out unmarked flesh with each lash.

Roark prayed for oblivion, but received only renewed agony as an answer.

By the ninth lash there was no undamaged flesh left to shred. The whip tore more bloody chunks from the tattered center of his back.

Through a haze of pain-clouded desperation, Roark waited for the final lash to fall. It would hurt, but it would also suck away the last fraction of red in his vial and end this torment.

Without warning, the vicelike grips of the Thursrs released. Roark dropped to the floor and slid a little, leaving a sheen of blood and sweat behind like a slug’s trail. He rested his scorching cheek against the icy stones, reveling in that tiny bit of relief.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Ugoraz rumbled, scratching his vast gut. “I shoulda killed ya both, but not many Changelings earn a level. Just remember who’s the boss around here or next time I will kill ya. Get ’im outta here ’fore I change my mind.”

Feet scuffled across the stone floor, but Roark’s eyes didn’t want to stay open. He let them drift shut as small leathery hands closed around his wrists and Kaz dragged him out of the throne room.

TEN:

Supplies

When Roark’s mind finally climbed free from the haze of pain, he found himself lying facedown on the floor of the stone corridor, halfway between the throne room and the decrepit library he’d seen earlier. Red was returning to his Health vial in halting increments, and he could feel the tattered flesh and muscles in his back knitting together slowly. Roark spared a wry laugh for the irony of choosing to increase his Constitution just in time for that budding second-rate tyrant to whip him to within an inch of his life. If he hadn’t increased his Constitution, he might’ve only had to bear five or six lashes.

Wincing at the bright flashes of pain dancing across his still-healing back, Roark pushed himself up onto hands and knees, then stood.

Kaz leaned against the wall beside him, hands on his thighs, panting.

“Kaz can pull Roark farther,” the Changeling wheezed, waving a hand as if to coax Roark to lie back down. “Kaz’s Stamina has almost returned.” He gulped loudly. “Phwew. One more minute, that’s all.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate, I can manage.” Roark clapped Kaz on the shoulder. “Thanks for getting me this far.”

“What will we do now?” Kaz asked.

“Simple.” Roark shrugged. “We kill the bastard.”

Kaz’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. He clasped both hands over his mouth and stared back down the corridor toward the throne room as if afraid Roark’s voice might have carried back to Ugoraz’s filthy ears.

“Roark shouldn’t talk like that!” the Changeling hissed in a panicked whisper. “Ugoraz will not spare him twice!”

“I’ve dealt with worse tyrants than that catchpenny’s pretender,” Roark said. “It’s time for somebody who knows what they’re doing to take the reins on this floor.”

“But if Roark issues a formal challenge to the Floor Boss and Ugoraz kills him, Roark will not …” The Changeling faltered and licked tentatively at his lips. “Roark will not respawn,” he finished in a whisper. “Such is the way of Trolls and other chimera of Hearthworld.”

“I caught that. When I do challenge him, I don’t intend to lose.”

Kaz grabbed his arm as if he were going to run back to the throne room this very moment. “But—”

“Listen to me, Kaz,” Roark said, gingerly removing the panicked Changeling’s sharp claws from his arm. “There’s no reason to fear that overgrown bully. He’s got all the brains of a chamber pot and twice the stench. We can beat him, but we need to be stronger and better prepared. We may need allies as well.” He fingered the amber pendant on his chest, thinking about his 1/2 World Stone Authority. There were any number of creatures inhabiting this citadel, but he was reluctant to choose one at random. He’d gotten lucky recruiting Kaz as his first Greater Vassal, but luck tended to slip out the back door when one relied on it too much. No, better to wait until he found the right vassal for the job. “The latter will take time, but the former I have a plan for. Come on.”

He started off in the direction of the cell where the heroes’ bodies lay waiting, watching out of the corner of his eye as the red in his Health vial crested the halfway point. Kaz caught up to him.

“Roark has challenged tyrants before?” the Changeling asked hesitantly, disbelief lingering beneath the words. “Tyrants mightier than Ugoraz the Vile?”

Roark snorted. “Trust me, mate, Ugoraz would soil his loincloth if he ever ran up against Marek Konig Ustar. Now there’s a tyrant to make a man quake.”

Kaz’s jaw dropped, rows of serrated teeth glinting in the torchlight.

“Where did Roark fight this Marek Konig Ustar? In another dungeon?”

“No, not exactly. I’m not from this world.” Roark frowned at the thought of his home in the clutches of an enraged Tyrant King. How long had he been gone and what was that bastard doing to Korvo in his absence? “I came here through a faulty portal. Similar to the heroes who raid the citadel. Though you said they travel back and forth through Hearthworld, didn’t you?”

Kaz nodded.

“I have to get back to my home world as quickly as possible,” Roark said. “There are people there who need my help, people my disappearance has put in great danger. And Marek will send agents after his pendant.” He tapped the amulet hanging around his neck. “There are special burung wizards in my world who can track portals given enough time, but they’re rare, and actual travel through the portals is hit and miss. It’ll take them time to find me and longer to send someone through to the right place without killing them.”

“But Roark survived the portal.”

“Not without complications,” Roark said, gesturing to his body. “No offense, mate, but I didn’t always look like a malformed fetus growing shark teeth. In any case, I think I may be able to open a portal back if I get the right materials. My magick works here—we know that now—but it comes at a much higher cost than back home. At the very least I’ll need a stronger Constitution to cast a portal spell without killing myself. The Health increase might even help me survive my return trip.”

“So we level more?” Kaz guessed, shrugging narrow shoulders.

“Exactly. Which brings us to …”

The words died on his tongue as they rounded the corner and he caught a glimpse through an open door he hadn’t noticed before on their walk to the throne room, either because of the angle or because his mind had been on his upcoming chat with the Floor Boss. Roark veered off course and into the unfamiliar chamber.

Stocks and shackles lined the wall, occupied here and there by grinning skeletons, some human, others distinctly not. Hooks dangled from the ceiling on ropes looped around pulleys and tackle, and a bloodstained table covered with a variety of whips, brands, and mean-looking cutting tools sat in the corner. A heavy iron mask lay in a pit of glowing red embers while a metal cage swung gently overhead, the crispy remains of a burnt corpse lying inside. A solid metal coffin lined with wicked spikes rested against one wall, and a pair of well-worn racks bookended the room.

“… everything we need for this plan and more,” Roark finished. “Grab everything you can carry, Kaz. We have work to do.”

While Kaz set to work coiling rope and collecting tools from the bloodstained table, Roark slipped around the room, which conjured an odd mix of emotions within him. He could use this place to his advantage, yes, yet he couldn’t help but think of Marek Konig Ustar. The Tyrant King was well known for his creative use of torture to elicit both information and loyalty. Roark’s family had been killed quickly, brutally—an example for the people of Traisbin—but many of the T’verzet had met their end in rooms similar to this one.

He idly traced a finger over the lid of the metal coffin, studying the wicked spikes lining its interior. In Traisbin, they called it a Blackthorn Bed. Pauli Ironsides, the Resistance leader of Frahoi, had been murdered in such a contraption. Lowen, Marek’s right-hand thug and over-writer of spells, had joked that Pauli’s sides had not, in fact, been made of iron as he strung up the hole-riddled corpse in Frahoi’s town square.

Roark dismissed the dark memory and moved on to the open pit of coals, grabbing a pair of long-handled tongs lying nearby. Curious, he lifted the crude iron mask from the fire. The metal glowed as red as the embers below it. Roark turned the mask this way and that, inspecting the slapdash smithing and purposeful lack of eye and mouth holes.

A page of the mystical grimoire appeared before him, relaying the mask’s properties.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Neveret’s Last Laugh

Durability: 9/41

Armor Rating: 4

Properties: Grants the wearer 100% resistance to unenchanted weapons at the cost of (2 x character level) HP / second!

“You can only listen to a bloke run his mouth so long before you’ve got to shut it for him … permanently.”

╠═╦╬╧╪

That final line had brought to mind Albrecht’s warning about watching his big head before somebody kicked it in. Roark grinned and closed the floating grimoire with a thought. That little bit of wisdom was only true if the bloke running his mouth couldn’t back his words with action. It just so happened that he could. Ugoraz the Vile would soon find that out, and sooner or later Marek Konig Ustar and his cronies would too.

ELEVEN:

It’s a Trap

They spent the better part of the next hour disassembling and carrying pieces from the torture chamber to the cell where the heroes’ corpses lay, then reassembling them to fit the idea in Roark’s mind. That required a considerable amount of checking their work to make sure nothing but the corpses were visible through the doorway.

When they were finished, Roark spent some time catechizing Kaz on the plan, especially the places he could and could not stand without being killed. Satisfied that Kaz wouldn’t get himself caught in the death trap the room had become, Roark sent the Changeling to take his place behind the room’s open door, the Dented Buckler strapped to his left arm and Rusty Falcata in hand. Standing there in the shadows, swaying from foot to foot, black feathers bobbing in time with his motion, Kaz almost looked as if he had spontaneously reverted to the mindless creature Roark first met in the bailey. Only the occasional anxious glance at Roark gave him away.

Roark posted up on the opposite side of the doorway behind the bloodstained table they’d dragged into the cell from the torture chamber and balanced precariously on its short side. The corpses of the heroes lay directly in front of him, the rog close enough that Roark could reach out his foot and kick her.

The atmosphere was tense and uncertain, Kaz radiating distress the whole while. Thankfully, they didn’t have long to wait. The clatter and crash of fighting arose in the sprawling antechamber at the citadel’s entrance. Shouting voices, the growl of Changelings, and the screech of angry Reaver Bats reverberated down the stone corridor, but one familiar voice cut through the rest like fingernails on slate.

“Got three in the air, five on the ground! I got the Bats, you two take out those little over-aggroed buttmunchers! Could use some healing over here, Junior!”

The volume of shouting and clanging rose as the battle in the antechamber hit a fever pitch. Then, as quickly as it had begun, everything fell silent.

“Everybody keep an eye out for movement,” PwnrBwner_007 ordered. “There are Stone Salamanders down here.”

The shuffle and clank of advancing armor filled the passageway.

Then, “Oh shit. Strafe it, strafe it!”

The roar of flames, twang of a bowstring, and ring of metal on stone reached Roark’s ears. The heroes were nearly to the cell. He pulled out his Slender Rapier and shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, carefully adjusting his grip as he raised his sword and assumed prima guardia alta offensiva. Despite his now small stature and clumsy body, he was certain his skill at martial combat would shine through. He breathed slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth, centering himself, preparing for the flood of adrenaline to come.

“Up ahead on the right,” the female rog said. “That should be it.”

“Yep, I got eyes on us,” PwnrBwner_007 said from just outside the door. “Looks clear.”

“Awesome,” a bored female voice drawled. “While you losers get your crap, I’m gonna scout ahead.”

Roark cursed under his breath. A split party was exactly what he didn’t want. For the trap to work as intended, they would all need to be trapped within—anything else invited potential disaster.

Thinking quick, he grabbed the Neveret’s Last Laugh from his Inventory and leapt over the bodies. Roark sprinted to the corner opposite the door, careful to avoid the thin dragline without giving away its position, then pointed his rapier at the party in a clear invitation.

“Hey, it’s that little cocktangle who killed us!” Outside the door, PwnrBwner_007 nocked an arrow and took aim.

Roark pulled on the iron mask, still warm from the coals of the torture chamber. Without eyeholes, he couldn’t see out of it, but he felt the arrow thud into his gut. It landed like a stiff punch, but within the darkness of the mask, his Health vial held steady.

[Roark has resisted piercing damage from Shoddy Iron Arrow!]

“What the balls?” PwnrBwner_007 barked, genuine confusion underlying the words.

A sliver of health drained from Roark’s Health vial into the mask as the first second ended.

Another arrow whistled through the air and missed, clanging off the stone wall behind Roark. Hard on its heels, a third arrow slapped into the meat of his scrawny Changeling arm.

[Roark has resisted piercing damage from Shoddy Iron Arrow!]

The mask extracted its next two points from his Health vial. Two seconds.

“What is this crap?!” PwnrBwner_007 snarled. “C’mon, guys, let’s get him!”

A bevy of clunking boots rushed into the cell. Within the darkness of the mask, it sounded like an army was coming after him, but had his play been enough to draw in all of the heroes? Roark couldn’t tell through the eyeless mask. He held his ground, hoping Kaz would remember not to slam the door shut until the whole party was inside.

The thick blade of a longsword slammed into Roark’s shoulder. The blow should have incapacitated him, but Neveret’s Last Laugh deflected the damage again.

[Roark has resisted slashing damage from Inferior Longsword!]

Roark watched the mask wrest its price from his Health vial as he executed a pie’ fermo lunge in the direction he thought the strike had come from, keeping one foot firmly placed so he wouldn’t blunder into his own trap.

“Is that my rapier? Little bitch!”

Another arrow smacked into Roark’s shoulder uselessly.

[Roark has resisted piercing damage from Shoddy Iron Arrow!]

[Roark has resisted slashing damage from Inferior Longsword!]

[Roark has resisted slashing damage from Kopesh!]

[Roark has resisted piercing damage from Shoddy Iron Arrow!]

[Roark has resisted stabbing damage from Chipped War Ax!]

[Roark has resisted piercing damage from Shoddy Iron Arrow!]

[Roark has resisted slashing damage from Kopesh!]

The notices filled his vision as the blows battered him from each side, but none of the weapons were enchanted and they all appeared to be of low or average quality. The Neveret’s Last Laugh was the only thing stealing Health from his vial.

While they attacked, Roark slashed and parried with the Slender Rapier, feeling the occasional resistance of flesh or scrape of armor on the debole of his blade. He could have pressed for an offensive attack—he could feel that they were within his measure—but he had to remain outside the dragline. He was starting to wonder if the door was ever going to close. Surely the heroes were all inside the cell now? He thought he’d counted at least four different weapons named in the notices. What was Kaz waiting for?

“Outta the way, a-holes,” that bored feminine voice drawled.

The arrows and blades stopped. A second later, fire roared.

Roark’s flesh burned and cracked as the flames sapped his Health. In a heartbeat, his vial was down a fifth of its points.

“Decent!” PwnrBwner_007 crowed triumphantly. “Keep it up, Junior!”

[Neveret’s Last Laugh has dropped below 10% Durability! When an item’s Durability reaches 0%, it will break and can no longer be equipped. Broken items are unusable until repaired.]

Roark ripped the iron mask from his face. Even if it weren’t about to break, it was useless against this Junior’s flame spell and would only serve to drain his Health faster. Holding the mask several inches in front of his face as a makeshift shield, Roark tried to disrupt the mage’s attack with a sottamano attack from the bastard position—a slash that would lay her open from thigh to throat—but she was too far outside his measure.

Luckily, this magical attack seemed to be just what Kaz had been waiting for. Heavy wood scraped across stone, and the door clanged shut.

Roark hurled the mask at the mage’s head. Her flames cut out as she instinctively threw up her hands to protect her face. Darting under the slicing longsword of the elf warrior, Roark slipped back to where the bloodstained table stood propped up on end. He delivered a solid kick to its side, knocking it over, blocking the door and springing the trap.

The heavy spiked coffin lid swung down from its mooring on the far wall, jerking taut the dragline he and Kaz had bordered the heroes’ corpses with. The wickedly long spikes slammed into the mage, PwnrBwner_007, and the female rog on the right, while the dragline swept the legs out from under the elf warrior and a new male rog on the left. The heroes hit the floor in a tangled mess of armor, weapons, limbs, and battered red Health bars.

Without giving them a moment to recover, Roark and Kaz attacked with the fury of a pack of starving maka-ronin.

Kaz hacked at the mage, Junior, who had fallen closest to him, finishing her off in a matter of seconds while she struggled to extricate her arms from PwnrBwner_007’s bow. Roark pulled the Kaiken Dagger from his Inventory and set upon the dazed elf and male rog. They cursed and stumbled clumsily to their feet, but Roark spun out of their weapons’ reach, having already slashed and carved his way through three-quarters of their Health bars. The rope was still tangled around their legs, tripping them up. Before the elf managed to hack it in half, Roark finished off the flailing male rog with an underarm thrust that slipped into a chink in the green warrior’s boxy armor.

A cry of rage bounced off the stone walls. Roark’s head snapped around to trace the source, and he found the female rog encased in a pulsating scarlet nimbus, backing Kaz into a corner with sweeping swings of her rough-looking war ax. Roark grinned with pride as the Changeling raised his Rusty Falcata and cut the rope anchored to the floor there. A pile of heavy wooden beams amassed from one of the dismantled racks dropped on the rog’s head, knocking her Health bar down to critical. With a feral screech, Kaz ran up the wooden beams and chopped his falcata through the back of the rog’s neck, ending her rampage.

The elf warrior took advantage of Roark’s momentary distraction, burying his longsword in Roark’s bony shoulder. Roark’s serrated teeth jarred with the impact, and precious Health drained away. The elf warrior wrenched the longsword free and pulled back for another swing, but Roark ducked gracefully inside the elf’s guard and drove his dagger and rapier upward into the gaps on each side of the elf’s ill-fitting iron breastplate. The blades came away covered in elven blood. A final thrust—a dritta—with the rapier ended the fight, and the elf slumped dead to the floor.

“What the hell is your glitch, Troll?” PwnrBwner_007 shouted, face dark with murder under his rusty helm. “Why won’t you just die?!”

The archer had backed into the center of the cell, putting enough distance between him and Kaz that he could use his bow. The Changeling was trapped in the corner, trying to duck behind the pile of wooden beams the best he could, but his Dented Buckler was peppered with arrows. More feathered shafts stuck out of his legs and gut.

Roark ran to the spiked coffin lid, planted his foot between the spikes, and kicked with all his might. It swung backward, slamming into the back of PwnrBwner_007’s head with another resonating toll and pitching the archer forward. Roark ducked under the lid’s backswing and sprinted for the archer. Kaz got there at the same time, and they finished the last hero off with a combination of brutal slashes and stabs.

Roark looked up to find Kaz grinning so wide that his round Changeling head was split nearly in half.

“We survived!” Kaz cheered, waving his falcata elatedly and bouncing from foot to foot. “Kaz and Roark did not die again! Again!”

Roark felt a distinctly non-ironic smile tug at his lips. He turned away on the pretense of wiping his bloody rapier clean with the mage’s robe.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said, returning the rapier to his Inventory. “We’re going to be doing a lot of not-dying before this is over.”

TWELVE:

Evolution

[LEVEL UP (x2)!]

As Roark rose from the mage’s corpse, golden light radiated from his skin and a pair of ascending chimes rang through the corpse-strewn cell. A look at Kaz’s glowing skin told him the Changeling had gained levels from their ambush as well.

As Roark opened the grimoire to his Character page, a new notice greeted him:

[You have 20 undistributed Stat Points!]

He dismissed this notification only to have another box appear in its place.

[You have reached Level 4! You may choose to Evolve into a Thursr!]

[Warning: Troll Evolution is irrevocable. Once a Primary Evolutionary Path has been selected, a Troll cannot change to another Path.]

[Evolve into Level 4 Thursr? Yes/No]

The Thursrs’ size and strength were nothing to sneeze at, but brute force would only get him so far in a place like the citadel. Ugoraz the Moron, complacent perpetual leader of the first level, was proof of that. No, in order to achieve what he needed to and return back home, Roark would have to be patient. And prepared.

After another second of thought, he selected No, and the box disappeared. He had just started fiddling with his newly acquired Stat points when he heard wet sniffling. Confused, he closed out of the grimoire.

On the opposite side of the dead mage was Kaz, tears of joy running from the Changeling’s bulging eyes, his bottom lip quivering as he took a shaky breath.

“Such a dream … Kaz always wished but never believed … Level four! Evolution!” The Changeling searched the empty air in front of his face with a look of pure euphoria on his face, and Roark realized with a start that Kaz was reading the Character page of his own mystic grimoire.

Then suddenly Kaz’s eyes snapped to Roark, the overjoyed excitement banished by a dutiful expression.

“What should Kaz do, Roark? May Kaz evolve?”

Roark grabbed the Changeling by the shoulders, shaking him gently in an attempt to get this point across for good.

“We’re partners, Kaz. I’m not your boss or overseer or master. You can do whatever you like. It’s your choice. Yours.”

Kaz sniffed again and his face broke out in a beatific smile. The Changeling’s eyes lost focus as he returned to his Character page.

“Yes!” he shouted, presumably at the Evolution query.

Immediately, a deep indigo halo of infernal energy radiated from Kaz’s skin, sparking and popping with electrical arcs. The smell of ozone filled the cell as the halo grew darker and darker, finally obscuring the features of the Changeling from view and leaving only an inky silhouette. As the arcs crackled and the midnight blue radiance consumed all light in the room, the bass roll of kettle drums and the throaty groan of a war horn resounded off the stone walls.

The shadowy form at the center of the roiling indigo mass stretched first one way, then the other, elongating, then widening, as if some unseen baker were rolling out a pat of dough. Cymbals clashed as the rumbling music reached a climax. Roark had to throw himself backward into the wall to avoid the wild arcs of raw power leaping from the hulking shadow at the center of the storm. The last blast of the war horns slowly faded.

The crackling indigo energy dissipated, blowing away like smoke. In its wake stood a six-foot-tall Thursr with arms as thick as logs, shoulders half a man across, and a toothy grin wide enough to bite Roark’s head off. His skin was still leathery and blue, but was now decorated with a light coat of white fur. Where once there had been a leather band studded with bobbling, moth-eaten feathers, now there was a headdress of long blue-black plumage sweeping back from a pair of budding antlers. The big lug was bouncing from foot to foot and grinning madly.

Roark couldn’t help but smile at the sight. He opened his mouth to ask Kaz whether Evolution was everything he’d dreamt it would be, but before he could, the Changeling turned Thursr smashed a mighty fist the size of a muskmelon into the wall. Rubble and mortar dust flew.

“Kaz is strong!” he crowed in delight. “No more bullies picking on weak little Kaz!”

“I should say not,” Roark said, inspecting the hole in the wall. “Unfortunately, there’s no rest for the rebel. Let’s see if these heroes left us anything useful, then I’ve got an overdue tryst with a roomful of books. I’d like to be back here before they respawn. They might not fall for the traps a second time, but perhaps we can come up with some other nasty surprises.”

Though Kaz was a hulking Thursr now, and supposedly afraid of nothing, he was still severely reluctant to loot the corpses of the fallen heroes. Taboos were powerful things, Roark knew. The longer you’d lived with one, the longer it took to square with breaking it. It had taken him months of living on the streets with nothing but the clothes he’d escaped Bloederige Noct in and the onset of the cruel Korvo winter before he’d gotten desperate enough to take a ragged pair of boots off the corpse of a beggar. Kaz would come around eventually.

Not wanting to waste time in the interim, Roark looted the bodies himself. The mage and the new rog had only dropped a piece of gold and one item each—a Powder of Dried Irukandji and a Fine Kimono—but the heroes they’d slaughtered twice now were full of valuables. Roark gathered up 171 gold, a full suit of Divine Elven Plate Mail, a set of Light Leather Armor, a boxy set of O-Rogiri Wooden Armor, a Folded Steel Katana, a sickled Khopesh, two longswords, a Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter, another shoddier bow that looked like it would be more comfortable lying across a cookfire, and a handful of scrolls, arrows, potions, and ingredients.

Roark inspected the intricately carved stopper of a magenta potion.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Modest Health Potion

Restores 25 HP

Uses: 1

╠═╦╬╧╪

There were six of the Modest Health Potions, one lime green Antidote, and a yellow Draught of the Smith, which claimed to make the drinker a 22% more effective blacksmith.

When Roark selected the Divine Plate Mail from his Inventory, a warning appeared.

[Divine Elven Plate Mail is an alignment-based item. Players with an Infernal alignment will take (.05 x character level) Damage/sec as long as Divine Elven Plate Mail is equipped.]

He dismissed the warning and left the plate mail alone for the time being. The O-Rogiri and Light Leather armors were unaligned, so he handed off the huge wooden armor to Kaz, along with the Folded Steel Katana, Khopesh, and longswords.

Though the decrepit library was tugging at his attention, Roark turned to the handful of scrolls. They appeared to function much like the magick of his home world, a piece of paper with the function of the spell printed clearly inside. Fireball would blast the target with a punishing ball of flame. Spectral Hands created a set of incorporeal hands controlled by the caster in exchange for a small amount of HP. Warrior Strength gave the target a temporary boost of Strength. And Town Portal opened a gateway to the marketplace in the nearest city.

Those would come in very handy. Roark smiled as he tucked the scrolls back into his Inventory, then quickly turned to distributing his Stat points. With access to a library full of parchment just down the corridor, he was tempted to spend the lot of them on Intelligence. But he still needed to survive long enough to make Jotnar, a task which would grow exponentially harder with every level he gained. Feeling as if he were making a moral compromise, Roark reluctantly added only nine points to his Intelligence, then gave five whopping points each to Constitution and Dexterity. The last one went into Strength so he wouldn’t be relying entirely on Kaz’s Thursr abilities for brute force. Allies could be useful, but in Roark’s experience, they tended to meet with bad ends.

Roark checked over his Character page one final time, then accepted the changes and dismissed the grimoire.

Kaz was bouncing the weighty metal lid of the Blackthorn Bed in his hands, spikes up, and watching with delight as the muscles in his meaty Thursr arms bulged and knotted. When he saw that Roark had put aside his Character page, Kaz lifted the lid on one hand like a servant’s platter and grinned.

“Remember how Kaz and Roark struggled to drag this up from the torture chamber? How we heaved on the rope to get it into position?” The blue-black plumage in Kaz’s headdress wobbled as he hefted the lid over his head. “Now Kaz can lift it himself!”

“You certainly made the right choice of evolution.” As soon as the words left this mouth, Roark felt an unaccustomed twinge of guilt. Snide remarks were such a habit at this point that he rarely thought before rattling one off, but Kaz had done nothing to deserve scorn other than be extremely helpful and friendly. Roark scratched the back of his head—surprised once again to find hairless leathery skin rather than the scruff of close-cropped hair he was accustomed to—and hurried to add, “Especially if you’re having this much fun with your new abilities.”

“Kaz is having the most fun!” The Thursr beamed, clearly oblivious to the backhanded compliment and its poorly executed concealment. “What is next? Kaz could smash something if Roark needed him to.”

Before Roark could answer, his stomach growled. Unlike the guilt, this was familiar territory. Oftentimes when he was working toward a goal, he forgot about necessities like food and rest. One particularly beautiful golden-haired acquaintance had oft remarked that it was lucky Roark didn’t have to set aside his plans and projects to breathe or he’d have died long ago. Thinking back now, the last time he could remember eating had been when the rumor reached him that the Tyrant King was on his way to Korvo. Had that been a day ago? Two? At least one day in Traisbin because he’d had to ride up all the way from Eltze. After that he’d been too busy to think about eating.

How long it had been since arriving in Hearthworld was anybody’s guess.

“Where can we find some food?” Roark asked Kaz. “Something simple we can take along with us.” He didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary. Then as an afterthought he added, “And that won’t damage the books.”

“Food?” Kaz cocked his large head, sending the plumage on his headdress wobbling again. “Trolls feed only on the Infernal energies of this place and the life force of the heroes.”

“But there’s ale here,” Roark said, remembering the Changelings stumbling around drunkenly with sloshing flagons.

“Infernal energy, life forces, and ale,” Kaz amended, shrugging. Then his protruding brow lowered in confusion, and he grabbed his wide stomach. “But Kaz is hungry … very hungry … This … This is new … What should we do?”

Roark thought for a moment, rubbing idly at the pendant around his neck. “Not get stoked on ale,” he muttered. “The World Stone must be responsible for this change in your anatomy. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.” He pressed his thin lips into a tight line. “But I suppose finding food will just have to wait. I need to get a look at those books before our three hours is up and those damned heroes return. Come on.”

He snatched the iron mask off the floor—if he could find a forge in this citadel, perhaps he could repair the thing—then left the room.

Kaz followed, rubbing his stomach and looking distinctly disappointed.

THIRTEEN:

Ancient Tome

Roark and Kaz crept back through the corridors, ears cocked toward the entrance for sounds of battle. Just because PwnrBwner_007’s raiding party wouldn’t respawn for nearly three hours didn’t mean other bands of heroes wouldn’t attack the citadel in the meantime. Though Roark didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary fighting heroes when he could be sifting through books and parchment, he had to admit he was interested to see what Kaz’s new muscle could do in a brawl.

In spite of the citadel’s natural attraction for raiders, they made it to the library unmolested and found the haphazard ruins of shelves and books untouched. Roark immediately set to gathering the ancient tomes from the floor and rifling through their pages before stacking them wherever he could find room on the dusty wooden table.

Kaz wandered behind him looking lost for several minutes before finally asking, “What is Roark looking for?”

“A writing utensil and some empty parchment would be a good start, but if I have to, I’ll use corners and margins from these.” Roark picked up a large volume that had been dropped pages-down on the stone floor. Its crumbling leather spine crackled as he eased it closed. “I can inscribe spells on my flesh, but that’s a painful death waiting to happen. It’s much less dangerous if I put them down on paper. The portal spell specifically could do with as much stability as possible.” He went to set the leather book down on top of a stack, then lifted it back up to inspect the board-bound book beneath. The Saucy Milkmaid. “Huh. I’m fairly certain we have this one back in Traisbin.”

Kaz eyed the book without enthusiasm. “Reading is not Kaz’s favorite.”

“If it’s the same version we have, then there’s not much to read. Mostly pictures,” Roark said, dropping the flaking leather-bound volume from the floor on top of it. “Though I’m sure some fool somewhere has tried to transcribe it before.”

“Kaz will go look for writing utensils.”

Five minutes and several dozen books later, the floor had been cleared. In an effort to follow some sort of logic, Roark started at the far left-hand corner of the book-covered table and began investigating the contents of each tome more closely.

Some, like the illuminated manuscript Xratzotl’s Exhortation, Vol III, were a type of wisdom literature.

Do not pursue anything, my son, as you pursue the twins Logic and Reason. They bring nimbleness to the thoughts, strength to the mind, truth to the lies, and structure to the chaos. They are the lovers of the olm soul, the fiery passions of our intellect. Forget not the teachings of your people, my son. There is no greater wisdom than that you should seek the twins first, forsaking all others…

Others were historical tomes, such as Infernali and Malaika: Hearthworld’s First Peoples.

… Just as she’d issued forth the fertile crust of earth, the Hearth spewed up first moonstone, then jet from the deepest parts of the Core. When the stones touched the open sky, they sprouted wings, followed by bodies, arms, legs, and heads. The older brothers which sprang from the moonstone were as bright and zealous as the scorching summer sun, the younger, from the jet, as dark and jealous as the creeping shadows cast in its wake …

These he set aside to study later—if time allowed, of course.

Still others were volumes of verse. Rogiri haikus seemed to dominate this category. He flipped through a few pages in Towering Clouds Bring Cool Relief of Shade, Then Battering Storm, trying to find something useful. Nothing but atmospheric imagery and emotion. These he tossed onto the pile that he wouldn’t mind sacrificing for scrap paper.

As it turned out, in Hearthworld, The Saucy Milkmaid was not a picture book. Someone had managed to transcribe it after all. Roark wished the poor fool much happiness with his insatiable lover and her stable full of backdoor suitors as he tossed the board-bound manuscript onto the scrap pile.

One book, Metallurgy as the Vennexim Do, posed a conundrum. When Roark opened the book, rather than a page full of text explaining the smithing practices of the dark elves, a box appeared.

[Metallurgy as the Vennexim Do is a skill book. Reading will provide a permanent boost to your Blacksmithing Skill. You cannot read Metallurgy as the Vennexim Do. You have not learned the Trade Skill Blacksmithing.]

“Four years’ trade craft at the academy and two years working smithies in exchange for room and board begs to differ, mate,” Roark muttered. “Though the mage smith I was first apprenticed to might back you on that. Crotchety old hag.”

He tried to peer around the edges of the box, but there was some sort of ward preventing him from seeing the letters. He dropped the book into his Inventory for later and turned to Kaz, who was rooting around in a pile of debris near the stone altar.

“How does one learn a Trade Skill?”

“Trolls cannot learn a Trade Skill,” Kaz said matter-of-factly.

“A day ago they couldn’t loot heroes’ corpses or eat food, either,” Roark replied, a touch of irritation in his voice. “Either because of the World Stone pendant or because I’m not from Hearthworld, I can do whatever the heroes do. So, how do they learn a Trade Skill?”

“Such a skill must be learned through apprenticeship with one of the Guilds or by reading special magical tomes,” Kaz said.

“Apprenticeship takes time we don’t have.” Roark rubbed his stubbleless blue jaw, recalling the bustling bazaar from his first brush with death. “Give me a book over hard labor any day. If we can’t find a special Blacksmithing tome in here, we may have to visit the marketplace at some point.”

Kaz’s huge onyx eyes grew even wider. “But Trolls cannot—”

“Maybe other Trolls can’t, but you and I can do whatever the bloody hells we please,” Roark said, returning to the remaining unread books before him.

When he exhausted the books on the table without coming across another magical tome or any information on portals, Roark began searching the decaying and burned shelves that lined the walls. There he found A Modern Traveler’s Guide to Hearthworld—another skill book he couldn’t read because he hadn’t learned the Cartography skill. Into the Inventory it went.

The next several minutes went to sorting through multiple volumes of Rishi and the time of O’ichi’i: Epic saga of the lost Illexim vinechief, each volume a different size, shape, and color, as if whoever had amassed them had done so over a period of years from various and sundry sources. He was tempted to give that particular shelf up for a waste of time, but stopped short when he came to a bulky tome shoved into the corner.

The book was covered in dust and streaked with scorch marks, but its soft gray leather binding seemed to have protected the rough-cut pages from harm. Roark ran his hand across the velvety cover, then carefully slid one thumb over the strange raised runes worked into the spine. He could feel the thrum of arcane energy radiating up and into his flesh. Magick. Power. Hope. This was what he’d come looking for. Quickly, he accessed the books properties:

╠═╦╬╧╪

Initiate’s Spell Book

()error: WϪRL0CҞ

Class Compatible!

Options: Bind item? Yes/No

╠═╦╬╧╪

Without a second thought, Roark selected Yes. A sound like chains being wrapped around a treasure chest clanked in his ears, and his palm tingled against the softened leather of the book.

[Initiate’s Spell Book is now soulbound to you! Soulbound items cannot be stolen, given away, or dropped at death.]

He wondered idly if the World Stone was soulbound as well as he dismissed that notice. It was immediately replaced by another.

[Congratulations, you can inscribe (3) Level One spells!]

Success burned in Roark’s gut, more satisfying than any meal he’d ever eaten. A wide grin stretched across his face; he closed the spell book and turned to find Kaz.

The Thursr was in the corner, tracing a claw along the black metal joints of a stained-glass window.

“Kaz, you haven’t come across any pen or ink yet, have you?”

Kaz jumped a little as if realizing he had become immersed in a daydream in the midst of an important task.

“Not yet,” he admitted sheepishly. “Kaz was looking, but not finding.” He sighed heavily. “The books and papers are such dull colors, and the Infernal lights are so bright and beautiful. Kaz is sorry, Roark.”

“Don’t worry about it, mate. Help me toss this place for a pen, then I promise we’ll go somewhere more lively.”

At the sound of that, Kaz perked up, his floppy ears fluttering and twitching. The Thursr abandoned the stained-glass windows and threw his bulky body into the search. Roark joined in, clutching the spell book to his side while he rifled through debris and ashes.

In a matter of minutes, the two of them had found not just a quill, but an inkpot as well. Telling himself he knew better than to get his hopes up, yet unable to avoid it, Roark warily unscrewed the cap. He just barely managed to stifle a whoop of satisfaction when he looked inside. Against all odds, the long-abandoned ink hadn’t dried out over the years.

Roark opened up his Initiate’s Spell Book. Every page was blank but for the reddish-brown foxing along their weathered edges. The palm of his left hand tingled as if it had fallen asleep, and he looked down to find the spell book levitating just above his upturned palm. Unable to contain himself with such an opportunity for experimentation literally in the palm of his hand, Roark dipped the quill into the ink, then began to write A portal opens before me, leading to—

But he’d scarcely put pen to paper when a notice appeared.

[You cannot perform that action! You haven’t learned the Calligraphy Skill!]

As soon as he dismissed that notice, another one took its place.

[You cannot perform that action! The ()error: Portal Spell is a 9th Level spell!]

Roark cursed under his breath and slammed the spell book shut. He squeezed the bridge of his nose and forced himself to push down the anger and frustration. A quick check told him they had little more than an hour before PwnrBwner_007’s party respawned.

“There’s nothing for it,” Roark said. He looked up at Kaz. “We’ll have to go to the bazaar now. We can make it back in time if we hurry.”

He avoided adding that this was also assuming the portal spells in Hearthworld were more trustworthy than the ones where he came from, and instead pulled out the Town Portal scroll he’d looted from the corpses.

“But Roark and Kaz are Infernal chimeras,” Kaz insisted, a look of worry etched into the lines of his rough face. “Monsters to be slain, not heroes to go walking around the marketplace in broad daylight. The heroes in the city will kill us.”

Wouldn’t be the first time Roark had strolled through unfriendly streets with the threat of death upon discovery hanging over his head. Solutions raced through his mind. Disguises. Heavy armor. A face-covering helm. He paused, eyeing Kaz’s hulking new form.

It was a dangerous play. But then they all were, weren’t they?

“Not if they don’t know it’s us,” he said, pulling up his Inventory.

FOURTEEN:

The Averi Marketplace

Though Roark was too small in this Changeling body to pass for a human or other free race of Hearthworld, Kaz was not. Dressed in the boxy Wooden O-Rigiri Armor and wearing the suit’s Kabuto Helm with the menpō facial armor covering everything from his nose down, the Thursr could easily pass for an extra-burly rog. As long as no one questioned why a rog’s skin was blue-tinged and coated in coarse white hair rather than smooth and green, they would be fine.

Once Kaz was dressed in the rog armor, Roark opened the Town Portal Scroll. The scroll itself vanished in a flash of violet light and puff of smoke. As designated in the spell’s contents, a shimmering violet tear in space opened in the decrepit library.

Roark approached the portal warily. Being written on paper, this one must be more stable than the one he’d carved into his arm. But suppose this time it dumped him out in the center of an ocean to swim endless miles until exhaustion and creatures of the deep dragged him under? Or it took him apart and didn’t put him back together—Changeling or otherwise?

But going to the marketplace was their only option. Without the Calligraphy skill, he would be worthless, locked away from his best spells, and the bound Initiate’s Spell Book completely unusable. All this time spent searching the library would go to waste.

“Well, nothing ventured,” Roark said, affecting a nonchalant shrug.

He took a deep breath, pressed his eyes shut, and stepped into the portal.

Rather than the pain of being taken apart piece by piece and rebuilt over endless eons, Roark felt an icy breeze blow over his entire body. If he’d had hair, it would’ve been ruffled slightly, but other than a case of goosebumps prickling down his back and arms, he felt no ill effects. Not so much as a headache or a twinge of nausea, which were common even with the simplest portals of his home world. Fascinating.

A moment later, Roark felt solid cobblestones beneath his bare feet. The milling sounds of human movement, talking, laughing, shouting, and splashing water surrounded him. Through the air wafted the scents of roasting meat, fresh fruit, and sweet pastries, making his empty stomach snarl like a rabid wolf. He had come out in a fountain court, his portal only one of dozens scattered around the cobblestoned plaza. As he watched, heroes in an assortment of armor and mages’ robes stepped out of the shimmering portals, some laughing and talking with comrades, others looking as if they were at death’s door and had only just managed to escape.

The click and tock of wooden armor drew Roark’s mind to the portal behind him. Kaz had made it through as well. Roark gave Kaz’s armored form a quick inspection. Nothing seemed to be amiss.

“How are you, mate?” Roark whispered.

“So many heroes,” Kaz said, his voice radiating fearful awe. The wooden armor rattled slightly as the Thursr quaked.

“And you’re one of them,” Roark said sternly. “Remember that.”

Hunching over like a mindless familiar, Roark pasted a vacant expression on his face and set off in a trot toward the din and smell of the marketplace. As he’d hoped, Kaz quickly seemed to realize that if he didn’t follow, he would be left alone. The Thursr hurried to catch up, then fell into step beside Roark.

Once Kaz’s legs started moving, he loosened up a bit, swinging his arms a little more zealously than the other heroes around him. Roark kept pace beside him, trying his best to look subservient. It wasn’t a mien he was accustomed to.

A few people faltered and stared as they passed, but none made a move to stop them.

They soon found themselves at the outskirts of a sprawling bazaar. Wooden stalls and brightly colored tarps made up a patchwork of bustling businesses, with more permanent shops housed in the stone and mortar buildings at the edges. From all sides, an orchestra of shouts hawked quality goods at unheard of prices and claimed they knew a shrewd shopper when they saw one. The fountain court had been busy with incoming traffic, but the bazaar was positively overrun with people. Nameplates filled the air like a low cloud, so dense in some places that it obscured the faces of the tallest heroes.

Even the alleyways were alive with commerce, though of a shadier sort. As Roark passed one, he caught sight of a pale elf arguing with a hollow-jawed olm and emaciated human in the shadows. The elf quickly turned away as if to hide his face, and the olm and human tried to look inconspicuous, leaning casually against the wall and scratching bleeding sores in their cheeks and arms.

Roark left them to it and began searching the marketplace for any hint of a bookseller. Unfortunately, the number of customers crowding the marketplace combined with Roark’s Changeling height put him at a distinct disadvantage.

“Can’t see a bloody thing but knees and codpieces,” he grumbled. “Are there any bookshops here, Kaz?”

The Thursr’s boxy helm swiveled left then right, the menpō faceplate clacking against its sides.

“Kaz thinks he sees one,” Kaz said, pointing.

“Lead away.”

They hadn’t made it more than five paces when a wooden stall filled with racks of armor and weapons caught Roark’s eye. In Traisbin, even the meanest scrap of parchment could set a man’s purse back. Though he had no idea what books cost in Hearthworld, he doubted several books filled with arcane knowledge would come cheap.

“Hang on just a moment,” he said, catching Kaz’s arm. “Let’s see if we can sell the spoils we took off our friends.”

With a thought, Roark opened his Inventory page on the left, then focused on Kaz. On the right, Kaz’s Inventory appeared. He quickly loaded Kaz down with everything they didn’t need.

“Sell everything but your Khopesh and the armor you’re wearing,” Roark instructed.

Kaz gave a jerky nod and walked up to the armor seller, beefy arms swinging conspicuously hard.

The seller saw the Thursr coming and erupted in a wide grin.

“Ah, my friend! You have come to upgrade your armor! Never fear, Variok has just the mail for you!”

“N-no, my friend,” Kaz stuttered. In the thin swatch of space between the top of his helmet and the faceplate, Roark could see nervous sweat roll down the Thursr’s temple, dampening the coarse white hair.

“Your weapons, then! What providence, for I just received a Rare Three-Headed Cerberus you cannot pass up!” From the table behind him, the seller grabbed a three-headed flail radiating an aura of scarlet-veined orange light. “And the price! I must be crazy to sell for so close to nothing!”

“Wanttosellyou,” Kaz blurted all in one breath.

“Why did you not say so!” the seller crowed, tossing the flail over his shoulder. It landed on the wooden table with three near-simultaneous thuds. The spiked balls gouged out bits of wood on impact. “Let us make a deal! Though, I warn you, I am not a good haggler. I can already see you will get the better of me!”

The transaction took a nerve-rackingly long time and frayed Roark’s patience to within an inch of his self-control, but when Kaz exchanged the final dagger for the last handful of gold pieces, they were 102 pounds lighter and 178 gold richer.

“I cannot believe how you clean me out!” the seller claimed through the wide smile on his face. “I am beggared, my friend! You come back to Variok anytime you are in Averi City!”

Roark had just pulled Kaz away from the armor stall and back into the crowd toward the bookseller the Thursr had spotted when a voice wondered aloud, “Hey, what’s a goblin doing here?”

Roark cringed. Kaz froze on the spot.

“That’s a Troll, wingus,” another voice said.

“Either way, what’s a mob doing in the marketplace?”

Kaz’s menpō faceplate emitted a soft whine.

“You’re a hero,” Roark hissed to the Thursr out the side of his mouth. “Same as any of them.” But he closed one fist around the hilt of his dagger just in case. “You just sold our gear and now you’re on to do some shopping. Nothing strange about that.”

A rog mage in a jade silk kimono and a female elf in oiled leathers caught up to them. The mage knocked on Kaz’s square wooden spaulder.

The huge Thursr flinched, but thankfully didn’t scream.

“Dude, what’s with the Troll?” the mage asked.

Kaz mumbled a garbled answer that was more breath than voice.

“Who now?” The mage leaned in closer, cocking his ragged green ear at Kaz’s mouth. “Where’d you get him?”

“Quest reward,” Kaz croaked, leaning backward as if repelled by a shield spell. “D-dude.”

“Aw, no frakkin’ way,” the mage returned. “What quest?”

Kaz’s black eyes grew wide, staring back at the mage in bewildered terror. Roark saw the Thursr’s hands twitch upward and felt certain in that moment that Kaz was fighting not to rake his wicked black claws down the sides of his face in a panic.

“Was it that Christmas day event?” the elfess asked. “I heard they were handing out unique familiars.”

“Yes!” Kaz shouted suddenly. “Christmas! I was given a unique familiar. This familiar. His name is Roark. My familiar from Christmas.”

“Oookay,” said the mage, exchanging a meaningful glance with the elfess. “Cool familiar, bud.”

“Yes, dude!” Kaz agreed, still too loudly. Roark cringed. “Good Christmas familiar. Unique event. Pwned it.”

“Good for you,” the elfess said, patting Kaz on the arm affectionately. “You keep on getting down with your bad self.”

“No, not bad,” Kaz rushed to assure her. “Kaz is a hero.”

The elfess gave Kaz an encouraging smile. “Of course you are, champ.”

At the somewhat patronizing tone in her voice, Roark’s hand slipped away from the dagger. They thought Kaz was simple. That might be a touch insulting, but it wouldn’t get them killed.

The rog mage turned to go, but didn’t make it a step before snorting loudly into his hand. The elfess elbowed him hard as they disappeared into the crowd.

Kaz looked down at Roark, eyes still wide and terrified over the helmet’s wooden faceplate.

“Bookshop,” Roark said. “The sooner we find it, the sooner we can get out of here.”

After that pronouncement, Kaz practically barreled through the press of bodies. Roark heard at least one other hero question loudly whether he’d just seen a Troll, but Kaz didn’t even slow, just bellowed, “Unique Christmas familiar event!” as he continued to push through the crowd.

Finally, near the edge of the market, Roark caught a glimpse of a hanging wooden sign between the sea of shoulders.

Mogrifa & Mogrifa

Arcane Booksellers

Just outside the bookshop sat a stall displaying a variety of roasted meats and vegetables on wooden skewers. Kaz’s head-down bull rush slowed to a stop as he reached the vendor. He turned to Roark, eyes wide and pleading, a trail of drool dripping from the bottom edge of the faceplate.

The smell hit Roark, smoky and spicy at once. His mouth watered.

“No.” He shook his head, mercilessly forcing down the gnawing hunger in his own stomach. “We don’t know how much these books are going to cost, and we’ve already wasted too much time.”

Impossibly, Kaz’s eyes grew wider and glittered as if he were near tears. He looked more like a stray puppy begging for scraps than the level-four Thursr who could toss heavy metal coffin lids over his head and make dents in stone walls with nothing but his fists.

“But Kaz has never eaten before, Roark,” he pleaded in a near whisper.

That was when the vendor spotted them. She put on a bright smile and picked up a skewer in each hand, holding them invitingly close to her low-cut bodice.

“Looking for a taste of something wonderful, adventurer?” she asked in a voice more suited to a bedroom than a marketplace. “Only two gold apiece, big guy. You’ll not find better prices than that in all Averi City.”

“So cheap, Roark,” Kaz cooed.

“Big strapping fellow like you’s got to eat,” the vendor purred. She giggled. “You’re not going to stand there and tell me you’re not even a little tempted, are you?”

Kaz nodded emphatically. “Kaz is so hungry!”

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” She waved the skewers under Kaz’s nose, inadvertently bombarding Roark with the scent as well.

The aroma of the spices curled inside Roark’s nostrils, demanding his attention, and a sheen of juicy grease shined on the meat. The empty hole at his center roared. He swallowed hard and cursed himself. He pulled four gold coins out and pressed them stealthily into Kaz’s huge fist, telling himself he was giving in just to end this incessant delay and get back to the business at hand.

“But if we can’t pay for even one of the books we need, I’m trading in your new armor to get it,” he mumbled.

As Roark expected, the vendor’s seductive manner wore off as soon as the money changed hands. Neither he nor Kaz cared. They were too busy devouring their meat and vegetable skewers. The meat had a thin crust of warming spices protecting its exterior, and when Roark crunched through to the meat below, savory juices flooded his mouth. The vegetables, likewise, had been seasoned and flame-kissed, but they were still crisp and succulent. Roark couldn’t remember a time he’d eaten such luxurious fare. Maybe not since his family had still inhabited Graf Manor.

That thought functioned like a kick in the ribs. His family wasn’t in Graf Manor anymore because the Tyrant King had killed them along with countless other nobles and commoners who wouldn’t bow to him, and the only way Roark was going to make the bastard pay for his crimes was by leveling himself up enough to open a portal home and kill him. The only way to do that was by killing those players once again, and to do that, he needed to unlock his magick. He couldn’t unlock his magick standing out in the street eating.

“Bookshop,” Roark growled, wiping the grease from his fingers onto his dirty loincloth and tossing the empty skewer aside. He strode forward and pulled open the shop door, jerking his head at Kaz to precede him inside.

The Thursr went, sucking the last of the grease from his fingers contentedly.

FIFTEEN:

King of Wolves

From the time they walked into the bookshop, Kaz spoke about nothing but the magical wonders of food. While Roark searched through the overstuffed shelves for the Trade Skill books, the enraptured Thursr reminisced fondly about the juicy tenderness of meat and its smoky, fire-crisped skin. As Roark searched the titles and debated which areas of specialty would come in most handy—carefully marking the spine of each book they would need with one black claw—Kaz exulted in the remembered crunch of vegetables between his teeth and the warm fullness of nourishment in his belly.

Roark was frankly getting sick of hearing Kaz rehash his limited experience with spices when he ran across a leather-bound Cooking Trade Skill book, its letters gilded with handsome gold leaf. He’d already marked Calligraphy, Blacksmithing, Cartography, Tailoring, and Enchanting for Kaz to buy. The Thursr had picked up each marked tome without missing a beat in his seemingly endless soliloquy about food.

The ghost of a smile tugged at Roark’s lips. He wondered whether Kaz would even notice if he marked the volume on Cooking. They had just enough gold left for one more Trade Skill, and they would need to eat, after all. He scratched his thumbclaw down the leather-bound spine, then nodded to Kaz.

“That’s the last of it,” Roark said low enough that only Kaz could hear. “We’re running out of time before our heroes respawn. Let’s get these paid for and back to the citadel.”

Kaz nodded, picking up the Cooking skill book, his onyx eyes skipping over the gilt letters on the cover as he added it to the stack under his left arm.

“It is truly a wonder of innovation, taking the muscle, bone, and fat of a creature and holding it over a fire,” he said, starting toward end of the row of shelves. “Kaz would love to watch the …”

The Thursr’s thought trailed off unfinished and he came to a halt at the end of the aisle. Roark waited. Eyes bulging wider than ever before, Kaz snatched the leather-bound book off the top of the stack and brought it up to within an inch of his face.

“This cannot be,” he whispered, turning back. “Roark will learn to make food?”

“No, all my Trade Skill Slots are going to necessities.” Roark pointed at the Thursr’s broad chest. “Kaz will learn to make food.”

There was no warning. One moment Kaz was standing at the end of the row, the next he had Roark in his tree-trunk arms, crushing the breath from his birdlike Changeling chest.

“So kind!” Kaz blubbered, fat tears falling on the top of Roark’s leathery blue scalp. “Such a treasure! No Troll has ever—but Kaz will—for Kaz to be chosen, out of all Trollkind—lowly Kaz—now cook because of Roark!”

The few other patrons in the hushed silence of the bookshop leaned around shelves, searching for the source of the disturbance.

“Hold it together, man!” Roark hissed with the small amount of air left in his lungs. With some difficulty, he extricated himself from Kaz’s crushing grasp. “You’re drawing attention.”

Kaz dragged the back of one wooden O-Rogiri bracer across his nose with a long, wet sniff.

“Kaz is sorry. Today has been filled with more than Kaz could ever have dreamed.”

The overwrought Thursr managed to pay the bookseller without bursting into tears again, then he and Roark stepped out into the bright sunlight.

“We need to get back as quickly as possible,” Roark said as they pushed through the never-ending bustle of the bazaar toward the fountain court and citadel portal. “Once I’ve unlocked the Calligraphy—”

He stopped abruptly as three familiar forms turned the corner ahead of them.

“That little turd burglar’s gonna be in a world of hurt,” the archer said, his voice scraping down the back of Roark’s neck like nails on a slate. “Grief me. Like hell he will. You d-bags better have your A-game on this time.”

The heroes from the cell, a red-faced PwnrBwner_007 in the lead, were coming right at them.

“Oh sure, we’re the ones the blame.” RogStarKel rolled her yellow eyes.

Apparently, the trip to the bazaar had taken longer than Roark expected. The trio had already respawned and were headed toward the marketplace, most likely to buy some weapons and armor for their next run at the citadel.

Roark grabbed Kaz’s arm and wheeled him into the shadowed alleyway to their left.

From the street, Roark heard PwnrBwner_007 ask, “Hey, was that... Did you guys see that?”

“Anything interesting you’re looking for?” a honeyed voice asked Kaz. It was the elf they’d seen selling to the hollow-eyed human and olm earlier. “I’ve got a little something for every occasion.”

They needed to move and fast. Roark had dealt with illicit peddlers like this lanky elf many times in the back alleys and dark places of Korvo and a hundred other cities across Traisbin. He gave the peddler the only no the elf would understand, shouldering past. His tiny Changeling body barely ruffled the elf’s seven-foot-tall form, but the impact of Kaz’s solid bulk sent the merchant sprawling into the grime-caked wall.

“You know where to find me,” the peddler called at their retreating backs. The two kept right on moving.

The alleyway came to a T, and Roark directed Kaz down the left path.

“I’m losing my mind, man,” PwnrBwner_007’s voice drifted down the alleyway behind them. “That damned Troll is getting to me—I could’ve swore I just saw it!”

“You probably just overdid it on the Ritalin. Come on already, we need to gear up if we’re headed back over there.”

Roark put on an extra burst of speed. The alleyway dumped out onto a side street. Roark stopped Kaz at the mouth, looking up and down the street for PwnrBwner_007’s raiding party.

“It’s clear,” he said. “We’ve got to get back to the citadel before they do.”

Struggling to keep the guise of mindless familiar in place, Roark led the way through the twisting and turning streets to the fountain courts. The one bit of good news was that the heroes still had to shop the marketplace and make their way back to the citadel on foot, while Roark and Kaz could simply use their portal scroll. That would buy them a little time. Hopefully it would be enough.

Roark barreled into the shimmering violet rift, followed close behind by the clacking and tocking wooden armor on the Thursr. The chill of Hearthworld portals poured over his leathery Changeling skin, and within seconds, he was blinking away the purple-green afterimages of the sunlit fountain court as his eyes adjusted back to the dim torchlight of the decrepit library. Kaz stumbled to a stop beside him, reeling uncertainly, arms outthrust for balance.

“All right, first thing—” Roark cut off sharply as the sound of ringing steel and the clatter of armored boots on stone assaulted his ears. It couldn’t be PwnrBwner_007’s party, but with the number of raids the citadel faced each day, it was almost certainly another band of heroes attacking.

A dying scream echoed off the stones. One of his fellow Changelings had just met an untimely and violent end. Roark pulled out his rapier and dashed from the library, Kaz’s heavy tread clomping along behind him.

In a room near the end of the corridor just past the torture chamber, they found a pair of heroes in mismatched plate mail, one hacking at a shadow on the floor, her shining katana throwing up sparks. The other chopped into a toppled wooden desk with a pair of war axes. The bloody, hacked-apart corpses of Stone Salamanders littered the floor. The room must have been their nest.

The hero with the war axes—an olm by the looks of his bulbous head and wide pale eyes—let out an undignified shriek as a Level 3 Stone Salamander appeared just to his right. The snarling creature was trapped between the remains of the desk and the corner, covered in gore, and his filigreed vial flashed a warning over his head. Gashes all over his body wept bloody tears, but the creature lunged and snapped at his attackers like a rabid mountain wolf.

“Over here, Brit!” The olm spun on the spot, dealing out slashing damage. He and the woman were slightly higher levels than PwnrBwner_007 and his party, and he wielded his dual axes with wicked precision, but he and his companion had both taken heavy hits themselves.

Before Kaz could lurch into the battle, Roark stopped him. That tough little stone bastard and his family had done the majority of the job for them, but they couldn’t afford to take severe damage right before PwnrBwner_007’s trio returned.

Instead of rushing in, Roark pulled out two of his remaining three scrolls. He broke Fireball open with the curved claw on his thumb, casting it at the heroes with a blinding flash of red-orange light, like a concentrated sunrise in the small room. The olm and woman screamed, instinctively shielding their faces from the blaze. The red bars over the heroes’ heads dropped by several points. Suddenly, they were hovering near half Health.

Without giving them a chance to recover, Roark snapped the seal on the next scroll and cast the Spectral Hands spell at their feet. The dusty parchment ignited in a flash of pale blue light, and Roark’s Health dipped a few points in response. Ghostly hands ending in long, spindly fingers erupted from the floor, grabbing at the heroes’ feet and ankles, trapping them in place.

“Now!” Roark shouted, bolting in with his Slender Rapier. He needn’t have bothered giving a signal at all: Kaz was already bellowing a war cry and charging in with his Khopesh raised high.

The heroes tried to defend themselves, cursing and shouting as they slashed awkwardly, but couldn’t move to a better position with their feet held fast. In a handful of brutal attacks, Kaz and Roark finished them off—the Stone Salamander fighting viciously alongside them in spite of its waning Health and myriad of bloody wounds.

It wasn’t until the heroes lay dead on the floor and the Spectral Hands had melted back into nothingness that Roark realized he’d just wasted two-thirds of his remaining one-off scroll spells on a creature that would respawn in two hours. But it didn’t feel like a waste. The vicious little salamander had been surrounded by the corpses of his family—cornered, outnumbered, and dying but still fighting. If that sort of grit didn’t deserve a rescue, then nothing did. In truth, Roark saw a bit of himself—his fierce pride and willingness to fight—inside the vicious little beast.

At the edge of the room, the Stone Salamander prowled, eyeing Roark and Kaz warily. It bared needlelike teeth and growled menacingly. Clearly, the creature expected another attack and was ready to make its last stand.

Slowly, Roark knelt and held out a hand.

The creature must have caught the scent of the meat from the market lingering on his fingers. It slithered over, skittish but curious, and sniffed them. A wide, sticky tongue darted out, tasting the last traces of grease and yanking Roark slightly off balance as it pulled back in.

Roark chuckled and righted himself. Without making any sudden moves, he reached out again. A growl rumbled in the salamander’s throat. Carefully, Roark rested a soothing palm on the creature’s cool jowl. The growling quieted, and the creature’s fat, paddlelike tail twitched.

[Current World Stone Authority: Greater Vassal 1/3]

[Use Soul-Forge? Yes/No]

“What do you think, you bloodthirsty little maka-ronin?” Roark whispered to the creature, scratching soothing circles on its skin. “Want to come with me? I promise I’ll bring you significantly more battles than you’ll find hiding in here.”

The salamander chirped and leaned into Roark’s scratching.

“It’s settled, then.” He triggered the Soul-Forge.

Awareness entered the creature’s wide, rolling eyes, and a new notice appeared.

[A Stone Salamander is a lesser beast. To proceed, you must name your Greater Vassal.]

“Easy,” Roark said. “Maka-Ronin, the king of the wolves, ruler of the mountains.”

[Macaroni has become your Greater Vassal!]

“What?” Roark blinked, certain he was reading the letters wrong. “No! Maka-Ronin! Mak. A. Ro. Nin,” he enunciated. “The two don’t even sound similar!”

Behind him, Kaz giggled.

Roark rounded on the Thursr with a glower. “I said Maka-Ronin—you heard me! How do I change his name?”

“Roark cannot change a name once it has been accepted by the creature,” Kaz said, a toothy grin stretched across his face.

At Roark’s feet, the Stone Salamander’s flat tongue darted out and stuck to his knee, demanding more head scratching. The nameplate [Macaroni] hung prominently over the creature’s head.

“Macaroni,” Roark muttered darkly, scratching between the creature’s shoulders, just behind its neckless head. “I better have leveled up from this.”

SIXTEEN:

The Art of Lettering

As it turned out, Roark hadn’t leveled up, but he was close. Very close. Roark hurried to loot the corpses of the Stone Salamander-killing heroes, Macaroni slithering along behind him like a faithful hound. The creature, at least, didn’t seem to mind its ridiculous name. Kaz watched uneasily as Roark turned out the heroes’ Inventories. Sadly, there wasn’t any time to inspect the weapons, armor, and oddments they’d retrieved; PwnrBwner_007’s party could be on their way back to the citadel at that very moment.

“Let’s go.” Roark dropped the pilfered items into his Inventory and headed out of the massacred salamander nest into the stone corridor. “We’ve got to prepare for our heroes’ return.”

Macaroni’s coloration shifted until he was invisible against the stone floor, but Roark could feel the salamander at his side, fat legs waddling along. Kaz hurried to follow, stumbling over Macaroni’s paddlelike tail as he pulled up alongside Roark.

“Will Roark and Kaz reset the traps?” the Thursr asked.

“Unfortunately, these raiders aren’t stupid. Short-sighted, perhaps, but not stupid. They’ll be expecting traps now,” Roark said, eyeing the O-Rogiri armor complete with menpō faceplate that Kaz had not yet removed. “We may yet be able to take them by surprise, however.”

As they turned a corner, Macaroni’s sticky tongue slapped against the back of his calf. Roark shook his head. Two minutes a Greater Vassal and already spoiled rotten. He reached down to scratch the bloodthirsty little monster’s camouflaged head, eliciting a satisfied chirp seemingly from the flagstones.

“Perhaps we can come up with one that utilizes all of our new resources,” Roark said, mental cogs turning furiously. He would need more spells for the plan he was forming.

When they made it back to the cell, Roark was relieved to see that all five corpses were still there among the debris and sprung traps. Their window of time was closing, but it hadn’t shut yet.

“What should Kaz do?” the Thursr asked.

“Whatever you like for the moment,” Roark said. “I need to study if we’re to get the better of these heroes.”

Kaz shrugged and picked up the dented and spiked coffin lid from the dismantled Blackthorn Bed. This he began balancing on one rough blue palm. Macaroni crawled up the farthest wall and watched the precarious spectacle with warily rolling eyes.

Taking his cue from the Stone Salamander, Roark retreated to a corner where he wouldn’t be crushed by falling coffin lids and pulled the Calligraphy Trade Skill book from his Inventory. The book was large and bulky, the exterior covered in supple brown leather, golden lettering carefully engraved upon the spine. Calligraphy and the Art of Lettering, it read. Reverently, he cracked the book open, balancing it in his undersized palms.

The first few pages spelled out in painstaking detail the correct way to hold a pen and position one’s arms and sleeves so the ink wouldn’t be smeared. Roark raked a claw-tipped hand across a scalp that used to be covered in hair and skimmed the section on the proper dipping of nibs and blotting of fresh pages. He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, trying to push away the frustration. These were all minor mechanics of writing that he’d studied extensively at the academy. His instructors hadn’t even let him touch a real pen or inkpot until he could perfectly demonstrate his understanding of them with a wooden practice stylus and empty pot. He didn’t need a refresher on the basics.

Just as he was beginning to think he would run out of time and have to fight the heroes unprepared, he came to a page of handsome letters calligraphed in lilting black scrawl. A notification appeared.

[Congratulations! You have learned the Trade Skill Calligraphy. You only have (4) Trade Skill Slots, are you sure you would like to add Calligraphy? Yes/No?]

That sure beat the bloody hells out of studying. If he could’ve gotten his hands on an arcane tome like this when he was five, he could’ve saved himself a whole year at the academy. Without a second thought, Roark selected Yes.

Gold light bloomed from his skin, and an ascending chime rang through the cell.

[LEVEL UP!]

Roark quickly dismissed this and the accompanying notification that he had ten undistributed Stat points. Those would have to be dealt with later. Right now, he had spells to write for the upcoming confrontation with PwnrBwner_007’s raiding party.

Roark dug the soulbound Initiate’s Spell Book out of his Inventory along with the pen and inkpot he and Kaz had found in the crumbling library. His left palm began to tingle as the spell book levitated just inches above it. He dipped the pen in the inkwell, then braced himself for the inevitable notice that he could not perform this action for some newfound reason and pressed the nib to paper.

[You are inscribing a spell in Initiate’s Spell Book!

Inscribed Spells may be used (1) time per inscription. Once cast, the Inscribed Spell will disappear from the Initiate’s Spell Book and must be re-inscribed before being cast again.

Warning: There is a two-hour cooldown period between casting and re-inscription of spells!]

Roark grinned, his hands shaking with excitement and relief. He was allowed to write once again; all was well in the world. He’d handled this strange land the best he could on his wits alone, but now he could reach into his bag of familiar spells and cantrips—those old weapons that he’d staked his life on more than once in his home world. With magick, he could make all things right. Eventually.

Reminding himself to breathe, Roark steadied his hand and began to write the first spell that came to mind:

Every human, elf, rog, and olm in a thirty-foot radius becomes instantly paraly—

The words disappeared, leaving the page as clean as if he’d never touched pen to parchment, and a notification appeared in their place.

[Mass Paralysis Spell is a Skill Level 4 spell! You cannot inscribe Mass Paralysis at this time.]

Roark grimaced, but shook away his irritation. No matter.

He’d spent the better part of his time at the academy thinking around these sorts of arbitrary rules magick users tended to employ—like the time he’d managed to write a spell opening the sealed door that led to the Masters-Only section of the library without sounding the alarm. That had been in his second year. If Lowen hadn’t tattled on him, Roark would’ve spent the night reading about the arcane secrets meant only for the highest levels of education. Though, admittedly, there had been a few times when he’d found out the hard way that some rules existed for the protection of the caster. Such as the time in his fourth year when he nearly boiled himself and a pretty, older student alive from the inside out trying to impress her by heating her tea.

Roark pushed aside the memories and started writing again:

Any combination of two humans, elves, rogs, or olms within a fifteen-foot radius—

[Minor Paralysis Spell is a Skill Level 3 spell! You cannot inscribe Minor Paralysis at this time.]

One human, elf, rog, or olm within a ten-foot—

[Paralysis Spell is a Skill Level 2 spell! You cannot inscribe Paralysis Spell at this time.]

“Seven hells take it,” he cursed. Fine, he would let his mind tumble the problem around while he worked on the other spells, then come back to paralysis. “For now, something basic.”

A fireball. It was one of the first destructive spells he had learned and certainly the one every young boy went into the academy eager to try. For a moment, Roark was tempted to give the rudimentary wording a bit of a twist—a deadly concussive blast radius—but he quickly shook the thought from his mind. That would probably turn out to be a Level 30 or some such nonsense that he couldn’t inscribe at this time.

He wrote:

A ball of fire slams into the target, burning them for ten seconds.

[Congratulations, you have inscribed Fireball in the Initiate’s Spell Book!

Fireball can be cast (1) time per inscription!

Base Damage: 10 HP, +1 Burn Damage per second.

Cooldown period between casting Fireball and re-inscription: (2) hours!]

Satisfied that the fireball spell had taken, Roark turned the page and set about writing out the cantrip he had used in his very first skirmish with PwnrBwner_007’s party. It was a simple stunner, but for the moment, simple was all the arbitrary laws of Hearthworld would allow.

The air within ten feet compresses rapidly, then ignites.

This one took as well. Roark gave the Spell Book’s response a quick final check before dismissing it.

[Congratulations, you have inscribed Stun Spell in the Initiate’s Spell Book!

Stun Spell can be cast (1) time per inscription!

Base Damage: 2 HP to all targets in Area of Effect, +50% chance of Stunning all targets.

Stunned Targets have reduced Vision, Hearing, and Balance for (1 x Character Level) seconds.

Cooldown period between casting Stun Spell and re-inscription: (2) hours!]

He turned to the next page. One Spell Slot left and writing on borrowed time. Simple spells, basic spells. Hundreds of thousands were fighting toward the forefront of his brain from any number of specialties he’d studied before and after his few years of formal education. Damn it all, he desperately wanted to use a version of paralysis. It would be the most efficient way of carrying out this round of battle. There must be a way to dumb it down to a Skill Level 1.

Closing his eyes, Roark willed himself to see the stone-walled cell as though for the first time. He reopened them. Kaz was slashing at an imaginary opponent with his curve-bladed Khopesh. Macaroni—hells, that creature needed a new name, that was the least fearsome name in the history of all war beasts—stalked the ceiling overhead, occasionally lashing out with his wide sticky tongue, then crunching away at the insects he caught. The heroes’ corpses lay in and around the debris and trap components scattered throughout the room.

Roark’s eyes fell on the doorway. A perfect choke point just begging for a conditionally triggered spell.

“All right,” Roark said, capturing the Thursr’s and the Stone Salamander’s attention. “Here’s the plan …”

On the floor, Kaz stopped practicing and kicked the discarded coffin lid aside so he could plop down at Roark’s feet. Macaroni slithered across the ceiling directly over Roark’s head, looking down and listening, his head cocked to one side. The beast looked surprisingly curious.

As he outlined their individual duties, Roark wrote furiously in the Initiate’s Spell Book. This time, the inscription took.

SEVENTEEN:

The Griefer

Minutes after Roark finished explaining the plan, the sounds of battle filled the citadel’s sprawling anteroom. He signaled for Kaz and Macaroni to take their places, then collapsed in the center of the room as if dead. The clash of steel on steel, the screams of dying Changelings, and the shouts of the raiding party echoed down the corridor and into the cell. One voice in particular grated on Roark’s eardrums. PwnrBwner_007. As before, the heroes waded through the anteroom with what sounded like minimal effort, and their footfalls soon echoed in the hallway.

“Okay, Junior, you’re out front,” PwnrBwner_007 ordered in a hoarse stage whisper. “I want Detect Traps cast on that room before anybody sets foot inside.”

“Yippee,” the female mage’s bored voice responded, not bothering to match his low tone.

“Shhh!” PwnrBwner_007 snapped.

“It’s not like they can hear me,” Junior drawled. “They’re just mobs, loser.”

“You wouldn’t be saying that if this was your second time coming back to get your crap. Are we within your casting range yet or do we need to get closer?”

A protracted sigh. “I can see the door, so I can cast.”

The twanging sound of a wire being tripped vibrated through the air. Roark kept his eyes closed and his muscles slack, but the backs of his eyelids flashed with blue-green light.

“No active boobytraps,” Junior reported.

“You’re sure?” PwnrBwner_007 asked.

“Holy crap,” said a male voice Roark recognized as belonging to the heavily armored dark elf, Dude_Farkowitz. “You gotta see this shiz, Pwnr.”

A moments’ stunned silence settled over the party; only the shuffle and clank of their armor gave away their position. They were just outside the room now, surely peering in at the strange tableau Roark had set for them.

Still playing dead, Roark could imagine the scene from the raiders’ point of view: Traps cleared away, pushed to the sides of the room. Their corpses laid out across the far side of the cell as if awaiting their proper writ and burial. And one very tall warrior in a wooden suit of O-Rogiri armor holding a wicked-looking Khopesh and standing over the body of a blue-skinned Changeling.

“Thank God somebody finally got that little shit,” PwnrBwner_007 said, the smirk loud in his tone. Footsteps sounded on the cell’s stone floor as he stepped inside. “For a second there, I was starting to think the little cockknocker was some invincible quest monster.”

“Naw, dude,” Kaz offered, drawing out the words just a little too long in his attempt to imitate the heroes’ speech. “Quick little, uh, knocker, though. Would this be you dudes?”

“Yeap, that’s us,” the dark elf said, heavy armor clanking as he shuffled into the cell toward the row of neatly laid-out corpses. The sounds of more bodies followed him. The clack and tock of Kaz’s wooden armor let Roark know that the Thursr was moving into position behind the heroes.

With an effort of will, Roark bit back the smug expression threatening to expose him. Dead Changelings didn’t smile, not even when their plans came off without a hitch.

“Hey, wait just a fucking second,” PwnrBwner_007 snapped. “This thing’s Health bar is still full! Dammit! It’s another trap!”

Make that nearly without a hitch.

Roark’s eyes snapped open, and he pulled his Spell Book free. PwnrBwner_007 was standing over him, hastily drawing a poor-quality bow nocked with an equally shoddy arrow. Before the archer could get off his shot, Roark cast the Stun Spell. The air compressed suddenly, then erupted, throwing Dude_Farkowitz, Junior, and PwnrBwner_007 from their feet. Both the male and female rogs had managed to remain standing, but both were blinking their eyes rapidly and listing unsteadily as they pulled out low-level weapons. RogStarKel had a sad-looking Shortsword and a Rusty Mace this time, whereas the male rog was wielding a pitted halberd that had certainly seen better days.

Before the rogs had time to recover from the Stun—only the length of a second, as Roark’s Skill Level was still at 1—Kaz rushed in, swinging his Khopesh at hamstrings and bashing heads with his Dented Buckler.

Not wanting to waste his advantage, either, Roark drew the Slender Rapier with his right hand and cast Fireball on PwnrBwner_007 with his left. The archer screamed as the orb of flame slammed into his shoulder and a blazing inferno engulfed him, scorching armor and biting at exposed flesh. He batted frantically at the flames, trying to smother them, but with no success.

Dude_Farkowitz, the elf warrior, took one look from the burning archer to the rampaging Thursr.

“Nope!” The elf scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the door. “Nope-nope-no—”

The moment the elf’s heavily armored foot touched the threshold, Roark’s final spell triggered.

The first creature to step across this threshold twice becomes paralyzed on the spot.

The seven-foot-tall elf warrior blocked the doorway as effectively as any heavy wooden table ever could, effectively trapping the rest of the warriors inside. Roark tucked the now-empty Spell Book back into his Inventory and rushed the mage, Junior, who had just regained her feet. She glared at him, dark eyes dancing in the flames radiating off PwnrBwner_007.

“I shoot fireballs at people, a-hole,” she snarled, raising a burning hand, palm thrust out. “Not the other way around.”

“Please do.” Roark grinned at the mage before him, showing his rows of serrated Changeling teeth. “If they’re anything like your Detect Traps spell, I should be fine.”

Junior fired the ball of flame at him. Roark stepped aside in an easy contratempo to her attack—mentally taking back every grudging thought he’d had about spending those last five Stat points on Dexterity as he did—and slashed a quick tondo cut down the length of the mage’s spell-casting arm.

She let out a cry of rage, flames roaring from her outstretched hand like dragon’s breath. Roark sidestepped, then feinted toward her arm once more. The mage spun on her heel, attempting to get out of the way of the cut, her robes whipping behind her like a train. With a flick of his wrist, Roark changed the thin blade’s direction and slashed the debole across his true target, the mage’s exposed throat.

Health bled from her red bar as the blood poured down her neck and onto her robes. Eyes wide, she grabbed the gaping wound with both hands, but couldn’t stem the leak.

From behind Roark came the sound of a dying rog. Male or female was anyone’s guess. Kaz was doing well, it seemed.

With a heavy fendente dalla spalla—a downward slash swung from his shoulder—Roark backed Junior into a corner. Her Health had dropped to nearly a quarter, but she took one bloody hand from her ruined throat and gurgled out something furious, shooting more roaring dragon’s breath at Roark. He was too close to avoid the entirety of the flame. It burned across his right shoulder and back as he ducked under it, draining away a fifth of his Health vial with it. More red disappeared with every additional second.

Quickly as he could, he lunged inside Junior’s measure, running her through with the rapier. The dragon’s breath sputtered and failed as her red bar flashed a critical warning. And then, in a blink, the mage died, collapsing in a heap of limbs.

An arrow thudded into the raw meat of Roark’s burned shoulder, and fresh agony bloomed from his blistered flesh. He pitched forward, dropping to one knee to stop himself from sprawling out flat on the stone floor.

[x2 Backstab Multiplier!]

A full third of the remaining scarlet liquid in his Health vial disappeared.

“Get wrecked, dickbreath!” PwnrBwner_007 hollered.

Roark stumbled back to his feet just in time to see the archer nocking another arrow, its iron tip aimed at his left eye. With less than fifty percent left in his vial, he couldn’t imagine an arrow through the eye socket doing anything less than killing him. Roark raised his rapier in an obvious invitation and lunged into a series of mandritto and riverso squalembrato—a sequence of quick, deliberate steps toward PwnrBwner_007 that forced the archer backward while Roark slashed at him from right to left and left to right.

PwnrBwner_007 let fly as he backpedaled from the flashing blade. Knocked off course by its owner’s hurry to get out from under the slashing cuts, the arrow slammed into Roark’s sword arm. Pain lanced up his bicep and down to his fingertips as a sixth of his Health dribbled away. Roark’s arm dropped uselessly to his side, rapier clattering away.

He hurried to pull the Kaiken Dagger from his Inventory with his off-hand, but PwnrBwner_007 was already drawing back a new arrow. The archer could loose his string before Roark could cross the distance between them, and that would be it … Starting over again from level one, all five levels he’d gained so far lost to this angry little boy.

A shadow flickered overhead. Roark flopped to his belly as Macaroni dropped from the ceiling—right down onto PwnrBwner_007’s head, camouflage disappearing. The drawn arrow veered wildly off course and thudded into a thick beam above, while the archer and Stone Salamander hit the floor like a sack of meal. Roark rolled to his feet and joined Macaroni in finishing off PwnrBwner_007. Between the two of them, they made short work of the archer’s remaining vitality.

As the archer’s Health bar flashed the critical warning, PwnrBwner_007 let out a screech of fury.

“You griefing son of a bitch!” He flailed his bow at Roark’s head in a futile attempt to inflict some damage—any damage—before he died. “I’m gonna pwn you so hard! You’ll see, you little—”

PwnrBwner_007 slumped lifeless to the floor in a pool of his own blood, eyes glazed, a rictus of hate glued across his pale face.

[Congratulations! A player has given you a nickname: Griefer! Accept? Yes/No]

Roark wiped his gore-covered dagger on PwnrBwner_007’s cracked Leathers, then stood and scanned the cell for Kaz. He found the Thursr pulling the sickle-blade of his Khopesh from the paralyzed corpse of the elf warrior blocking the exit. As Kaz did, the elf crumpled, falling half in and half out of the room. Dead.

“What does ‘griefer’ mean?” Roark asked him, returning the Kaiken Dagger to his Inventory, then going over to pick up his fumbled rapier. “I’ve never heard the word epithetized before.”

“It is a body-camper,” Kaz said.

Roark shook his head. “I need you to explain further.”

“One who lies in wait near heroes’ corpses to kill them over and over again and steal their loot,” Kaz tried. He gestured at the bodies scattered about the gore-spattered cell. “As we do.”

“Doesn’t everyone in Hearthworld do that?” Roark asked, genuinely curious and quite surprised. “It’s the most efficient way to level up and gain better weapons.”

Kaz frowned and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “No no no. Only the lowest of the low would do such a thing to their fellow heroes—and no chimera has ever done it before. Griefing is …” He faltered, voice dropping to a whisper. “It is bad manners, Roark.”

Roark snorted, thinking of all the proper conduct he’d forgone and all the times he’d gotten his hands dirty over the years in the name of freeing his country from the oppressive fist of Marek Konig Ustar.

“There are no manners in a war, Kaz,” Roark said, picturing the golden-haired thief Danella, who’d taught him the art of the cheap shot and the backstab and the pocketful of pepper-laced sand. “Only the victors and the dead.”

“Roark does not understand,” Kaz insisted, clutching his Khopesh to his wide, white-furred chest like a child’s stuffed toy. “Griefing can lead to dire consequences. Higher-level heroes might later come and grind the griefer into dust, wiping out him and anyone with him, perhaps even camping the griefer’s body in revenge for his crimes.”

“Kaz, these so-called heroes attack your citadel every day, and you respawn every two hours so they can kill you again. You’re forced to live a vile and tortured existence that not even your Floor Boss is trying to stop for the benefit of everyone but you. Griefing the heroes who raid the citadel is the most practical and effective way of ending that cycle. If I’d had the ability back in Traisbin, I would’ve used it a hundred times over and finished off the Tyrant King by now.”

Roark returned to the message asking him to accept or reject the title given to him by the dying PwnrBwner_007. With no small measure of grim satisfaction, Roark selected Yes.

[Congratulations, your Infamy has increased to Nonentity! You are now known as Roark the Griefer!]

EIGHTEEN:

Tradecraft

In keeping with his new title, Roark had Kaz gather up the trap components from around the cell and take them down the corridor to the massacred Stone Salamander nest. It was time to grief the pair of heroes they’d rescued Macaroni from. Though Roark had used all of his inscribed spells in the last fight, and the cooldown period to re-inscribe them wouldn’t end until after the salamander-slayers respawned, he knew the traps would give them the upper hand. After all, the salamander-slayers didn’t yet know what they were up against.

While Kaz hauled trap pieces out of the cell, Roark looted the fresh corpses.

He found only a handful of junk weaponry and armor on the archer, female rog, and elf warrior—certainly nothing that outstripped his Slender Rapier or the Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter. The male rog and the mage were another story altogether. Between the two of them, he salvaged 150 gold pieces, wooden O-Rigiri Greaves of Silent Fury, a pair of Hook Swords, a Book of Town Portals with nine uses remaining, another three Modest Health Potions, an assortment of odd ingredients, and best of all? One of those carved sticks he’d glimpsed the olms using for conjuration during his brief excursion through death. Very similar to the wooden practice styluses he’d used at the academy, but longer and tapered.

When Kaz returned to the cell for a second load of trap components, Roark handed over the O-Rigiri Greaves of Silent Fury to Kaz—pointing out the 6% Muffling Bonus when all heavy armor was equipped to the Thursr—along with the Hook Swords, Health Potions, and Kaz’s half of the gold. That done, Roark turned his eager focus on the odd stick. A page of the mystical grimoire opened, revealing a slowly spinning image of the smooth gray wood, which sported bird’s-eye burls swirling down its highly polished length.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Plain Maple Wand

Durability: 22/37

Level Requirement: 6

Intelligence Requirement: 19

Properties: 0.5% Increase to Infernal or Divine Magick / Character Level

Properties: +1 Level 1 Spell Slot!

Properties: +1 Level 2 Spell Slot!

“Maple is a tough, but imaginative wood, rebellious at the best of times. Only the strongest minds can exert their will over it.” – Magical Properties of the Trees of Hearthworld

╠═╦╬╧╪

Very interesting. Though Roark met the Intelligence Requirement—with more Stat points to distribute, he reminded himself—he couldn’t use the wand without leveling up one more time. Still, it would be a valuable addition when he could use it. He slipped the Maple Wand into his Inventory, grabbed up the miscellaneous pins and wires that went with the traps, and headed out of the cell to join Kaz.

The softly sticky footfalls of a Stone Salamander followed in his wake. Roark checked the floor at his feet, then the ceiling for the telltale movement of shadow. There. A shimmering distortion slithered over an exposed beam just overhead. As if the beast realized he’d been spotted, Macaroni chirped and showed himself, his strange camouflage melting away.

In a fit of inspiration, Roark delved into his Inventory for the trio of Raw Crayfish he’d taken off the rog’s body. If he and Kaz had to eat, then it stood to reason that the bloodthirsty beast did too.

“Hungry, mate?” Roark asked the Stone Salamander, brandishing the crayfish like a peace offering.

In a blink, Macaroni skittered down the wall and launched his sticky tongue at Roark’s hand. The shellfish came away with a jerk—nearly pulling Roark’s arm out of its socket in the process—then crunched messily in Macaroni’s snapping maw. Before Roark could stoop to pick up the dropped morsels, the salamander’s long tongue had snatched them up as well. Gone as quickly as they’d come.

In spite of the crude execution, the salamander’s snack brought to mind a piping hot bowl of crayfish féqret from the Sleeping Dogs Inn in Urzpeth. Tender and creamy and just short of too spicy to tolerate. A mutinous complaint came from Roark’s Changeling potbelly. Eating wouldn’t be at cross-purposes with his business once the traps were set and ready to go, it said. He set off toward the destroyed salamander nest with renewed vigor. Battle preparations first, then food.

It took less than half the time to set the traps for the second go-round as it had the first, mainly due to their experience with the mechanisms, not to mention Kaz’s formidable size and greatly increased strength. The only thing that slowed them down was a missing eyebolt, but after a few minutes’ worth of searching the stone cell and corridor for the piece, Roark found Macaroni standing next to it, wide eyes staring fixedly at the bolt, paddle tail waggling in excitement.

“If you had a nose you could point,” Roark said, clapping the creature gratefully on its fat-padded ribs. He was becoming more and more certain that the salamander could understand every word he said. “You’re downright spooky, mate.”

With the eyebolt found, rigging the former salamander nest took next to no time. They finished with more than half an hour to spare. By then it wasn’t just his stomach staging a revolt. Kaz’s belly was quite a bit louder as its protests had more room to resonate.

“Kaz, I know reading’s not your favorite,” Roark said, approaching the Thursr, “but we’ve both got a bit of studying to do. Especially if we want to eat after this round of griefing.”

Roark pulled out the Trade Skill books and passed Cooking with Gry Feliri and Basic Cartography for Mapping Your World: Here there be monsters to Kaz.

The Thursr glanced from the Cartography tome in his left hand to the Cooking tome in his right. The plumage on his antlered headdress wobbled as he shook his head.

“Kaz would do anything to learn the art of making food,” he said, each word awash in reverence. Then he sighed and slumped forward, deflated. “Even read,” he finished weakly.

Roark chuckled and found a trapless, bloodless corner of the floor to sit in, stacking his own Trade Skill books out before him.

Across the room, Kaz flipped the hacked-up desk back onto its scratched and dented legs, then slapped his books onto the tabletop with a dull thud.

“Worst for first,” the Thursr said with a shrug and tossed open the velveteen cover of Mapping Your World.

Not a bad strategy, though of the remaining three books Roark had chosen for himself, he didn’t have a worst. While many of his peers at the academy had complained about being required to learn a commoner’s tradecraft skill in addition to magick, Roark had taken to the challenge with the same single-minded determination that later distinguished him in the Resistance. After all, what was a trade other than a puzzle to be figured out and a skill to be honed? His only complaint then had been that each student was only allowed to specialize in one area of study.

He opened up The Blade Born: The Living Art of Blacksmithing by Batori Bronzo first, as smithing was the tradecraft he’d chosen at the academy. The book’s cover was made of plain but durable wood, and its pages were smudged with soot and oil as though its previous owner had spent hours reading it by the glow of a forge. The first section was a warning on the nasty results of heavy-metal vapor poisoning, what smiths had called lead lung back in Traisbin.

That certainly brought back some memories. Berthora Kaol, the rough old mage-smith he’d been apprenticed to, had spent no less than a week lecturing him on the dangers of the toxic fumes certain metals gave off. Profoundly ironic, since she succumbed to a bad case of lead lung herself four years later. Roark was just beginning the section describing hammers, tongs, swages, and punches—he’d spent his first few months of apprenticeship being mercilessly ridiculed by the brawny old hag for not being strong enough to carry most of those tools alone—when a notification appeared.

[Congratulations! You have learned the Trade Skill Blacksmithing. You only have (3) Trade Skill Slots remaining. Are you sure you would like to add Blacksmithing? Yes / No?]

Roark accepted the skill, then immediately found the enchanted tome Metallurgy as the Vennexim Do and set to reading that as well. He had no doubt that, given access to a proper forge, he could create weapons to rival the pieces the heroes had brought in so far, but gaining extra skill in the craft could only help. He’d barely read three pages on the storied history of the dark elves’ relationship with metal when another notification popped up.

[Congratulations! Your Blacksmithing has increased to Skill Level 2! You can now craft Iron weapons and Plate Armor and improve Shoddy weapons and armor to Average.]

Satisfied, Roark set the smithing books aside and turned to the Tailoring Trade Skill book, a black-bound volume called A Whipstitch in Time. As he did, he realized Macaroni had crept into the corner behind him at some point and was now curled around his back.

Maybe being named after a pasta was more fitting for the creature than king of the wolves. While it was sleeping, anyway.

A few minutes’ intense reading produced another congratulatory note from thin air:

[Congratulations! You have learned the Trade Skill Tailoring. You only have (2) Trade Skill Slots remaining. Are you sure you would like to add Tailoring? Yes / No?]

This time when Roark confirmed the skill a strange new sensation swamped him, a feeling like the top of his skull being hinged open. He’d known almost nothing about sewing before—mainly just the basics of which end of the needle not to stick yourself with—but as he sat there, he could feel information on the craft being poured into his mind. Overlocking, patterning, leather needles, banger, frog, reinforced stitching, darting, darning, warp, weft, hang, hem, and cut—the vast amount of new knowledge went on and on.

When it finally stopped, a dull ache had taken up residence in Roark’s temples and just behind his eyes, as if he’d spent too long studying an arduous text. Though he felt certain he could stitch an adequate suit of leather armor, cobble together a pair of boots, or even make a jerkin that would fit his bird-chest and complement his threadbare loincloth, he could also feel that there was plenty remaining that he didn’t know about Tailoring. Most likely, it would take time and leveling of the skill to unlock the rest.

Lastly Roark turned his attention to Enchanting Enchantments for the Modern Enchanter. When his final Trade Skill had been learned and confirmed, the dull pain in Roark’s head had upped itself to a throbbing headache. Arcane sigils, Divine and Infernal magick sources, and the proper names of gemstones as well as their properties and compositions were rattling around inside his skull like a pair of dice. His mind felt full, almost overburdened. Perhaps the limited number of Trade Skill Slots was one of those seemingly arbitrary rules which was actually in place to protect the learner from brain damage or sheer madness.

Roark looked up. Kaz was crouched in front of him, onyx eyes wide with excitement.

“Did Roark know that salt enhances the flavors of whatever food it comes into contact with? Roark and Kaz must find all the salt! And meats. And if you cook vegetables in a pot with meats and water, then add—”

“That reminds me,” Roark cut him off, massaging his pounding temples. “Open up your Inventory.”

Though clearly puzzled, Kaz did as he was asked. Quickly skipping down to the assortment of ingredients he’d looted from the heroes, Roark handed the lot of them over to Kaz. Amongst them were Crusty Bread, Grilled Bok Choy, Bushcow Steak, and three Pinches of Salt.

Kaz clapped his hands with glee. “Now all Kaz needs is a cookfire, and he can make food!”

Kaz fell silent as the room began to tremble minutely around them. One by one, the hacked-apart Stone Salamander corpses and the puddles of gore disappeared. The desk Kaz had been reading on promptly repaired itself and regrew a stack of moldering papers and a thick layer of dust. Roark stowed the Trade Skill books, unwilling to part with parchment and words if he didn’t have to, and stood. Moving shadows around the room gave away the respawned creatures along the walls, on the ceiling, and even one clinging to the bottom of the desk. The Stone Salamander nest was back, which could only mean one thing.

“We’ll find you a fire later, mate,” Roark said, pulling free his Slender Rapier. “We need to get into position. Our heroes are respawning as we speak.”

NINETEEN:

Choices

As expected, the salamander-slaying heroes were caught completely off guard by the traps. The strangest moment of the battle came when Macaroni gave a gurgling bark that brought down several Stone Salamanders literally on the heads of the olm and the woman, stopping their shocked retreat in its tracks and allowing Roark and Kaz to finish the pair off. When Roark considered the scene later, however, it made sense. With his superior levels, Macaroni had become the leader of the little nest, and the lower salamanders did as he ordered. The bloodthirsty little monster had even leveled up during the fight; it seemed Maka-Ronin had been an appropriate name after all.

With the combination of newly learned Trade Skills, leveled-up Blacksmithing, and slain heroes, Roark leveled up once more as well. So had Kaz—this time to level five. When the Thursr saw that Roark was now a level six, his black eyes grew wide and starry.

“Evolution,” Kaz whispered in that tone of worshipful awe. “Roark can become a Reaver.”

Roark was already inspecting the Troll Evolution Tree and the prompt below it:

[You have reached Level 6! You may choose to Evolve into a Reaver!

Warning: Troll Evolution is irrevocable. Once a Primary Evolutionary Path has been selected, a Troll cannot change to another Path.

Evolve into Level 6 Reaver? Yes/No]

“Roark can, but Roark won’t,” he said matter-of-factly, selecting No.

Kaz’s eyes nearly swallowed his face. “But, but, but … Roark, to become a Thursr is a great honor few Trolls ever attain. The number of Trolls that survive long enough to evolve into Reavers ... Well, I am not so good with numbers, but it is very rare. Is Roark thinking he will become a”—Kaz’s voice dropped to a whisper—“Jotnar? This is recklessness, Roark. Pure recklessness. The number of Trolls that become Jotnar, Kaz can count them on one hand.” He held up five taloned fingers, still bloody from the most recent battle, to demonstrate the rarity. “And if you become Jotnar, you will attract the attention of Azibek the Cruel, the Dungeon Boss. You do not want to attract his attention. No, no, no.” He shook his head, ears flapping.

Roark closed his mystic grimoire and tried to think of the best way to explain this to Kaz. After the years he’d spent with the thieves and assassins in the sleazy underbelly of Traisbin—setting aside all the noble conduct and niceties that had been drilled into him as the heir apparent to the family holding in favor of stealth, trickery, and subtlety—becoming the rogue version of a Troll certainly made a lot of sense. He might even be able to unseat Ugoraz the Vile if he were a Reaver.

However.

However, Roark wasn’t in this solely to take over the first floor of the citadel. As most often was the case in despotic government, the problem with the local lackey was a reflection of the problem with the reigning monarch in miniature. Kaz had said that the Dungeon Lord was a Jotnar Exarch. No mere Reaver—not even a Champion Reaver—had a chance at unseating that tyrant.

Though reaching the initial Jotnar level without dying would clearly be difficult, the benefits couldn’t be counted. They were the most powerful, the hardest to kill, they had access to Infernal magicks Roark could barely dream of, portal spells being the least of it … and the Jotnar were the ruling class. If Roark was completely honest with himself, part of him still burned with the desire to retake the title and nobility that had been stolen from him on Bloederige Noct. To prove that the von Graf family line could rule with strength and justice.

“Obtain the summit or die on the path,” he finally said, falling back on the well-worn Korvoan aphorism. “I’ve seen too many opportunities wasted by cowards who’ve convinced themselves the safe play is the one that’ll win the war. I won’t do the same.”

“Then perhaps Roark and Kaz should migrate to a lower floor?” Kaz suggested with a lopsided shrug. “We are level five now, large enough to take up places on the second level if we choose. That is the way of the Dungeon. Higher levels mobs migrate down, lower and lower as they grow in power. Macaroni can lead the Stone Salamander nest here to more victories, then follow Roark and Kaz down when he has leveled again.”

Roark shook his head. “Can’t do it, mate. I’ve got a bit of outstanding business to take care of with the Overseer on this floor.”

Kaz closed his eyes and whimpered, raking talons down his cheeks in distress, their tips riffling through the fine layer of coarse white hair dusted across his blue leathery skin.

Roark nodded. While Kaz came to terms with what he’d said, Roark opened the mystic grimoire to his Character page.

[You have 30 undistributed Stat Points!]

With very little fiddling this time, he invested twelve points in Intelligence, eight points each in Dexterity and Constitution, and his remaining two points in Strength. The boost to his Infernal Magick came with an added Level 2 Spell Slot for his Initiate’s Spell Book, which brought him up to a grand total of four Level 1 slots and two Level 2s—Maple Wand bonuses included. With the right preparation, that should more than offset Ugoraz’s superior strength.

Looking over his Character page one final time, Roark accepted the changes, then closed his mystic grimoire. A quick check of his Initiate’s Spell Book let him know that two of his Level 1 slots were still in cooldown. Their timer would be running out within the next half hour, then he would have all six in hand for his battle with the Overseer.

While he waited, Roark turned to the fresh pair of corpses on the floor. A quick glance at Kaz—frozen but for the panicked heaving of his barrel chest—told Roark the Thursr would not be helping with this round of looting, either. Shame. But Roark would be patient. Sooner or later he would break his companion of his fright.

Just as he’d experienced with PwnrBwner_007’s original trio, the salamander-slaying heroes’ Inventories were full to bursting on this plundering. Roark postulated that a third round of griefing this same olm and human would bring little more than Experience and whatever shoddy weapons they returned with. Two rounds, then, were the optimal number of kills if one’s main objective was obtaining gold and weaponry. Interesting how a little change in priorities could shift strategy so drastically. If he hadn’t desperately needed the levels, the griefing would’ve been an inefficient waste of time after the second kill.

Interesting, but academic. He did need the levels. The gold and weaponry were just incidental benefits.

He found the usual assortment of ingredients, Health Potions, Town Portal Scrolls, weapons, and armor on the woman and the olm. In addition to these, the woman was carrying a Blade of the Sun’s Reflected Radiance, a shining katana set with a Cracked Sunstone and imbued with the Divine power of +2 Damage to Infernal creatures. Roark thanked fate that he’d managed to avoid taking any hits from the blade in their first skirmish while she had been wielding it. Because of its Divine alignment, neither he nor Kaz could use the katana, but it would bring a decent price from that swindler Variok when they returned to the marketplace. The extra gold would help when Roark tried his hand at Enchanting—the required gemstones wouldn’t come cheap.

The true prize, however, came when Roark reached the scrolls in the olm’s Inventory. Mixed in with the Town Portals was a single-use Scroll of Champion Strength.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Scroll of Champion Strength

Temporarily increases Strength of caster by 2x Character Level

Heals caster for 50 Health

Duration: 30 seconds

Uses: 1

╠═╦╬╧╪

That could come in very handy. He slipped the scroll into his Inventory and checked his Spell Slot countdown timers. One had already run out. The last had only seconds remaining.

Roark turned to Kaz. The Thursr’s huge chest had stopped expanding and contracting with such force, but he was staring at Roark with pure terror.

“Roark will die!” he blurted. Fat tears dripped from Kaz’s onyx eyes and his antlered headdress shook with the force of his outburst. “No respawn! If Roark issues a direct challenge to the Overseer and loses, he will forever-die! Kaz has never had a friend before Roark! Please don’t do this! Don’t kill Kaz’s only friend!”

Suddenly very conscious of how strange it was to feel the breath being pulled in and forced out of his own tiny birdlike chest, Roark grimaced up at the ceiling and scratched the back of his neck. He’d never been good with sincerity that wasn’t rooted in defeating the Tyrant King or taking out key henchmen for the cause. He was even worse at friendships. The closest he’d come over the years were allies within the Resistance, and those always seemed to end up in one of Marek’s prisons screaming for death. It was easier to stomach seeing their ruined corpses swinging from trees on town greens if he kept them at arm’s length. That lesson he had learned from the golden-haired thief Danella as well, though she’d had to die to teach it.

“I don’t plan on losing, Kaz,” Roark said after a time. “In fact, I’m going to do everything within my power to win. I’ll throw every dirty, underhanded trick I know at him. Hit him with everything I’ve got. But if it’s not enough, and I do die”—he shrugged—“then that’s the price. I won’t live a coward in comfort, hiding away while people are being crushed under the heel of a bloody tyrant. Especially not a two-bit lackey with grand delusions of control like Ugoraz. If you’re coming with me, choose your weapon and prepare for a fight. I’m going as soon as I inscribe these spells.”

TWENTY:

Formal Challenge

After some playing around with the wording, Roark managed to inscribe four Level 1 spells and two Level 2 spells he thought would at least put him on equal footing with the Floor Overseer. Ugoraz was a Level 12 Brute Thursr with all the strength and speed that implied, but he didn’t have access to the Infernal Magick a Reaver or Jotnar would. If things became truly desperate, Roark had his claws and the Kaiken Dagger for carving cantrips into his flesh, as well as an underhanded little surprise he could fall back on just in case.

Never fight fair, he thought.

With the spells inscribed, Roark put on his oiled leather armor, stashed the surprise in one of the breast pouches, and equipped the Maple Wand and Slender Rapier of the Falcon. He glanced at Kaz, who was decked out in full wooden O-Rogiri armor and carrying a Hook Sword in each fist. A formidable looking opponent, to be sure.

“Let’s go end a regime,” Roark said with a grin, trying to affect a glib tone and failing.

Kaz’s lips trembled and his eyes widened, but the softhearted Thursr managed not to burst into tears again. Instead he simply nodded, face scrunching up in resolution. Roark turned on his heel and led the way out of the Stone Salamander nest. He’d intended to leave Macaroni behind, but the bloodthirsty little beast followed along beside him in plain sight as if to lend his fearsome image to the cause.

In spite of the 6% Muffling Bonus, Kaz’s boxy armor clacked and clinked down the stone corridor like the wooden chimes Lyuko travelers hung from their wagons. Even Roark’s own soft bootsteps sounded unnaturally loud in his ears.

Just nerves. But this had to be done, he reminded himself. He had to kill Ugoraz the Vile if he wanted to take over the floor and whip this citadel into fighting shape. It was the first step toward becoming powerful enough to open a portal home and take down Marek. Moreover, it was the first step toward freeing Trolls like Kaz from their wretched existence as cannon fodder for raiders.

They marched down the rough stone corridors, taking turn after turn, until they rounded the final corner, and the throne room’s iron portcullis came into view. This time Kaz was able to operate the lever despite his viciously trembling hands. Roark straightened his spine as much as a Changeling spine could straighten, squared his uneven shoulders, and raised his chin, pasting a haughty expression on his face. He was a noble, a revolutionary, and he would not be intimidated by a thug like Ugoraz. With a screech, the portcullis rose, and every eye in the throne room turned to the diminutive, bird-chested figure striding across the flagstones as if he owned them.

Ugoraz the Vile sat forward on his twisted obsidian throne, scowling. His black glare leapt from Roark to Macaroni to Kaz, who was now a Level 5 Thursr, capable of rivaling any of the cronies Ugoraz had stationed around the room.

“Somebody’s been busy,” the Overseer sneered, lips curling back to reveal wicked teeth. “We ain’t seen no heroes this far into the citadel in a flea’s age. Guess now we know where they been goin’.” His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared.

“I’ve come to challenge you for the position of Floor Overseer,” Roark said, raising his rapier in invitation.

The Brute threw back his fat head and cackled, the sound echoing off the walls like a rockslide.

“With that little needle? It’ll take more’n a stolen pretty to kill me, flea.” Ugoraz hefted himself from his throne with a groan and stomped down from the dais, the floor trembling slightly at his passing. “I’m goin’ to rip your head off and mount it on a spike with the rest of my collection. Make it an even fourteen.”

Roark forced a cold grin. “I’m going to toss your head out with the trash so it won’t stink up my throne room.”

A page full of text appeared before Roark’s eyes. His heart thundered at suddenly losing sight of his enemy at the critical moment, and he frantically tried to close the book, but it wouldn’t obey. After a few seconds of panic, Roark realized Ugoraz wasn’t taking the opportunity to attack while he was blind. Wary of a trap, he hurried to read through the stubborn notice.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Getting a Head in Life

You have challenged Ugoraz the Vile for the position of First Floor Overseer!

Objective: Kill Ugoraz the Vile in single combat.

Reward: Become the new First Floor Overseer; command and deploy First Floor mobs; create and alter Level One floor map; 1,000 Experience

Failure: Die at the hand of Ugoraz the Vile in single combat.

Penalty: No respawn.

Restrictions: No assistance; no Health Vials may be used.

Accept Quest? Yes/No

╠═╦╬╧╪

The terms of the duel, it seemed.

Taking a steadying breath, Roark accepted the quest. The box disappeared and Ugoraz launched himself across the floor at Roark. Cursing himself for being caught off guard, Roark backpedaled. He was too slow. A massive left hand with meat-hook claws slammed into the side of his face, ripping his ear and jaw to shreds, and taking a chunk of his Health with it. A right hand followed, and already the left was wheeling back around for another strike.

The shock melted away in a flood of adrenaline, and Roark realized that Ugoraz was executing a modified passato with mandritto and squalembrato cuts. Excellent for backing an opponent into a corner for the kill. It had a flaw, however: too much of a commitment of momentum for such a large body at such a high speed could end in disaster.

By the grace of Dexterity points alone, Roark sidestepped the next swing and let the Brute go barreling past him. The rapier whispered through the air, scoring a deep notch in Ugoraz’s side, blood drooling down.

A sliver of the Overseer’s red Health bar disappeared.

Well, he’d come into this knowing it wasn’t going to be easy. Time to bring out the loaded dice.

Roark touched the tip of the Maple Wand to his leather-clad chest, casting a Level One Immunity on himself.

[Target is unaffected by sucking mud for thirty seconds.]

Ugoraz spun his huge bulk around and charged Roark again, head down like a water bison rampaging across the grassy steppes of distant Kurikanai. Roark tapped the wand on the floor, firing off the second spell in a flash of green-brown light.

[A pit of sucking mud with a radius of fifteen feet and depth of two feet opens in the floor for thirty seconds.]

When he’d written it, his Initiate’s Spell Book had declared that the spell would mire creatures Level 1-6 in the mud for the duration, and slow creatures Level 7-12 by 25%, but Ugoraz still seemed to be moving at a fair pace toward Roark. Fetid, mossy brown mud splashed up into great rooster tails in the Brute’s wake as he lunged.

Roark danced across the sucking mud as if it were still solid stone and cast his first Level Two spell on himself, increasing his speed by 30%. The mud pit’s sudden appearance in the middle of the throne room had surprised Ugoraz, but the Brute was quickly regaining his bearings. The Overseer shot forward; wind whistled by Roark’s ear as a huge fist nearly took off his head in passing.

Determined not to miss his opportunity while inside Ugoraz’s measure, Roark ducked and dodged the meaty fists flashing at his face and tapped the Brute’s flabby arm with the Maple Wand, casting his other Level Two spell, Slow Opponent. He darted outside Ugoraz’s reach, carving another notch along the Overseer’s heaving, mud-splattered side with the rapier. Another pitifully small portion of the Brute’s Health disappeared.

For the moment, the Level 12 and Level 6 were matched at equal speed.

Roark darted in. This would be his only chance to use the rapier effectively. Once the spells wore off, Ugoraz would have the speed advantage once more.

The Overseer roared in fury, swinging a massive hammer fist at Roark’s head. Roark lashed out with the rapier, slicing the incoming hand mezzo tempo as if it were Ugoraz’s sword arm, then pulled his body out of line to whip a quick riverso tondo across the back of the Brute’s thigh.

Roark expected Ugoraz to twist in the mud trying to follow him, but the Overseer let his momentum carry his huge body around the opposite direction. His flabby arm dipped down as he spun, and he launched it at Roark’s face. Roark managed to snap his eyes shut before the rancid mud splattered into them, but he couldn’t afford to keep them closed. He dragged a leather sleeve across his face and blinked, but the wet muck ran off his eyelashes and into his eyes.

[You have been temporarily blinded! Vision decreased by 100% for (10) seconds.]

Damn it all, Roark cursed as he stabbed and slashed in the sinking muddy darkness. That was a bloody dirty, underhanded trick, and he should’ve thought of it first! He’d fallen into the trap of relying on magick when a handful of mud would’ve been just as effective. Worse yet, ten seconds would eat through nearly half his remaining movement bonus. Roark scrubbed desperately at his eyes, taking wide swings with his rapier dalla spalla, from the shoulder, both to fend Ugoraz off and to give himself some warning when the Brute was closing in.

For a moment, Roark thought he felt the resistance of flesh on the foil.

Then a sledgehammer of pain crushed his nose flat and sent him slapping across the mud pit like a skipping rock. Red drained from his Health vial, dropping him to three-quarters. The rapier was gone. He rolled onto his stomach, hands blindly raking the stinking mud in search of his blade.

A foot the size of a pumpkin slammed into Roark’s side, snapping ribs like dry reeds and driving the air from his lungs. He collapsed facedown in the muck, lungs bucking frantically, desperate for air that wouldn’t come. Health trickled away with every suffocating second that passed. Another enormous kick flipped him over, laying him flat on his back, half in half out of the sucking mud. His Health vial dipped below half.

Then suddenly Roark was lying on cold, uneven stone. The putrid mud pit was gone, taking the rancid stench of tidal swamp with it. The mud disappeared from his eyes, and the throne room came back into focus. From the corner of his eye, he saw Macaroni struggling madly in Kaz’s arms, snarling and trying to break free. The Thursr bearhugged the salamander around its fat-padded belly, holding the creature back through sheer force of will.

A vast shadow of flab and muscle stood over Roark, wide fists interlaced and slicing down through the air to smash his head.

In a blink, Roark cast Fireball at Ugoraz and threw himself into a roll. He didn’t see the spell land, but Roark heard the Brute roar as the double-fisted blow glanced off his right shoulder, deadening everything from Roark’s neck to his fingertips, and sucking away another measure of his Health.

As Roark stumbled to his feet, his lungs finally realized their mistake and dragged in a throat-scraping but gloriously sweet breath. The trickle of red lost to asphyxiation stopped. Roark’s boot hit against something, and metal clattered across the floor. The rapier. But he was down to less than half a vial of Health; another fist to the face would more than likely kill him. The rapier was out of the question, and he couldn’t afford the HP cost of casting the Spectral Hands spell he’d inscribed.

Ugoraz—obviously enjoying the return of his full speed—shot toward Roark like a diving raptor. Thinking quickly, Roark pointed the wand and cast his last ranged spell, a Level One Ball Lightning.

The Spell Book gave the odds of Ball Lightning knocking back the target as 25%. Ugoraz wasn’t thrown backward by the crackling ball of elemental force, but it did slam the Brute to a stop, his loud oof ringing off the walls of the throne room.

Roark ran, scooping up his dropped rapier just in case the Overseer got any ideas about using it. Just because Ugoraz had called it a little needle didn’t mean he would be opposed to sticking a few new holes in Roark with it.

As he ran, Roark stowed the blade, trading it out for the Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter he’d taken in his second attack on PwnrBwner_007. Immediately, a quiver bounced against his back. He spun around to face the charging Brute and ripped a Shoddy Iron Arrow from the quiver with smooth, practiced ease. Drawing the bow was harder than he’d expected. He was low on Health and Strength, and like all the men in his family, he’d always preferred to hunt with the traditional spear. But the bow was the only ranged weapon he had left. He loosed the arrow. It thudded into Ugoraz’s chest, barely affecting his Health bar.

Fingers moving as fast as the drawing speed bonus of the enchanted bow would allow, Roark drew and let fly three more arrows in quick succession while stumbling backward. Two hit Ugoraz, one flew wide. Still the Brute’s Health bar hovered above three-quarters full. And still the enraged Overseer barreled at him, huge legs gaining ground faster than Roark’s tiny ones could put it between them.

Roark drew and fired one final time before Ugoraz hurtled into him. One huge paw closed around Roark’s throat. The other slammed into his Changeling potbelly. His Health vial plummeted below a tenth and began flashing critical.

The throne room listed at an insane angle as Ugoraz ripped Roark from his feet. For a heartbeat, he was weightless, staring at the ceiling. Then the fist crushing his airway changed directions. Roark felt his arms and legs flapping around like a rag doll as his body screamed toward the stone floor and forever-death.

TWENTY-ONE:

Getting Ahead

Time seemed to slow to a crawl. With numb fingers, Roark fumbled in the breast pocket of his leather armor. He dug out the scroll and cast Champion Strength on himself.

A burst of brilliant light flared as the scroll disappeared, turning to ash in his hand. Health poured back into Roark’s filigreed vial, sending comforting warmth flowing through his veins and renewed vitality surging through his limbs. That heat and energy morphed, intensified, as his flesh filled with a strange bubbling sensation. In a blink, his scrawny Changeling body tripled in size, muscles swelling, and his Strength shot to that of a Level 12 Troll.

Held as he was in Ugoraz’s grasp, Roark was in a prime position to watch the Overseer’s ugly face twist with shock and outrage as the tiny sunken-chested, potbellied creature he’d been about to crush into paste grew into a musclebound beast. By the time Roark’s body slammed into the hard stone floor below, what should have been a crushing blow barely stunned him.

With only thirty seconds to kill the Overseer before the spell wore off, Roark launched into motion. He grabbed Ugoraz’s wrist and ripped the Brute’s paw away from his throat, twisting it until Ugoraz howled in pain and came up onto his claw-tipped toes, desperate to take the pressure off. With a jerk on the tortured arm, Roark pulled Ugoraz down and slammed his newly huge elbow into the Overseer’s porcine nose.

This time the Overseer’s red bar dropped by a sight more than a sliver.

Still, it wasn’t enough to end him before the time ran down. Roark let go of Ugoraz and pulled out his rapier and dagger, one weapon in each hand. The Strength spell affected the weapons as well, it seemed—the rapier was now as long and notched as a battle-scarred zweihander, and the dagger closer akin to a wicked short sword.

Realizing that ripping Roark’s head off barehanded was no longer an option now that they were nearly the same size, Ugoraz took his hands away from his blood-slicked face and produced a long black whip with five tails—the wicked elder sister of the cat-o’-nine-tails—each of its lashes studded with rusty, crescent-shaped blades.

Before Ugoraz could put enough distance between the two of them to use the evil-looking whip, Roark lunged inside his guard and spun, slashing the dagger and rapier across the Overseer’s chest and gut, leaving deep gashes in their wake. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ugoraz’s Health drop below the halfway mark. Roark let the momentum carry his Strength-transformed body full circle, then plunged the dagger into the Overseer’s neck.

The red bar over Ugoraz’s head dropped to critical and began flashing.

The Brute roared, and a pulsing bloody red aura surrounded him, thrumming like a heartbeat. Roark danced left, ducking below a wild swipe, then lunged in with his rapier, prepared to end the disgusting creature for good. Ugoraz was ready, however, and deflected the blow with the whip handle, then planted a foot in Roark’s gut, sending him stumbling backward over the uneven floor. The enraged Overseer lashed out with the whip. Crescent-shaped blades clashed together with strangely musical discord as they followed the sinuous path of the tails, then hissed through the air at Roark’s face.

Roark dropped into a roll, throwing himself back toward Ugoraz. While the Brute had that whip, Roark couldn’t afford to get outside arm’s reach. He came up at Ugoraz’s feet and scored a deep slice across the back of the Brute’s heel, following this with a sottomano up Ugoraz’s back. The Overseer cried out, dropping to one knee as his mutilated tendon gave way.

A disproportionately small bit of red disappeared from the Health bar over Ugoraz’s head. Ugoraz was tough, no doubt, but far from invincible. That damned bloody aura surrounding Ugoraz was somehow blunting Roark’s attacks, and he had only five seconds to go before his Champion Strength ran out.

Desperate, Roark grabbed the dagger from Ugoraz’s throat and pulled it free, sending a spray of Troll blood arcing across the room. Ugoraz spun around and swung the whip at him. The crescent blades sang out their metallic melody, but Roark refused to waste his opening shielding himself. Sometimes a little pain was worth the reward. Stepping forward to lend the weight of his body to the thrust, Roark plunged the cruel dagger into Ugoraz’s eye while simultaneously running the rapier through the Brute’s wide chest, skewering him like a roast pig.

The whip wrapped its length around Roark’s Champion-Strength-enlarged shoulders and embedded their cruel edges in the thick slabs of muscle covering his chest, cutting deeply into his regained Health. But as he watched, Ugoraz’s red bar emptied. The Brute’s remaining eye widened and his mouth dropped open in baffled shock, expelling one last stench-filled puff of breath in Roark’s face. Then the Brute crumpled to the floor. Dead.

The bubbling sensation returned, only this time Roark’s limbs were reverting. Shrinking. He winced as the crescent blades lost purchase in his flesh without the slabs of muscle to cling to. They dropped, clattering on the flagstones.

Slowly, the tunnel vision Roark had developed during the battle widened to include the rest of the throne room. The place could’ve been peopled by statues rather than living, breathing Trolls. None of Ugoraz’s Thursr cronies so much as breathed. They all stood staring down at their defeated leader, thick jaws hanging open. Even Kaz looked as if he couldn’t believe Roark had survived.

Not just survived, but won.

Finally, Macaroni wriggled free and scurried across the floor, his sticky feet slapping on the stones. He chirped excitedly at Roark, waggling his paddle tail as he looked from Roark to the fallen Overseer then back again. Roark gave in and scratched the beast’s bulbous head.

Macaroni’s chirping seemed to bring the rest of the Thursrs to their senses. They all dropped to one knee and bowed their misshapen heads to Roark, Kaz included.

Before Roark could protest the gesture, another page filled with text appeared before his face. Without the panic of the impending fight interfering, he realized that it was a page from his mystic grimoire, the top marked with a ribbon reading Quests.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Congratulations! You have completed the quest Getting a Head in Life!

You may ascend to the throne as Floor Overseer for The Cruel Citadel Level 1!

To accept position as Floor Overseer, take a seat on the throne.

To reject position as Floor Overseer, leave the throne room without taking a seat on the throne.

Warning: If you leave the room without accepting the position as Floor Overseer, you will not be able to return and accept later.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Roark closed out of the grimoire. The wet slap of Macaroni’s feet on the floor followed him to the front of the throne room. None of the Thursrs from Ugoraz’s rule made a move to challenge him, though Roark knew this would be the perfect time to stage a secondary coup, while he was weakened from the fight and before he’d taken control of the throne and the benefits that came with it. But they let him climb the dais uncontested.

Wary of some sort of trap, Roark pulled one of the Modest Health Potions from his Inventory and gulped it down before climbing the dais. The liquid inside was an unnatural shade of magenta, and it tasted like a mulberry wine someone had loaded down with sugar. Nearly made the teeth ache, that. He regarded the bottle, and a brief flash of text appeared: Brought to you by Mountain Dew Code Red! Thanks for drinking! He dismissed the wording with a confused shake of his head. The warmth and vitality surging through his veins were well worth the awful flavor. As the cuts and bruises covering his body healed, Roark chased that potion with one more, topping off his Health vial.

Now with enough Health to risk searching out a trap, Roark ran his hand over the obsidian seat and back between the twisted and spiked arms of the throne. No mechanisms or slots for hidden spring blades. If there were pinholes for stickdeath needles, he didn’t see them.

Around the room, the Thursrs were still kneeling, though now they were watching him. Kaz’s face shined, and the black plumage in his antlered headdress trembled with his excitement. The rest seemed to be reserving judgment—waiting, perhaps, to see what sort of leader Roark would be.

Without further ceremony, Roark took a seat on the twisted throne. Immediately, a new grimoire appeared before his eyes, the pages marked with ribbons labeled Troop Management and Floor Design.

[Congratulations! You have ascended to Floor Overseer on The Cruel Citadel Level 1!

From the Overseer’s Throne, you may command and deploy mobs throughout the first level, create and alter the layout of the floor, and purchase resources or upgrades for the rooms.]

Fascinated, Roark flipped through the pages. Under Troop Management, he found a roster of all the Infernal creatures on the first floor, along with their statuses, and a simple map showing their current location. A few of the Changelings and Reaver Bats who’d been killed when the salamander-slaying heroes had returned for their griefing were marked as deceased/respawning. Beside that was a small countdown clock, displaying the time until they reappeared. The rest of the troops, however, seemed to be active, their dots roaming the map in prescribed routes.

Roark also found that he could alter the creatures’ scripts. The Level 1 Stone Salamanders all seemed to be set to camouflage themselves and try to run away if a hero came within fifteen feet. Roark chose the salamander at the top of the list and erased the command to run, then wrote in a new one and accepted the changes. Now if a hero came within fifteen feet, the little beast would camouflage itself and attack the hero. It’d be interesting to see how that Stone Salamander’s next encounter played out. He made a mental note to come back when he had redesigned the floor layout and change the scripts for all of the creatures on the first floor to something a bit more pragmatic.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Roark registered cold, velvety flesh burrowing between his back and the throne. Macaroni’s head pushed out under his right arm, and the creature’s paddlelike tail curled around his left side. It wasn’t fearsome, but it did make the unforgiving stone seat a bit more bearable.

Roark turned to the page marked Floor Design.

At the top was a detailed map of the first floor’s hallways and rooms, each door, chest, trap, and bit of furniture carefully depicted. After a little tinkering, Roark found he could move and change the corridors, placing new turns or removing them so that the hall ran straight. The first floor had 100 points to invest in different rooms and furnishings, each of which had a different point cost. By moving the points around and investing them in different places, he could add traps, hides, weapon racks, and utility rooms like kitchens, forges, Infernal shrines, or arcane workshops. As long as he stayed within the allotted points, he could redesign the level to suit any purpose he wanted.

Grinning like mad, Roark studied the points distribution. This was exactly what he’d needed. With a forge and arcane workshop down here, he could set to work building weapons and armor for the Trolls that would rival any the heroes brought in. Kaz’s enormous, excitable heart would fail when he found out Roark could put in a kitchen.

But first, there was business to take care of. Reluctantly, he closed the Overseer’s grimoire and stood. The Thursrs all lowered their heads again, a few scraping their noses against the floor.

“All right, all of you get up,” Roark said. He jerked his head at Kaz to lead the crowd. Kaz scrambled to his feet, the plumage on his antlered headdress dancing. A moment later, the rest of the throne-room Trolls followed suit. “If you want to stay and fight, show me your loyalty by defeating our common enemy, the heroes. If you can’t stomach me as a leader, you’re welcome to leave the citadel or migrate to a lower floor. Either way, I don’t want your contrived shows of obeisance. I’m not going to execute you for thumbing your nose at me—at times, I might even deserve it—but be advised, if you come after me, I will make an example of you.”

Roark let the open challenge hang in the air for a few moments before continuing.

“Those of you who are going, go.” He gestured toward the shadowy archway behind the throne that led down to the second floor. “The rest of you, we’ve got raids to prepare for.”

Conditions laid out, Roark waited to see how many of the Thursrs from Ugoraz’s regime would leave.

None did.

Roark nodded and clapped his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s get to work, then.”

TWENTY-TWO:

Down, Down, Down

Roark the Griefer’s first order of business as Floor Overseer was to loot his predecessor. Ugoraz had quite a bit of gold on him—210 pieces—but almost nothing else excepting the five-tailed Lash of the Waning Blood Moon.

╠═╦╬╧╪

Lash of the Waning Blood Moon

Damage: 29 - 36

Range: 20 ft

Durability: 63 of 66

Level Requirement: 4

Dexterity Requirement: 16

Constitution Requirement: 20

Whip Class Weapon – Enchanted

When wielder’s Health drops below 25%, wielder goes into a blood rage, dealing 2x damage to opponents while taking 50% damage.

╠═╦╬╧╪

That explained the pulsing red aura Ugoraz had erupted in. Roark stored the whip in his Inventory, then attempted to split the gold with Kaz and the Thursrs.

They were all staring at him. Meaty jaws hung open showing rows of serrated teeth, and onyx eyes stared, horrified.

Roark sighed.

“Even you, Kaz?” He’d thought because Ugoraz was a Troll, not a hero, and Roark had rightfully defeated him in single combat, the headdress-wearing Thursr wouldn’t have a problem with looting the body. Well, less of a problem, anyway. “All right, why don’t you want a share of Ugoraz’s loot?”

“Because it belongs to the Dungeon Lord,” a dusky voice said.

The five Thursrs turned as one, eyeing the corner of the throne room, just to the right of the dais. Roark followed their line of sight to a level-six female Reaver with midnight blue skin leaning casually against the arched stone doorway there, one foot propped up on the wall. Her face was hidden in the shadows of a dark hood, white ringlets spilling out from inside. The hood itself was attached to a scrap of leather bodice armor that concealed surprisingly little and would only protect her from opponents with exceptionally bad aim. Terribly impractical, or so it seemed to him.

Roark frowned. “I defeated Ugoraz in single combat.”

“And that gives you the right to the Floor Overseer position,” the Reaver replied coolly, kicking off from her perch and taking a few aimless steps toward the dais. “But the weapons, gold, and anything else the previous Overseer had on him at the time of death belong to Dungeon Lord Azibek the Cruel. If Azibek wants you to have a piece of the action after that”—she shrugged and spread her hands—“well, he’ll decide how it’s distributed.”

Just one more way to make sure the whole citadel, from the first floor to the last, relied on its tyrant.

“I suppose you’re here to collect?” Roark guessed.

Both her forearms were wrapped from knuckle to elbow with leather strips. She fiddled with them as she answered.

“You could say that.” From the tone of her voice there was a smile somewhere inside that hood. “The Dungeon Lord has summoned you to the final level. You can bring an honor guard if you feel like it, and since you’ll be down there already, you can make yourself useful and drop off his gold and weapons.”

There was less than thirty minutes left before PwnrBwner_007 and his party respawned, and Roark was eager to get to work redesigning the floor layout, not to mention get a forge up and running, but he got the feeling this wasn’t an invitation he could decline.

“If I refuse?” he asked.

That time, Roark caught a definite glint of tooth inside the hood. The Reaver took a step backward into the shadows beside the door and crouched. Then she was gone, leaving nothing but a puff of black smoke behind.

A moment later, a leather-wrapped hand landed on his shoulder and a warm bodice pressed against his back. Black smoke curled around his legs as the cold metal of a blade caressed his throat.

“I don’t know,” the Reaver said, the smugness loud in his ear. “The smart Trolls tend not to say no to me. I think it’s my winning personality. That or the poison.”

She held her palm out in front of his face, revealing a row of needles like tiny thorns sticking out of the leather wrappings. In the corner of his eye, his filigreed Health vial flashed green.

A notice appeared just late enough to be completely useless.

[You have been Poisoned!

Initial Damage: -20% Health

Damage Over Time: -2 HP / sec for 2 minutes

Drink an Antidote to stop the effects.]

Roark dismissed the alert and opened his Inventory, going for the Antidote he’d harvested off the griefed heroes.

Naturally, it was gone.

“Guess again, hot stuff.” The Reaver stepped around him and headed for the arched doorway, waving a glowing green Antidote potion over her shoulder. “You can have it back if you’re good.”

Outconned twice in less than an hour. Roark scowled. Being a Changeling must be killing his brain cells.

Roark jerked his head at Kaz. “Let’s go.”

The poisoned Changeling and Thursr ducked through the doorway and onto a shadowy flight of stairs lit at intervals by dancing torchlight. The soft slap of Macaroni’s sticky feet followed them, and when Roark looked up he could see the telltale distortion slithering along the arched ceiling. On the landing below, the Reaver was waiting for them.

By the time they caught up to her, Roark’s heart was thudding madly against his ribs, and his skin burned even though it was slick with cold sweat.

“I’m not going to survive this staircase, let alone the entire citadel,” he said, wiping a sheen of perspiration from his brow. “We’re doing as you said. Give me the Antidote and we’ll keep following.”

She snorted. “I saw your stash of Modest Healing Potions, Griefer. You’ll manage just fine.”

Grudgingly, Roark pulled one out and downed it. The sugary magenta swill took the edge off the poison, but his skin still burned like a hot iron. Most of his Health flowed back into the filigreed vial, but it remained green rather than red, and continued to drain in slow, steady increments.

They continued down the winding stairs and came out in a sprawling torture chamber that put Marek Konig Ustar’s nastiest prisons to shame. Cages lined the walls and hung from the ceiling, many covered in still-wet gore, others containing grinning skeletons, many of them Troll. Every device of torment imaginable—and a few unfathomable—were scattered around the room, interspersed with blood-soaked tables. At the far end, a cart full of dismembered and decaying body parts sat next to a raging furnace.

Roark couldn’t hear Macaroni anymore, but he thought it likely the Stone Salamander was keeping watch from above. He hoped.

Thursrs milled around the room, and Reavers skulked in and out of the shadows like vengeful wraiths. Much like the Changelings in the antechamber above, the Trolls of the second floor seemed to spend all their time growling at one another or fighting over sloshing flagons of ale that smelled as if it had already gone skunky.

As Roark watched, a Reaver—this one with a glowing wand—sent an icy spike through the kidney of a level-six Thursr. Two more Reavers and another Thursr pounced on the injured Troll, taking it down like a pack of rabid wolves.

As if he’d forgotten his newly evolved size and strength, Kaz skittered closer to Roark. Roark kept his rapier in hand, wishing he had more than just the Spectral Hands spell available for use. He’d seen similar scenes taking place across Traisbin in squalid stretches of city where the populace had been strangled by the noose of poverty. Crushed under the bootheel of the Tyrant King until all humanity was bled out of them, they turned on the only people they could: each other.

“Nice place, this,” he remarked, taking a long look around.

“If you like this, you’re going to love Level Three,” their hooded guide said, leading them through a crumbling doorway at the back of the room.

“Things going that well under Azibek’s reign, then?”

Beside Roark, Kaz gasped and flinched at the mention of the Jotnar Exarch’s name. The Reaver’s step faltered, but only for a fraction of a second.

“Careful how you let that big mouth run, Griefer,” she said. “There are some down here who might mistake your criticizing the Dungeon Lord for sedition. Never takes long for talk like that to make its way back to the boss.”

Roark glanced sidelong at the hood. “Carried by people like his runner?”

A thoughtful quiet crept over her. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said after a beat, “I like having my limbs torn off by rabid Goliath Bats as much as the next Troll, but it’s not me I’m talking about. You can’t throw a knife down here without hitting someone stealthing in the shadows.”

They passed into another huge open room, this one filled with iron cages on spits over open pits of lava, many containing burnt corpses. The molten rock bubbled and hissed. All along the far wall were heavy wooden doors, their dark planks rotting and hinges rusty. The Reaver passed the first three and opened the fourth, ducking inside without waiting to see if Roark and Kaz would follow.

They found themselves in another throne room, this one lit by troughs of flowing lava that lined each wall, and decorated with more delightful offerings from the tormented nightmares of bloodthirsty torturers. Three huge Brute Thursrs and one skeletal Elite Reaver stood guard over the chamber, each one pierced and studded with sharp bits of rusty metal. At the far end, an overmuscled Thursr Behemoth—easily twice the size of Ugoraz the Cruel—overflowed a throne made of human, olm, elf, rog, and Troll skulls, his body a pincushion of rusty spikes.

The Behemoth growled as they passed, but the hooded Reaver tipped him a cheerful wave and continued on her way.

Roark’s Health had sunk back down below three-quarters, but he waited until he and Kaz had ducked into the spiraling stone stairwell off to the side of the skull throne before downing another potion. The last thing he needed was to show weakness in a place like this.

In the close quarters of the staircase, Roark picked up the sound of Macaroni’s footsteps once again. The beast had kept pace with them throughout the wide vaulted ceilings of the last floor.

Finally, as they reached the bottom of the steps, Roark’s filigreed vial flashed again and returned to red. The poison counter had finally run out. He topped off his Health with one more magenta concoction, then followed the Reaver into a dark stone corridor, Kaz close on his heels.

“I wouldn’t,” the Reaver said, her voice heavy with threat. “Dungeon Lord’s business.”

Before Roark could ask what she meant, a low grumbling came from a gloomy corner. He could just barely make out the shape of another Reaver hunched down as if preparing to attack, then it vanished. Black mist wafted across their path from its direction.

Through the gloom, Roark caught their guide messing with the leather wrappings on her hands again. He thought he saw a flat blade disappear into them.

“Nicely spotted,” he told her with an approving nod.

A few seconds passed before she responded, and Roark thought it was likely she’d been deciding whether he was being sarcastic. He had that effect on people sometimes. The quick ones, mostly, as they tended to be the most cagy.

“Used to be my spot,” she said, shrugging one barely armored shoulder. “You can usually take down a hero or two in the bottleneck before the rest of their party realizes what’s happening. Three, if you’re as fast as me.”

In spite of having been poisoned and pickpocketed by the hooded wench just two floors ago, Roark found himself grinning at her boasting.

“Are you as fast on your back as you are on your feet?” he asked, trying to strike a nerve. “Is that why Azibek chose you as his messenger?”

“I suspect it had more to do with my willingness to kill with little or no provocation,” the Reaver responded easily. “Especially those smaller than me.”

Roark chuckled. She might be working for the despot oppressing this place, but he could appreciate a good contratempo when he heard one.

At the end of the winding corridor, they stepped out into a poorly lit nave, its pillars stretching up into a cathedral ceiling painted with chipped and fading scenes that appeared divine or profane depending on which way the pale blue witch lights wandering between the rotting and burnt wooden pews below hit them. The silence was like a heavy blanket, and even the muffled sound of their feet on the stone floors seemed to profane it. Shadows skulked around the room—hulking Thursr Behemoths and gaunt Dread Reavers in dark leather armor. Sitting in the chancel at the head of the nave was an armored Thursr Knight on a wide scorched wood throne. The wide rack of stag horns on her helm turned to follow them as they passed through to the carved door below.

There was no staircase to be found. Instead, they navigated claustrophobic dirt tunnels interspersed with glowing Infernal shrines, each one splattered with blood and several adorned with entrails. The ceilings were so low that Kaz had to stoop to follow, and even then the plumage on his antlered headdress whispered along with dirt above. Green bioluminescent fungi lined the walls, giving off just enough light to avoid the occasional pit trap and ambush set up at blind corners. Sullen Dread Reavers and hungry-looking Elemental Thursrs glowered at them from shadowy alcoves, but the hooded Reaver’s presence seemed to be holding the would-be attackers at bay.

Or rather, her connection to the Jotnar Exarch who presided over this citadel did.

Like an infectious disease, the silence of the nave seemed to have seeped into their bodies. None of them said a word until they came to the final shrine at a wide intersection, where a dark-robed Reaver Shaman was presiding over a living sacrifice. The sacrificial Troll, a lowl-level Thursr, had been covered in phosphorescent Infernal runes and nailed to the floor with jagged stone spikes. He screamed and thrashed, trying to break free as the Shaman opened a nearby cage, releasing a Ravenous Hellbender—what looked to be Macaroni’s much larger, much uglier cousin—on him.

Roark grimaced as he tried to block out the wet sounds of tearing flesh and smacking lips. Beside him, Kaz’s eyes were the size of dinner plates and his blue skin had gone ashy gray beneath the dusting of white fur. Roark grabbed Kaz’s arm and turned the softhearted Thursr away from the gruesome scene, pushing him after their hooded guide.

But a deep rumbling growl followed by a gurgling bark caught Roark’s ear before they were out of the intersection. He turned back to find the Hellbender and Macaroni snarling at one another over the dying sacrifice. Macaroni had a hand hanging out of his mouth.

“Come on,” Roark snapped at the Stone Salamander. “Let’s go.”

Macaroni slurped down the hand, then stalked around the Hellbender, growling the whole time. When Roark was certain the little monster wasn’t going to go back for seconds, he headed in the direction he’d watched the female Reaver take. She was waiting for them at the mouth of the tunnel.

They stepped out of the cramped passages and into a seemingly endless underground cavern. A burbling river rolled lazily past their feet, reflecting ropes of bioluminescent blue algae that hung from the cavernous ceiling hundreds of feet overhead. Roark couldn’t help but tilt back his head and stare up at the blinking strands of algae in wonder. He’d never seen anything so beautiful.

“Are we still in the citadel?” he asked in a whisper.

“Sort of,” the Reaver said. She pointed in the direction of the river, toward a bright blue lake. “Go that way far enough, and you’ll come to the fifth-floor Overseer’s throne. But we’re headed this way.”

The Reaver turned the opposite direction and led the way across a hill and through a forest of tree-sized mushrooms. Each step stirred up the strange, wet grass, making it shimmer violet and emit a tinkling musical tone. Here and there decrepit stone structures sat falling into ruin, forgotten in this underground oasis. The Reaver ignored them all. Afar off, Roark could see high-level Thursrs and Reavers loitering alone or stalking one another, but the three of them didn’t get close enough to attract any unwanted attention.

After a time, they came to a sloping walkway that looked as if it grew directly from the ground and started up it. At the top lay a foreboding Keep made of stone and bone, its walls slumping with age, but more like a hoary, battle-scarred old wolf on the prowl than a crumbling fortress losing the battle with time.

“Welcome to the Keep,” the Reaver said with a finality that could only have meant they were looking at the sixth and final level of the citadel.

TWENTY-THREE:

Azibek the Cruel

Rather than take them in through the toothy maw of a portcullis, the Reaver gestured for Roark and Kaz to follow her around the side. Her hands flicked out with familiar ease, brushing over rocks, fingers probing for some unseen thing. After a brief moment, an audible click filled the air and a hidden door groaned open. Without a word, she ushered them into a dark, sloping passageway. At the end of the passage, she triggered another catch; a panel slid open, revealing a throne room dancing with firelight. Piles of gold and jewels littered the chamber, and a huge ornate chest stood in one corner, burning with eldritch power.

On the throne sat a colossal gray-skinned monster with stringy white hair. Roark had briefly seen this same creature before during his death and respawn. The Jotnar Exarch had been hewing down a party of heroes with that long-bladed Infernal scythe—the same rune-etched scythe currently resting across his lap.

“So we have a new Overseer,” Azibek the Cruel rumbled, his voice deep and yet whistling like the howl of a tornado just before it tears a home apart. The Exarch’s lightless black eyes swept over Roark and sized up Kaz. “A chip right off Ugoraz’s block—and a level before that dimwit managed to unseat Krotz.”

“N-n-n-no, not Kaz,” the terrified Thursr stammered. His entire body was trembling so hard that it made his headdress’s plumage dance like dead leaves in a stiff north wind. He pointed down at Roark with a claw-tipped finger. “Him.”

The room fell deathly quiet.

“A Changeling Overseer?” Azibek mused, his black eyes roving over Roark’s scrawny body. There was a brutal, uncanny intelligence there that made Roark’s skin crawl. “You defeated Ugoraz.”

It wasn’t spoken as a question, but Roark dipped his chin in acknowledgement. He felt as if the Exarch were looking directly into his mind and assessing the threat he posed. A level-six Changeling who hadn’t Evolved yet? Wouldn’t take much of a mental leap to figure out which path he was set on following.

After an infinity of scrutiny, the Exarch leaned back on his throne and cupped his leathery gray chin. “The Infernali valued ambition above all else and blessed those who possessed it mightily,” Azibek said. “But ambition was also their downfall. Have a care to keep yours in check, little Changeling, lest it treat you the same.”

Roark didn’t have to fake the undercurrent of fear as he forced a tense smile and said, “I know my place.”

A smile tugged at the corner of the Exarch’s lips at the evasive response. Roark had to make himself stand still and stare back into the endless black depths of Azibek’s eyes. This creature was no Marek Konig Ustar, but he was deadly dangerous all the same and possessed the same entitled air as the Tyrant King. This was a creature of power and rage. Looking into his gaze, it was easy to understand how Azibek had earned his moniker.

“All will go well for you if you do,” the Dungeon Lord said. Roark flinched as Azibek lifted the Infernal scythe from his lap, but the Exarch only used it to gesture at the crowd of high-level Trolls gathered around the room bedecked in various fine robes, leathers, or plate armor. “Behold, Changeling, the Troll High Court. Ugoku, Reaver Champion. Verisk, Reaver Shaman. Zul, Jotnar Soul-Cursed. Yarro, Thursr Knight. Lazjin, Thursr Elemental. Between them, there is Experience enough to bring this citadel and all of Hearthworld down around your ears.”

Roark bit his tongue before he asked them why they weren’t out bringing it down, then.

“And every one of them is willing to unleash their might on you the moment you step out of line,” Azibek continued, standing the scythe on end at his feet as he leveled his gaze at Roark once more. “Do we understand one another?”

Better than Roark would have liked. “Yes, Dungeon Lord.”

“Then let us move on to what will be expected of you. You’ve no doubt read through your floor and troop options?” The Exarch phrased it as a question, so Roark nodded confirmation. Azibek waved a hand tipped with talons the size of daggers. “Your predecessor didn’t care for reading, but luckily for him, he had an instinctual knowledge of the purpose dungeons like ours serve.

“Namely to grind down the adventurers a little bit at a time, leading them deeper and deeper into our citadel, tempting them forward until it is far too late to turn back. It is in service to this sacred calling that strict level caps are enforced on each floor. You yourself may remain on the first floor until you reach level thirteen—assuming you survive that long without being deposed—then you must migrate to the second floor and continue to grow or challenge the Overseer for control of the second floor.”

Azibek paused as if waiting for Roark to show that he understood so far, so Roark interjected a quick, “I see.”

“You’re allowed an honor guard while you’re Overseer,” Azibek continued. “On the first floor, this is no more than three creatures”—he thrust three enormous fingers into the air to emphasize the point—“each one of a level with you or lower. The rest of the creatures on your floor are welcome to migrate as soon as they reach level four, and all are required to do so at level seven. This tricks the players into a false confidence in their abilities, leading them ever downward, presenting them with new and more dangerous mobs—setting the trap.”

Roark allowed a scowl to cross his face, pretending to hurry to smooth it away.

The Exarch’s eyes narrowed at the expression, but a fanged smile stretched across his face.

“Yes, little Changeling?” Azibek asked, playing out just enough rope for Roark to hang himself. “You have an objection to the way of things, perhaps?”

“Doesn’t it seem a little strange to any of you that we set up our defenses specifically to attract murderous invaders to our citadel so they can butcher us over and over again?” Roark asked, looking away from Azibek for the first time and addressing the Troll High Court. “As if our sole purpose in life were to suffer and die repeatedly for the entertainment of foreign invaders? None of you feel as if you’ve been brainwashed into pouring out your blood for these raiders who have no right to our land or our possessions? None of you think that we should be the masters of our own domain, and they should fear to tread here?”

One by one the members of the High Court—so mighty when they were being held up as an example of what would happen if he stepped out of line—dropped their gazes or looked away. It was like that, then. They were no different than the Rebel Council back in Korvo, really. No, they were worse. They were the noble houses who flipped allegiances once it became clear that to fight against Marek’s invasion would be hard, exhausting, and require heavy sacrifice. They were the knights and mages who kowtowed to the Tyrant King, trying to appease him with their obedience because that easy road allowed them to keep living the lives of luxury they’d always enjoyed.

“No one?” Roark put on the most innocent face he was capable of and turned back to Azibek. “Never mind it, then. Me either.”

The Exarch chuckled, a sound like thunder rolling through the mountains.

“Accidents have a way of befalling those who can’t stop themselves from making waves, little Changeling,” Azibek said, his wicked grin baring fangs the size of Roark’s forearm. He glanced quickly toward the Reaver who’d escorted them down. “You won’t last long down here if you don’t watch that ambition.”

“I won’t take my eyes off it,” Roark promised.

Another eternity passed under the Exarch’s cold, searching glare. After a time, Roark began to fidget and squirm, feigning discomfort and trepidation. To Azibek, fear was an indestructible hold he couldn’t fathom any creature breaking free of, because cunning as he might be, if the roles were reversed, the Exarch would never be able to break free. As long as Azibek thought fear would keep Roark loyal, the Exarch had no reason to suspect Roark would disobey, much less set his sights on overthrowing him.

Finally, Roark pretended to break.

“These belong to you, Dungeon Lord,” Roark said begrudgingly, bringing out the gold and the Lash of the Waning Blood Moon he’d looted from the fallen First Floor Overseer. Even knowing the long-bladed scythe could separate his head from his body, Roark couldn’t bring himself to kneel to any tyrant, but he did lower his eyes to the floor as he piled the plunder at the feet of the Jotnar Exarch. “Taken from the stinking corpse of Ugoraz the Vile.”

“Under my reign, loyalty is always rewarded,” Azibek purred.

His enormous taloned hand nearly swallowed Roark’s scrawny Changeling torso. Roark risked a glance up at the Dungeon Lord.

“Roark the Griefer, I bestow upon you the Infernal Blessing of the Faithful Servant,” Azibek said, his malicious grin a clear indication that he knew how the epithet rankled Roark’s pride.

[Congratulations! Azibek the Cruel has given you the Infernal Blessing in return for paying the traditional homage to the rightful Lord of the Cruel Citadel with your spoils of war, also known as the Victor’s Tax. You have gained 500 Experience, and all spells inscribed in the next (8) hours are 50% more powerful!]

Golden light poured from Roark’s skin and an ascending chime rang through the Keep’s throne room. A round of raucous cheering and the slamming of maces on shields filled the throne room as if on cue, courtesy of the Troll High Court.

[LEVEL UP!]

[You have 10 undistributed Stat Points!]

With a thought, Roark dismissed the notifications. He didn’t want the Jotnar Exarch out of his sight for any longer than necessary.

“And here,” Azibek said as if it had only just occurred to him. “A boon, from the depths of my generosity.” Eyes sparkling, the Dungeon Lord plucked the crescent-bladed whip up from the pile of surrendered treasure and held it out to Roark as if he weren’t offering Roark what was already rightfully his. “Maybe you’ll surprise us all and live long enough to enjoy it.”

Roark pursed his thin lips and held the whip before him in both hands like the shackles of allegiance the gift was meant to be.

“I have every intention of it,” he said.

TWENTY-FOUR:

Partnerships

Azibek dismissed Roark, then nodded at the Reaver. She reopened the hidden panel and escorted them out of the Keep and back up through the tunnels. A brooding silence hung over the party as they navigated the floors. The Reaver fiddled with the leather wrappings around her hands, Kaz slowly came out of his paralyzed panic at having stood before the Dungeon Lord, and Roark calculated what it would take to depose the slimy bastard. Macaroni slithered along between Roark and the Reaver uncamouflaged, his bulbous head flicking around at every sound.

They were nearly halfway through the second level before the Reaver broke the silence.

“I suppose you think you got away with something back there,” she said, “planting ideas in high places.”

Roark snorted. “Those worthless sycophants? They haven’t got a full brain to share between them. I’d trade the lot for one stouthearted Kaz any day—” The Thursr beamed with pride at the vote of confidence. Roark turned his attention back to the shadowy depths of the Reaver’s hood. “—or one quick and deadly Reaver with a mind of her own.”

Her steps faltered and she swiveled to face him. “Who are you? What are you?”

At her sudden movement, Macaroni, still positioned between Roark and the Reaver, growled a low gurgling threat and pulled back his gray lips to bare rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“Stop it,” Roark ordered the salamander.

“I mean it,” the Reaver demanded, ignoring the growling beast at her feet. “You call out the Dungeon Lord’s practices to his face and then claim you were trying to sway the low-level runner who poisoned you to switch sides? You’re either a terrible strategist or a very bad liar.”

“How long have you had to fight and scratch your way up through the levels while your own kind cut you down from within?” Roark asked.

“You fight the heroes from the front, and you watch out for the friendly fire at your back,” she said as if challenging him to prove her wrong. “That’s the nature of life. Everyone knows it.”

“No, it’s the nature of what Azibek’s built,” Roark said. “He fosters the atmosphere of internal competition and paranoia so no one will band together and overthrow him. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

The Reaver snorted and spun on her heel, stalking down the hall, her steps as silent as the grave. Roark and Kaz hurried to follow, Macaroni keeping pace with them, tail twitching warily. They came out of the corridor into the second floor’s huge torture chamber. Rather than leading them to the stairs, however, the Reaver took a sharp left and halted beside the cart stacked high with body parts.

“Do you see this?” She pointed at the pile of decaying limbs awaiting disposal in the furnace. “This is what becomes of Trolls who talk like you do. And worse. You’d be surprised how much screaming is still left in a body once its arms and legs come off. How long it takes to roast alive over a lava pit or bleed to death on a rocking cradle. Longer if Azibek has a Shaman heal you up so the torturers can start again. Look around you,” she said, her voice harsh. “Is this what you want?”

As if her words had opened his eyes, Roark suddenly realized that the majority of the skeletons and rotting corpses in the cages lining the room or strapped to the tables were missing their limbs. But beneath the Reaver’s grim tone, there was a desperation burning, defying him to give her a reason to believe some other fate were possible.

Before Roark could respond, however, Kaz took a quick step forward, one clawed finger raised as if he were about to make a counterpoint.

A trio of flat-bladed knives appeared in the Reaver’s fingers, their edges oily with poison.

Macaroni lunged, and only Kaz’s quick reflexes and thick, tree-trunk arms stopped the salamander from taking a bite out of the Reaver’s leg. The beast squirmed and fought to break free of the Thursr’s grasp.

“Macaroni, stop!” Roark snapped. “She’s not going to hurt anyone.”

When the gurgling, growling, and barking didn’t stop, Roark glared at the Reaver meaningfully. After a moment, the knives disappeared back into her leather wrappings. Macaroni quieted, and Kaz set the beast down.

“Kaz used to think the same way,” the softhearted Thursr said to the Reaver, still watching the salamander out of the corner of his eye. “That there could be no change, and that life was only fighting and death and respawn. But Roark helped Kaz level up and Evolve! Kaz is a Thursr because of Roark. Roark showed Kaz that working together, we don’t have to stay mindless dungeon mobs trampled under the heroes’ feet.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The heroes’ or the Overseers’. We can do anything, become the masters of our own destiny … even learn to cook food.”

The Reaver’s hood swiveled from the earnest Thursr to Roark.

“I would’ve phrased it a bit differently,” Roark said with a shrug, “but essentially, he’s right. None of the lies you’ve been told about what you can and can’t do are true. I’m proof of that.” On impulse, he pulled the World Stone out of his leather armor. “If you’re tired of living under the thumb of that self-important tyrant while you watch your back for friendly fire, there’s a place for you in my honor guard.”

From the shadows of the hood, Roark felt keen eyes studying his face and the amber pendant dangling from his fist.

“How do you know I won’t go running back to betray you as soon as I say yes?” she asked.

“I don’t.” But he could tell a rebel when he met one. “But the fact that I’m trusting you not to is evidence enough that Trolls don’t have to sabotage and fight one another, isn’t it?”

“Or it’s evidence that you’re soft in the head,” she replied, her tone shifting back to its accustomed cynical bite. “But then, I must be too, if I’m considering this.” She crossed her arms. Sighed. “Fine. You only die ten thousand times; one of them might as well be for something.”

Roark reached out to take her by the shoulder, but she grabbed his wrist and held it fast, her grip like iron.

“Easy,” he said, opening his hands to show he meant no threat. “I have to touch you to trigger my Soul-Forge ability.”

“And I have to make sure you don’t have some poisoned payback in those hands,” she said, twisting his palms toward the firelight and inspecting them thoroughly. “Occupational hazard. You understand.”

Roark nodded. Once the Reaver had satisfied herself that he wasn’t trying to poison her, Roark placed his hand on her shoulder and triggered Soul-Forge.

[Current World Stone Authority: Greater Vassal 2 / 3]

[Use Soul-Forge? Yes / No]

Roark selected Yes. The pendant burned ice cold even through his leather armor, and the cloudy stone at its center shone with amber brilliance. The same bright amber light seeped from beneath his hand. When he released the Reaver’s shoulder, the handprint remained. He stared at it for a moment, fascinated by the way it contrasted with her midnight blue skin.

The nameplate floating over her hood changed from [Reaver] to [Zyra], and before Roark’s eyes a notice appeared.

[Zyra has become your Greater Vassal!]

The mystic grimoire opened itself to the Followers page, and he glanced over Zyra’s statistics.

As he closed out of the grimoire, the glowing mark on Zyra’s shoulder faded to invisibility.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it,” Roark said as if it were a small matter, though in truth, his stomach was churning with excitement. He’d taken the first-floor Overseer position, he was leveling quickly, and he was assembling a solid team to take over the citadel. He’d see this coup through yet and get home to finish off that bastard Marek.

“Then in my first act as part of your honor guard, I’d like to say that you’re a fool if you think Azibek doesn’t know what you’re doing,” Zyra said.

The four of them resumed the trek across the torture chamber toward the stairs.

“He definitely suspects,” Roark said, thinking back to the uncanny intelligence in the Exarch’s stare and his emphasis on keeping ambition in check. “But without an open challenge, he can’t kill me forever. Can he?”

“No, but he can kill you before you reach the level cap for Jotnar, dropping you back to level one,” she said. “And the smartest way for him to do that would be to plant an assassin as close to you as possible. Say, in your honor guard.”

Roark smirked. “Or he could just give his runner the nod to snuff me out on the way back to my floor.”

“You were paying attention then,” she said—equal parts statement and question.

“We could’ve found our way back without a guide,” Roark said, shrugging. “Any reason you chose not to? To murder me?”

“Any reason you waited to confront me about it until now?”

“I wanted to give you the chance not to.”

The hood shook, side to side. “That kind of thinking will get you killed.”

“Not now that I have an assassin in my honor guard to point it out to me,” Roark said.

Zyra laughed, the musical sound utterly out of place in the gory, stinking torture chamber.

“You definitely have the cunning of a Jotnar,” she said. “I hope you do make it to level eight.”

With that, she slipped through the arched doorway to the shadowy stairs. Roark watched her go.

A long black claw tapped Roark on the shoulder. Kaz was looking down at him.

“Kaz would not have let her kill Roark,” the Thursr insisted. “Kaz would have snapped her in half.”

“I know, mate.” He clapped Kaz on his huge arm. “Though I suspect you would’ve had to fight Macaroni for the pleasure.” Roark turned and jogged up the stairs.

Zyra had stopped at the top, just inside the first-floor throne room. When Roark reached the top step, her hood turned to regard him, then she stepped aside silently.

Every one of the throne-room Thursrs had been slaughtered and completely dismembered. Their body parts littered the floor, mixed in with tapestries and spiked heads torn from the walls. The glowing stained-glass windows were shattered and colorful shards littered the floor below.

Scrawled across the wall in thick Troll blood was a message:

PwnrBoner_OG was here! NO ONE griefs me, DICKFACE! Prepare for a world of hurt! I’m coming back for you and I’m gonna camp this level like I camped your mom! Roark the Griefer will pay!

“Friend of yours?” Zyra asked.

Roark’s fists shook at his sides, sharp Changeling claws biting into his leathery palms. He stalked to the twisted obsidian throne and sat. In response to his thoughts, the Overseer’s grimoire opened to Troop Management.

The simple floor map at the bottom of the page showed only corpses. The roster confirmed it—out of all the creatures on the first floor, only he, Kaz, Zyra, and Macaroni were still alive.

PwnrBwner_007 and his band had come through and decimated them.

Roark glared at the letters splashed across the wall, but he was really seeing Korvo—its sewers running with blood, its colorful homes and buildings burning while the Tyrant King looked on. He couldn't help but wonder if Marek had razed the city to the ground after Roark escaped him, just as PwnrBwner_007 had done here.  Were the heads of the whole T’verzet rotting on pikes outside a burnt-out ruin by now?

Roark turned to the Floor Design page. He had an hour before the Trolls and other creatures respawned, and he didn’t intend to waste it. PwnrBwner_007 was going to regret ever having set foot on his floor.

TWENTY-FIVE:

Death Trap

The first thing Roark did was tweak the layout of the floor. With only 100 points to distribute, inefficiency needed to go. Every space, every hallway, every blind corner needed a purpose.

He added a smaller antechamber and moved the great room where the Changelings and Reaver Bats usually grouped off a bit so they would have some warning when raiders came. Then he repurposed a few smaller corridors that branched off from the main passageway only to reconnect a few yards later; he simply erased their reconnection points, creating dead ends where he set up spring-loaded spears to stab out of the walls from both directions.

Next, he went through the level, disposing of several useless rooms—including the Stone Salamander nest and the cell where he and Kaz had first fought PwnrBwner_007’s party—and reinvesting those points into traps. Chests that exploded in deadly firebombs or nasty clouds of plague vapor. Enormous falling chandeliers. Hails of poisoned darts. Spiked grates that snapped shut against walls like standing Blackthorn Beds. True, the dungeon level would be smaller, but every inch of the space would be far deadlier. Quality over quantity.

While he worked, Roark heard footsteps around the throne room, things scraping on stone, and Kaz and Zyra speaking in hushed tones. At some point, Macaroni jammed himself between Roark and the back of the throne and curled up, snoring softly. Roark paid none of them any mind. All of his focus was absorbed in creating the perfect death trap of a dungeon.

There was a small part of Roark that wanted to spend all the floor’s building points on deadly traps—envisioning PwnrBwner_007 furiously cursing his name as the hero died in every single one—but Roark knew he needed to think longer term. The traps were expensive and, excepting the spiked grates which automatically reset themselves after springing, could only be used once per battle.

Weapons and armor, on the other hand, would benefit his troops and help them kill as many heroes as they pleased, not to mention help them level up. So, Roark invested a whopping ten points in a smithy, placing it near enough to the throne room that it would be handy. An arcane workshop would have been an ideal complement, but he wasn’t willing to spend another ten points on the whole room when he could toss an enchanter’s table into the smithy for a mere two points. He also added on a tanning rack for another two points, allowing him to work on leather armor. That left him with a handful of points to pour into the decrepit library, adding new shelves, a cartographer’s desk, and an enormous hanging map of Hearthworld.

It seemed like a solid, defensible layout. Plenty of ambush points, but also interconnected enough that his troops could escape from the heroes if they needed to. Roark was about to accept the changes when Kaz’s voice somehow broke through his focus.

“... and then we ate food! Not ale, food! Zyra can’t imagine the wonders of food. It warms the belly, filling the nose and mouth with flavors and smells so delicious! Roark promised to find Kaz a cookfire, and when he does, Kaz will make a stew. Kaz has read all about stew. It is meats cooked in a pot with vegetables and water. A true innovation.”

Cursing under his breath, Roark examined the floor map. Traps, smithy, library, but no kitchen. According to the list of options, cookfires weren’t available outside of kitchens. He could leave it out for now and swear to Kaz that he would add one later when there was more time and less pressure, but when would that ever be the case? The pressure never came off in a war, not truly. Besides, they would need to eat—armies needed food as surely as weapons and armor—and escaping to the marketplace whenever they required a meal hardly seemed practical.

Roark scratched the back of his neck and grudgingly inspected the layout of traps again, playing with points values in his head. If he got rid of one spring-loaded spear trap here and that plague cloud chest … He’d have to sacrifice the falling chandelier there, but that could easily be made up for by stationing a few Stone Salamanders on the ceiling instead …

A bit of finagling later, he had enough points for a proper kitchen. He added it in the far corner of the level near the great hall so Kaz could introduce the Changelings who gathered there to the miracle of food—maybe even help keep the little lushes sober enough to defend the place by balancing out their ale consumption. A prompt appeared:

[You have changed the floor layout of the Cruel Citadel Level 1! Changes will take place immediately, but no further changes can be made for (24) hours. Are you sure you wish to proceed?]

[Alter the Cruel Citadel Level 1? Yes/No]

Satisfied, Roark accepted the changes to the floor, then turned to Troop Management and began rewriting the scripted actions for each of the different categories of creature.

He adjusted the Changelings’ so that rather than running at attackers separately, relying on their teeth and claws against well-armed and armored heroes, they would attack together in groups of three or more. Likewise, he set the Reaver Bats to harry the heroes from above, and the Stone Salamanders to use their camouflage to get close enough for surprise attacks. If Zyra’s wariness was any indication, it would take some training to get all of them trusting each other enough to work together, but Roark was certain the time spent would be well worth the payoff when the first wave of heroes marched through.

He accepted those changes as well, then closed the Overseer’s grimoire and stood up from the twisted obsidian throne. Across the room, Kaz was scrubbing at PwnrBwner_007’s message with a fistful of torn tapestry, smearing the Troll blood around but failing to obscure the words. To his right, Zyra was throwing Troll heads on broken spikes and dismembered bits of Thursr down the stairs to the second floor. The ransacked chamber was very nearly back to normal, minus the row of staring heads. They must have been cleaning the entire time he was working.

The Reaver was the first to notice that Roark was no longer absorbed in his grimoire. She kicked the remaining pile of Thursr chunks down the stairs and clapped her hands together as if dusting them off.

“Done with your rage reading, then?” she asked.

“I am,” Roark said, unable to suppress a cockeyed smile. “Would the two of you like to see what it accomplished?”

“Kaz is almost finished.” The Thursr attacked the G in PwnrBwner_OG furiously. “Just a few more letters to go.”

Roark eyed the still mostly intact message. “Later, Kaz. I want your opinion on some of the changes I made.”

He led the two of them out of the throne room and through the newer, deadlier corridors, Macaroni following close by as Roark showed them the hidden trip wires and triggers and explained how each trap worked. Naturally, Zyra caught on to these quickly and began suggesting ideal placements for more.

“This is as many as I’m allowed to install through the Overseer’s throne,” Roark said, “but there’s no limit to how many we can improvise from materials around the level.”

“Like Roark and Kaz did with the pieces of the torture chamber,” Kaz said brightly, his big eyes shining with enthusiasm.

The Reaver clicked her tongue, annoyed. “Would’ve been nice to know that before I tossed all those heads down the stairs.” She sighed. “Now I’ll have to make a special trip to drag them back up. And we’ll need something else to slow down anyone Azibek might send up from below.”

Roark was curious what sort of trap she could fashion out of a baker’s dozen rotting heads, but Zyra didn’t elaborate. He decided to leave it a surprise.

Their next stop was the smithy, the room hotter than hells and cast in flickering red firelight. Roark filled his lungs with the smell of hot metal—a swirl of memories bringing a smile to his face—then set about laying out his plans for arming the first floor’s troops. Both of his vocal Greater Vassals agreed that smithing weapons was a good idea, but neither seemed terribly interested in the process or the individual components of the operation, so Roark left a closer inspection for later when he could do it alone.

From the smithy they went to the improved library. The new shelves were set up perpendicular to the old ones, adding scores of books as well as convenient hiding places for ambushes. Roark’s hands itched to search the pages of the new tomes, but he forced himself to be satisfied for the time being with running his fingers over their spines as he led Kaz to the cartographer’s desk. Delighted with the acknowledgment of his new Trade Skill—and the fact that there was something other than books to look at in the library—Kaz immediately plopped down and went to work testing it out.

Minutes later, the grinning Thursr handed Roark a detailed map of the lower floors of the citadel. It contained only the passages and rooms they’d been through or seen inside on their way to Dungeon Lord, but it was a brilliant start. Those maps would undoubtedly come in handy when it was time to take on Azibek and his cronies, especially if they could fill the rest of the levels in.

After the library, they toured the new, smaller antechamber at the bottom of the crumbling staircase from the bailey, where the heroes could either stick together and pick a direction or split up and follow both corridors—one to the library and the other to the great room. Roark took them through the great room, describing the attack formations he wanted to teach the Changelings and Reaver Bats once they respawned. Zyra seemed skeptical that he could convince a large group of Trolls used to fighting one another to trust one another long enough to band together, but Kaz was emphatic that it would work.

“Kaz will explain to them that he was a Changeling too once, but now he is a mighty Thursr because he worked together with Roark,” Kaz said, his voice cheery with optimism. “Every Changeling wants to become mighty. They will work together for that.”

While Kaz spoke, Roark led them down the final stretch of unexplored corridor. When they came out in the kitchen, the mighty Thursr fell silent.

A fire burned cheerfully in an enormous hearth complete with a spit large enough to roast a bison whole. Just outside, a thick iron arm with a hook on the end waited for a pot to be hung on it. Nearby sat a heavy scrubbed oak table with an assortment of knives stuck in a butcher block. Pots and pans and dried herbs hung along one wall over a set of low shelves and a series of bins, barrels, and sacks for storing ingredients.

Slowly, dazedly, Kaz shuffled through the room, touching things with the very tips of his huge calloused fingers as if he were wandering through a waking dream or some sort of holy place.

“Salt,” he whispered, dragging his claws through the sack full of white crystals in awe. He lifted up a handful and watched it run through his fingers. “So. Much. Salt.”

Then with a speed that belied his huge body, Kaz shot across the kitchen and crushed Roark’s tiny birdlike torso in his tree-trunk arms. Loud, wet sobs racked the mighty Thursr as he shouted nearly incoherent expressions of thanks directly into Roark’s ear and made promises of glorious stews, succulent roasted meats, and endless parades of spices, all enhanced with the wonder of salt.

When the storm of gratitude finally calmed enough for Roark to extricate himself, he patted the teary-eyed Thursr on the back and brushed away the wetness Kaz had left behind from his leather armor. Kaz’s reaction alone had been well worth the few traps he’d had to give up to purchase the kitchen.

“Kaz will begin cooking immediately,” the Thursr declared, puffing out his chest, back straight, hands planted on his hips. “Zyra has never eaten food before, and Kaz is starving. Roark must be hungry, too. Kaz will cook a meal to grief an army on!”

The hollow gnawing in Roark’s stomach agreed that a meal wouldn’t go amiss. A quick check told him that they still had a little more than an hour before the slaughtered creatures began respawning.

“You do that,” Roark said. “Macaroni and I are going to the smithy to start turning out weapons. Zyra—”

“Traps,” she said.

“Exactly. We’ll meet back here in an hour to fill our guts, then we’ll begin training the troops.”

TWENTY-SIX:

Hammer and Steel

The forge was bursting with heat by the time Roark returned. Macaroni chirped happily at the temperature change and immediately curled up along the stone side of the open forge next to the bellows. Not blessed with cold blood like the salamander, Roark stripped off his leather armor and set to inspecting the equipment scattered around the sweltering chamber as a sheen of sweat broke out across his brow, chest, and back.

Off the far wall was a small coal closet filled to the ceiling with porous gray lumps of foundry coke, a dust-covered scoop shovel stuck down in the pile. Nearby lay a workbench with a heavy vise set into the end. A set of shelves on the adjacent wall held a small pile of iron and steel ingots, some leather strips, iron ore, and an assortment of punches, swages, rasps, clamps, dies, as well as every weight, shape, and size combination of hammers and tongs a smith could need.

A quenching trough stretched along the wall closest to the forge, angled down to a grated drain in the floor. The trough must have been fed by an underground spring, as a steady trickle poured out of the lowest end of the trough into the drain, adding the quiet burble of running water to the crackle of the flames. Beside it was a pedaled grindstone, rough and unused, and an empty storage chest.

A leather tanning rack and a wooden enchanter’s table in the far corner both seemed out of place, but Roark was glad to have them. Intrigued, he studied the enchanter’s table. Its face glowed with blue and green arcane sigils and hummed with magical energy. The table’s slim top, coiling vine-like legs, and spidery supports looked delicate enough to burn up in this atmosphere of fire and slag. Eventually, he would need to inspect the workstation more closely, but for now he had to get working on the essentials. Enchanting would come later, once he had the time and resources for it.

He turned away from the spindly-legged table and focused on the real jewel of the room: the anvil.

Nothing in the smithy could’ve been dismissed as cheap or second-rate, but the anvil at the center of the room nearly stole Roark’s breath away. A double-horned mass of solid forged steel, it came complete with both a square hardy hole and round pritchel hole, and even had a block on the back side for upsetting. He ran his palm over its perfect, gritty face. The only place he’d encountered an anvil that nice before had been in Berthora’s mage-smithy, and that old bag had tanned his hide the one time she caught him touching it. He’d been confined to the wrought iron apprentice’s anvil with a scarred and battered steel plate that disfigured as many projects as it completed because she didn’t want him “chasing your trash work and disfiguring my Selby.”

Roark might not have been in love enough to name his anvil, but he did have a hard time tearing himself away from it and going to the forge. A quick check showed him the fire needed to be built up to reach the optimum temperature to work metal efficiently. He added a shovelful of coke from the closet, then set to work pumping the bellows. When the coals reached that perfect shade of red, Roark brought over an ingot from the shelf with a pair of tongs and stuck it into the center.

A page of text appeared with a list of metals. When he focused on Iron, a new page opened listing the different pieces he could make.

Roark selected the simplest—Dagger—hoping to start with something basic to get a feel for smithing in Hearthworld.

[You do not have the proper materials to create an Iron Dagger! To create an Iron Dagger, you need (1) Iron Ingot, (2) Leather Strips, and (2) Iron Rivets. Materials for Blacksmithing can be found around Hearthworld or obtained by destroying items.]

Interesting. Though he knew he could knock out a handful of rivets in a few minutes, Roark opened his Inventory and searched until he found one of the smaller axes he’d taken off the griefed heroes. The option to improve or destroy the Shoddy Iron War Ax appeared.

Roark selected Destroy.

[Warning: Destroying items results in a small amount of materials lost to waste; therefore, destroyed items cannot be reforged as they were without the addition of more material. Are you sure you want to destroy this Shoddy Iron War Ax? Yes / No]

When he selected yes, the sound of metal tossed onto a scrap pile rang through the forge. A list of components appeared on the page before him.

[Shoddy Iron War A yielded (1) Iron Ingot, (2) Leather Strips, (1) Rivet, and (1) Stick of Wood.]

Encouraged by the gain, Roark destroyed the ax’s twin, then a longsword he was never going to use, watching the materials on the page grow in response. This was certainly faster and easier than deconstructing pieces back in his home world. He destroyed a Cracked Wood Bow that looked as if it had been waiting to be taken apart for years, then returned his attention to creating.

He stoked the coals back up to temperature and heated the iron once more, bringing it off when it glowed just the right shade of red. The water in the trough hissed as he quenched the glowing metal. He selected a peening hammer and went to work drawing the iron out. When it cooled too much, he started the process over again. The dagger began to take shape, and soon he was lost in the lovely toil and grind of smithing.

Writing spells had been Roark’s destiny from birth—it was the responsibility of the nobles of Traisbin to make out writs that sent the souls of the recently deceased on to paradise, seal graves against necromancy, and protect their people and holdings from plagues, raids, and invaders—but smithing was his love. Unlike the merciless paper and pen, metal was a forgiving medium. He didn’t have to worry about a misplaced comma taking his head off or a wrong word killing or crippling an innocent bystander.

If he made a mistake while smithing, he could just melt it down and begin again. It was humble, grueling toil that ended in a functional product. And the intensity of the labor was like a scouring for the cluttered head. When the sweat started pouring and his muscles started aching, everything else disappeared. He could throw his mind and body into the work, driving away every worry or distraction with the ringing chant of the hammer and the incense of burning coke and red-hot iron. Years after Bloederige Noct stole away the only family Roark had known, stepping inside a smithy felt like coming home.

Roark destroyed every weapon and bit of armor in his Inventory that he couldn’t or wouldn’t use—except the Lash of the Waning Blood Moon, which Azibek’s blessing wouldn’t allow to be destroyed—and made a variety of daggers, a handful of maces and axes, some polearms, and even a few crude bows and arrows, along with several suits of plate armor. The crafting went a lot faster in Hearthworld than it had back home, taking minutes instead of hours, and he only got faster the longer he worked. His Blacksmithing leveled up twice, allowing him to create Steel and Obsidian weapons and armor and improve Average items to Quality.

As he dismissed the notices and returned to work, he thought idly that he needed to find a hero with some obsidian weapons and armor to experiment with. He’d never smithed obsidian before.

By the time he ran out of reclaimed materials, he had enough weapons to arm each of the Trolls on the first floor. Roark turned to the steel ingots on the shelf and began the torturously slow process of creating ring mail armor. He’d left that until last because he knew the tiny interlocking links would be hardest to form and require the sharpest focus and most patience, and he hadn’t wanted to run out of time to make weapons.

The first shirt of Quality Steel Ring Mail leveled up his Blacksmithing again, and the notice included an addendum that he could now create Fulgurite weapons and armor and improve Quality items to Superior. He lost track of time on the next few shirts and flinched when another notice popped up shouting congratulations on leveling up his smithing yet again. Once the iron work was done, he ambled over to the leatherworking station, plopped down on a three-legged stool, and began sorting through the leather tools. Skiving knife, punch tool, edge beveler, edge creaser, sewing roulette, finger cots, and stitching awls.

Roark had never done much leatherworking back home, but the knowledge he’d gleaned from the Tailoring Trade Skill made the items instantly familiar. He didn’t have much raw leather, but he set to work all the same, carefully crafting several pairs of Shoddy Leather Boots, which brought his Tailoring up to level 2.

Finally, Roark stood up and stretched the stiffness out of his back and neck. He had less than twenty minutes left before the slaughtered creatures started respawning. It was time to shift focus from creating to improving what he’d already made. The work took him back and forth between the grindstone and the workbench, and he was practically running by the end of it. His tireless effort paid off, however, and he managed to upgrade the last set of Shoddy Leather Boots to Superior just as the first Changeling respawned.

Strangely enough, as the creatures began to reappear throughout the level, a new option appeared on the Character page of his mystic grimoire:

[Current World Stone Authority: Lesser Vassal 0 / 55]

[Use Mass Soul-Forge? Yes / No]

The World Stone must have somehow connected with his position as Overseer of the first floor, making it possible to create Lesser Vassals out of all the creatures under his command. How advanced would they be if he imbued them all with life and will? Perhaps not as aware as Kaz or Zyra, but their combined intelligence would pose a formidable threat to the invading heroes without a doubt.

Had Marek Konig Ustar thought the same thing the first time he’d used the stone on his own vassals?

Roark scowled. He’d already created one Greater Vassal without giving him a choice, and though Kaz seemed happier for it, knowing that he shared any action in common with the Tyrant King turned Roark’s stomach. No, the creatures of the citadel had been oppressed long enough; he wouldn’t cut down one dictatorship just to give them another under his name. He would let them choose whether they wanted to become his Lesser Vassals.

Roark stashed everything he’d made in the heavy-lidded storage chest, then bolted back through the corridors, Macaroni’s sticky feet slapping along behind him. Outside the hellish atmosphere of the forge, the layer of sweat on his body turned ice cold in seconds. He was nearly shivering by the time he made it back to the kitchen.

Kaz and Zyra were already sitting at the blocky, rough-topped table, eating. The Thursr held a huge bowl in both hands, drinking stew from it, his face a study in ecstasy. Zyra, meanwhile, tore chunks of bread off a crusty loaf and dipped them into her stew, making the sodden chunks disappear into the depths of her hood.

“Smelling good, Griefer,” she said, the ironic tone of her voice stopping just shy of outright mockery.

“Says the woman who stinks like she spent the last hour juggling decomposing heads,” Roark countered.

“Troll, not woman,” she corrected him, tossing back another chunk of dripping bread. “And I did. That should give you an idea of how badly you need a bath.”

“It’ll have to be later.” Roark took the proffered bowl of stew from Kaz and gulped down half the broth before coming up for air. It was as delicious as any stew he’d ever had back in Traisbin—savory with a touch of pepper, and its warmth staved off the sweat-shivers. “As soon as everyone’s respawned, I want to meet with them in the great hall and go over the strategy. Make something of a proposal.” He popped a chunk of meat into his mouth and chewed, relishing the tender gaminess. He looked up at Kaz. “This is even better than what that woman served us at the marketplace.”

Kaz grinned, his chest puffing up with pride. “Kaz only used a little salt this time. Much better than Kaz’s first batch.”

“You made two pots?” Roark asked.

Kaz shuddered at the memory, then seemed to remember his dignity and straightened up to his full height.

“Salt is very good, but a cook shouldn’t use more than a handful per pot,” the Thursr said sagely.

Roark looked from Kaz’s shovel-sized hands to Zyra.

Her hood nodded in response to his unasked question. “I thought he’d poisoned me.”

“Kaz would never!” the Thursr gasped.

“I know that now,” Zyra said, tearing off another bite of bread and dipping it in her stew.

Roark cocked his eyebrow, imagining how well that had played out. “Just tell me you didn’t poison him back.”

“I gave him the Antidote once we’d cleared up all the misunderstandings.” The Reaver popped the chunk of bread into her hood, then twisted in her seat to face Kaz. “Anyway, I’m glad you convinced me to try the second batch, big guy. Turns out this eating thing is pretty great.”

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Fresh Meat

After the three of them had finished off the pot of stew—with some very enthusiastic help from Macaroni—Roark sent Kaz and Zyra to the forge to gather the weapons and armor from the storage chest. Meanwhile, Roark returned to the throne room and used the Overseer’s Troop Management page to contact all the respawned creatures on the first floor at the same time, a sort of mass telepathy. With it, he instructed the lot of them to assemble in the great hall.

The majority had already arrived by the time Roark made it to the great hall, though a handful were still trickling in. A small colony of Reaver Bats darted in from the corridor that led to the new antechamber and found a place to hang near the obsidian chandelier. Shadows and distortions wandered the walls and ceiling, occasionally shooting a sticky invisible tongue out and snatching crunchy insects from between the stones. The Changelings and Thursrs gathered around the rough-hewn tables, grumbling at one another from outside claws’ reach and swilling ale from dented flagons and ancient-looking wineskins.

Roark found Zyra and Kaz at the front of the hall and gave them a quick rundown of what he hoped to accomplish over the next few hours. Sometime between defeating Ugoraz and surviving the meeting with the Dungeon Lord, Kaz seemed to have become supremely optimistic about everything Roark did. He thought Roark’s plan was flawless and could only lead to wonderful new things for the good of all. Zyra withheld comment, but with a doubtful perusal of the chamber that was deafening. For his part, Roark thought it most likely that the whole operation would fall somewhere between those poles.

Not an outright disaster, but not all tarts and rainbows, either.

When the final Thursr arrived, Roark banged an empty flagon on the head table until the dull roar of grumbling, growling, and movement filling the great hall stopped and all eyes turned to study him. Well, they tried to study him. Unfortunately, many of those seated at the tables or milling about the room couldn’t see the tiny Changeling Overseer, even when they stretched and craned their necks.

Roark stepped up on the table and the straining stopped.

“By now you’re all aware that Ugoraz the Vile is dead, and I’m the new Floor Overseer,” Roark said. “In addition to this, many of you may think that it’s because of this that the heroes came through and wiped you out earlier. That’s true, but it’s not the whole truth. You see, the heroes who slaughtered you did so because they have been conditioned for years to believe that the natural order is for them to kill and for us to lie down and die like spineless curs. And likewise, you lot have been conditioned into accepting that dismal fate as inevitable. I, however, disagree. And PwnrBwner_007 and his party are bent on destroying this floor because I fought back. Because I resisted this supposed natural order.”

A Thursr at one of the long tables shouted, “I ’eard it’s coz you griefed ’im and looted the body!”

“Of course I griefed him,” Roark snapped. “It’s the most efficient strategy for leveling up, and looting gave me the weapons and armor to accomplish it. The idea that we’re not allowed to take the spoils of victory for our own defense or use common sense to gain levels is absurd. Ugoraz might’ve encouraged ridiculous taboos and stirred up infighting, but not me. I don’t want you to stay weak. I want each of you to become a force to be reckoned with. We’re the first line of defense in the citadel, the hardest hit every time a band of heroes attacks, and we can use that to our advantage. Working together instead of fighting alone and unorganized, we can overwhelm and defeat our enemy. The more heroes we kill, the more each of you levels up.

“At first, that will enrage them,” Roark continued, his voice growing in certainty and conviction. “They’re so used to our posing no threat that the moment we make a serious effort to survive, they’ll see it as going against the natural order and try to stomp us out. Good, I say! Let them come back a hundred times over, angrier and bloodthirstier than before. We’ll kill them all again and level up a hundred times in the process.”

Around the great hall, leathery blue, brown-black, and granite-colored faces had started to shine with a tentative hope. Many more, however, showed fear or skepticism.

“Most of you believe the only way of life in the citadel is fighting the heroes in the front while you watch for the friendly fire at your back,” Roark said, glancing sidelong at Zyra. “That’s the way things have always been done. But cutting one another down doesn’t make anybody stronger. It weakens all of us, making us easier prey for the raiders. Where I’m from, we have a saying—‘a rising tide lifts all boats.’ It means the stronger the Troll fighting next to you, the more likely you are to survive. And not only survive, but win. Thrive.”

Roark nodded down at Kaz. “My friend here told me once that every Changeling dreams of becoming mighty. I know he’s right because I dream of that, too. Working together, he and I have griefed multiple heroes, leveled up six times, even taken control of the first floor. And that’s just two of us. Imagine what kind of havoc every creature in this room could wreak if we work together. Imagine Evolution. Becoming mighty won’t be an impossible dream anymore—it will only be a matter of time.”

They were coming around. Most of the Changelings in the room had faraway, wistful looks in their eyes as they visualized growing into something bigger, stronger, and faster. The bats and salamanders were harder to read, but they seemed to be leaning in, waiting for him to explain how to accomplish this miracle.

“I’m not going to force any of this on you,” Roark said, folding his hands behind his back. “I might be the Floor Overseer now, but I’m not a tyrant. If you want to be a part of this, to learn to fight together, then you can join me and become one of my Vassals. If you choose not to, you can remain on the first floor and fight alone until you’ve leveled up enough to migrate downstairs. It’s your choice.” He paused, jaw tightening as he eyed each group of creatures in turn. “But be warned, no sabotage will be tolerated on my floor. You need not work with me, but you will not work against me. Not here.” He spread out his hands.

Roark allowed the words to hang in the air like a thundercloud threatening to unleash a lightning storm. All over, eyes stared into the middle distance, some moving slowly from left to right, as if reading invisible lines of text. Several mouths moved in time, sounding out words Roark couldn’t see.

Near the front, a wiry Changeling clenching a dented flagon said, “Yes.”

[Splint has accepted your invitation to become a Lesser Vassal!]

[Current World Stone Authority: Lesser Vassal 1 / 55]

“Yes,” another said as he dragged a sharp little claw across the wood surface of a table, marring the grain.

[Zirk has accepted your invitation to become a Lesser Vassal!]

[Current World Stone Authority: Lesser Vassal 2 / 55]

More and more Trolls echoed their acceptance. From above and both sides as well came a chorus of squeaks and chirps as the Reaver Bats and Stone Salamanders joined in.

Roark’s World Stone Authority filled like a pitcher plunged underwater until nearly every creature on the first floor had become a Lesser Vassal. Two of the Thursrs and a level-six Elite Reaver Bat with a small colony of level ones in tow chose to reject the Soul-Forge. The pair of Thursrs—both level fives—departed at once to try their luck on the second floor, while the Elite Reaver Bat and its colony flew off to whichever ceiling they normally occupied. In truth, Roark was relieved to let them go. It was visible proof that he wasn’t a tyrannical dictator who would crush anyone who disagreed to dust.

And not just proof for everyone around him, but also himself.

Even without them, the group who had become Lesser Vassals was still a much higher percentage than he’d ever seen converted to the Resistance in Traisbin in one go. All around the great hall, Roark saw faces hungry for revolution, ready for a change, and willing to put in the work to make it happen.

“It’s going to take training and practice to get the hang of fighting together,” Roark told them. “It’s also going to take equipment beyond loincloths and claws.” He pulled out his slim rapier and gave the gleaming weapon a flourish that brought a muted wave of oohs and aahs from the assembled creatures. “To that end, the first order of business is getting you outfitted. Kaz will hand out your armor, and Zyra will give you your weapon. Everyone get equipped, then we’ll start with some basics.”

The next twenty minutes were a chaotic scramble to convince angry Changelings that there was no shortage of weapons and armor, and even if they weren’t the first in line, they would receive equipment. Five fights broke out—two of them particularly vicious—but no one was killed, which Roark counted a triumph, even if a small one. Progress was progress, after all.

Just minutes after the last Changeling had received his crude iron mace, a loud voice cut through the great hall.

“Holy balls, Jace, look at this! Those douchebags were telling the truth!”

A pair of heroes—both level four—stood in the doorway to the crumbling staircase, one an olm in shiny plate mail, the other a human in wooden O-Rogiri armor.

“Perfect timing,” Roark said. It was time for a little demonstration of what exactly teamwork could accomplish. He pulled his rapier and nodded at Kaz.

With a furious war cry, Kaz charged the heroes head-on, hacking and slicing with his twin Hooked Swords. Meanwhile, Roark darted in from the side and back, cutting their Health down and distracting whichever one Kaz wasn’t fighting at the moment so that neither of the heroes got an opportunity to attack while the Thursr’s broad back was turned. They made short work of the pair, and Roark made certain that Kaz struck both killing blows. As the two heroes died, an ascending chime rang through the great hall and Kaz’s flesh glowed with golden light. He had leveled up.

Another low oooh rumbled through the newly minted Lesser Vassals.

“As you can see, even just having one partner along to protect your back is a major advantage,” Roark addressed the lot of them. “Grab a partner and we’ll go over some quick strategies for working in pairs. In no time at all we’ll have you butchering these so-called heroes just as efficiently as Kaz and I.”

Over the next few hours, Roark took them through partner drills, then split them into groups of three and four and added Stone Salamanders and Reaver Bats to the teams to work on more complicated concepts. Roark, Kaz, and Zyra wandered through the great hall, giving tips on weapon usage, suggesting roles within groups based on individuals’ strengths, and breaking up the occasional fight. The Vassals picked up fighting together quickly, with only a few mishaps and one attempted assassination which might have just been an ingrained reaction to turning around and finding another Changeling close by with a dagger in hand.

All in all, things were going better than Roark had dared to hope.

While they were training, small bands of heroes trickled in. Several of the parties didn’t seem to be there to raid at all, but to affirm rumors flying around Hearthworld that the Trolls of the Cruel Citadel were acting strange. Very strange. Roark kept a strict rotation going, making sure that each new band of heroes that appeared was taken down by a different fighting group. In this way, they all got a taste of real-world combat, and the Experience and loot were spread evenly throughout the militia-in-training. Roark only stepped in himself when it looked as if one of his Vassals was going to be killed before a comrade came to their aid. He couldn’t build a formidable army if he was forever waiting for its warriors to respawn.

After a time, the haphazard groups began to coalesce into well-organized fighting machines, and the leveling up started in earnest, filling the great hall with sporadic whoops of celebration. Even Macaroni gained a level when he nearly bit the head off a battle-ax-wielding rog with one mighty snap of his jaws. With a flash of emerald light, the bloodthirsty little beast doubled in size, becoming an Elite Stone Salamander, and according to his Character page, gained the Venomous Fang ability. Roark sorely wished he could pull up Mac’s Evolutionary Tree to see just what was in store, but that seemed beyond his abilities at the moment.

Satisfied that his Lesser Vassals had a fair grasp of fighting together, Roark explained the new layout of the first floor and its many pitfalls for unsuspecting heroes. They then spread out through the corridors and rooms and worked on utilizing the traps he, Kaz, and Zyra had so painstakingly set up in preparation for the onslaught which was sure to come.

By late that night, they had stationed groups in strategic places throughout the first floor, leaving the newly armed and trained troops to take out the slow seep of heroes who were still trickling through.

Roark and Zyra headed back to the library to talk strategy while searching the new tomes for Trade Skill books, but Kaz begged off, unable to stand another minute away from his beloved kitchen.

“There is so much for Kaz to cook,” the Thursr said, a wistful expression clouding his features. “So many kinds of food to make.”

“You can do anything you like, mate,” Roark said. “You don’t need my permission. This is your life now.”

Kaz’s eyes went starry and wet, but thankfully he managed not to burst into tears.

“Kaz may not have to ask permission to do what he likes,” he croaked hoarsely, “but if Kaz was going to ask permission of anyone, he would be most proud to ask it of Roark.”

TWENTY-EIGHT:

Backstab

The quiet of the library settled in around Roark like a feather tick mattress, soothing away the aches and pains of hard labor and training as he and Zyra sifted through the shelves of new books and Macaroni napped on the ceiling overhead in apparent defiance of gravity with his new size.

Roark was exhausted, mentally and physically drained, but pleased with the results of the day’s work. As far as he was concerned, there was no better end to a day like that than to immerse himself in words. Now and again, however, he found his gaze creeping away from the texts back to the Reaver’s shadowy hood and the spill of white ringlets tumbling out of it.

“What?” she asked finally without looking up from the board book of Rog verse she was reading.

Telling her the truth—that he was fascinated by the contrast of her white hair on the midnight blue of her skin, and curious what the face she kept hidden from the world looked like—was out of the question. Better a good-natured needling.

Roark shrugged his uneven Changeling shoulders. “Just thinking how to the untrained eye it might look like a certain assassin was wrong about getting Trolls to work together rather than sabotaging one another.”

“If you’re looking for an apology, the smartest thing to do would be hold your breath and wait,” she said, turning one thin wooden page.

With a chuckle, Roark went back to reading the Magical Properties of the Trees of Hearthworld. He’d nearly finished the chapter when she spoke up again.

“Why didn’t you execute the Thursrs and bats who refused to join you?”

His face twisted in disgust. “I’m not a tyrant.”

“They’ll see it as weakness,” she said, voice filled with steadfast certainty. Clearly, this was a woman—no, a Troll, he reminded himself—who had tasted the sting of betrayal cruelly and often. He’d met plenty of resistance fighters who’d been like her: pessimistic, sour, and certain that change was impossible, even though they fought on all the same. It was that same attitude which permeated the Rebel Council. The same attitude which prevented them from taking the bold action required to seize victory. “And chances are at least one of them will come back later to kill you,” she finished softly.

Roark closed the leather-bound volume on his forefinger and stared down at the cover while he considered the best way to answer.

“I knew of a soldier once who’d been a part of a massacre in a small village,” he said after a moment. “They were supposed to raze it to the ground in retaliation for hiding a fugitive from a tyrant. In the midst of this attack, while his comrades were hewing down farmers, women, and children like trees, the soldier came across a tiny, golden-haired girl hiding under a table and scared out of her wits. He saw her there, clutching a corn husk doll to her stomach, and though his orders were to kill every living thing in the village, and he’d already cut down her mother and father and older brother, something about this child stopped him in his tracks.”

Roark paused, struggling with the swell of emotion brewing in his chest. He hadn’t been there to see Danella’s story played out, of course, but he couldn’t help but think of his own sister, Talise, who’d died by the manor well house confused and terrified. Felled by a merciless Ustari blade. “This man, he couldn’t bring himself to kill the little girl. He shoved her out the back and went on as if he’d never seen her. Years later, the soldier’s garrison was attacked in the night, every man slaughtered in their sleep. He was the only man among them to wake up the next morning, and when he did, he found a dirty, battered corn husk doll lying on his pillow. The golden-haired girl recognized him all those years later and stopped her fellow assassins from killing him.”

Roark lifted his gaze to the darkness of Zyra’s hood. Was it his imagination that he saw a flash of eyes in the shadows?

“Maybe they’ll see it as weakness and come back later to kill me,” he said, then shrugged. It is what it is. “Or maybe they’ll remember that I spared them, and when someone else sends them to do the job, they’ll spare me in turn. I’d rather give them the chance to do the right thing than take away any possibility of a choice just in case.”

Her bodice moved in captivating ways when she sighed. “I can’t tell whether you’re insane or brilliant,” she said, shaking her hood.

Roark grinned. “I’m not sure myself most of the time, but I like to hope it’s the latter.”

Overhead, Macaroni woke suddenly, a low growl building in his throat. Roark drew his rapier. Beside him, Zyra held a trio of poisoned blades between her fingers.

Moments later, a level-two Changeling sprinted into the library—eyes wild, chest heaving—narrowly averting a collision with a stack of books perched precariously on a nearby table.

“Heroes, Overseer,” he wheezed, doubling over to place his spidery hands on knobby knees. “In the bailey. So many heroes. Including the one you instructed us to watch for—PwnrBwner_007.”

A raid in the early hours of the morning, when any army’s defenses would be the weakest. Once again Roark cursed PwnrBwner_007 for not being a halfwit as he shot past the Changeling guard and took off down the hall.

The throne room was empty, the troops deployed throughout the floor rather than clustering the manpower in one place. Roark vaulted up onto the dais and would’ve landed in the twisted obsidian throne if not for a sudden puff of black smoke and a midnight blue shoulder knocking him aside. Roark stumbled, arms pinwheeling, and his Dexterity points were the only thing that saved him from breaking his neck in an undignified fall. He regained his balance and rounded on Zyra, bewildered and more than a little annoyed.

“Look,” Zyra hissed, sweeping a hand toward the throne as she scanned the corners and shadows of the throne room. “It’s a potent contact poison. If you touch it, you’ll be killed. It’s expensive. Rare.”

Roark nodded his understanding as he padded forward, stopping on the dais just before the throne itself. He hunched forward a bit, eyes squinted, leathery brow furrowed. A closer inspection revealed a variegated sheen of oil, nearly invisible to the naked eye. He would be better prepared in the future now that he knew what to look for, but if not for Zyra he almost certainly would have perished. All of his progress gone in one fell swoop. “A welcoming gift from Azibek?” Roark guessed, lifting his rapier to the guard position and waiting for the attack he was sure would follow.

The hooded Reaver nodded and sniffed the air.

“An assassin who thinks they’re very clever,” she said. “But they triggered the trap I put in the staircase. Dropped rotting heads right down on top of them. Covered themselves in rancid stink.”

She crouched and took a step deeper into the shadows, disappearing in a curl of black smoke.

Metal thudded into wood on Roark’s right. He spun to find Zyra flicking poisoned knives at a gangly Reaver with a wooden buckler painted with a crude skull and crossbones. The two assassins danced and flickered in and out of shadow and smoke, hurling throwing knives and iron darts at one another. Flicker, gone. Flash, they appeared once more, Zyra knocking aside an incoming blade with her forearm, then spinning low and left, shooting inside the assassin’s guard, lashing out with a poison-tipped dagger. The hooded rogue was fast, though, blindingly so, and knocked the incoming thrust away with the flat of a short-bladed dagger.

Flicker, gone again.

From the corridor, Roark heard distant shouting and the clash of metal on metal. PwnrBwner_007’s party had made it into the citadel. Already the screams of the dying were echoing through the halls.

Roark cursed under his breath. He had faith in his troops. They had the weapons and armor they needed to resist the incursion, and so long as they stuck to their training, they stood a real chance of surviving. But they needed a general. They needed guidance. But he couldn’t give them that guidance without accessing the damned Overseer’s grimoire, and he couldn’t access the grimoire because the bloody throne was poisoned! The Dungeon Lord’s timing was both impeccable and dastardly.

Roark crossed the room in furious strides, Azibek’s lackey in his sights. Zyra feinted right, then dove into a sharp roll, coming up behind the enemy Reaver. Her open hand shot forward like an arrow, smashing down onto the assassin’s shoulder; the assassin’s red bar flashed green the moment she connected. Poisoned. Health drained away. Roark closed with his opponent, rapier whispering through the shadow, opening a series of short but deep cuts across the sneaky bastard’s upper arm. Muscle severed, the arm fell limp. The poisoned darts he’d been clutching in his hand fell to the floor.

Desperate, the assassin wheeled about, bashing at Zyra with his stout buckler. She moved like water, gracefully flowing out of the way as she countered. Her leather-wrapped palm slashed toward the assassin’s face, but he disappeared in a puff of inky black. Gone like a bad dream. Roark and Zyra circled warily, ready to attack at the slightest hint of movement.

The assassin appeared behind Zyra, an ebony blade out and ready to launch a crippling blow. Perhaps even a mortal one. Unfortunately for the assassin, he was inside Roark’s range. Roark lunged then thrust, stoccata di quarta, running the assassin right through the guts with his slim weapon. But the effect was too slow. The bastard planted his cruel dagger in Zyra’s kidney. Her Health bar plummeted and flashed green.

She whirled, a throwing dagger spinning in her palm like a top, and sliced a second gaping mouth into the assassin’s neck. The assassin’s Health flashed critical, then his knees promptly gave out and he dropped to the floor, dead in the span of a heartbeat. Zyra didn’t look so well herself—Health depleted and the poison eating away at what little remained—but she’d survived the assault. Both of them had, though they had a slew of other worries yet remaining.

The sounds of battle outside the throne room slammed into Roark’s mind, louder and more insistent than before. The heroes were making progress. Slaughtering his troops, no doubt.

He ripped his rapier free of the dead assassin and turned to Zyra, desperation and adrenaline turning his voice hoarse. “I have to sit on the throne to command the troops. How do I counteract the poison?”

With a wince, she ripped the dagger out of her back, regarding him coolly from the depths of her hood. “You can’t. The only way to get rid of contact poison is to touch it.” She tossed the dagger aside; it clattered on the stone, its blade covered liberally with her blood. “You touch it. You die. It goes away.”

“There’s got to be a way,” Roark snapped.

Zyra sighed heavily. “I just told you what it was.” Black smoke puffed, obscuring her from view. When she stepped back into visibility, she was at the throne. “You can thank me by not finishing the job Azibek sent that assassin to do. Live, win, and kill them. All of them.”

Without another word, she planted both hands flat on the seat.

“Wait—” Roark’s shout died in his throat as she crumpled to the dais at the foot of the throne. She was dead.

Icy-black wrath bloomed in his gut as Roark stalked to the throne. Azibek had done this. Another Tyrant King—always another, it seemed—willing to kill the innocent to get his way. Roark pushed his righteous indignation to the back of his mind as he turned his eyes to the throne. Azibek would pay, but first he had to deal with the Hero raid. First he had to deal with PwnrBwner. A feral grin pulled up the corner of Roark’s lips as he noticed that the oily sheen of poison was gone, its malicious effect used up on Zyra. Not a drop remained.

Carefully, Roark stepped over the dead Reaver and dropped onto the throne, hands planted on the armrests as he brought up the Overseer’s grimoire. He couldn’t let her sacrifice go to waste. She would respawn in two hours. In the meantime, he had a battle to win and an army to massacre.

TWENTY-NINE:

Incoming

The map in the Overseer’s grimoire showed the heroes’ raiding party swarming down the crumbling staircase. More and more heroes flooded in by the moment. The sheer number of them was disconcerting. PwnrBwner_007 certainly hadn’t come shorthanded this time. A worm of uncertainty wriggled inside Roark’s guts. Even with the armaments, training, and traps, he wasn’t sure it would be enough. And PwnrBwner_007 wouldn’t stop—not until he had Roark’s head on a pike.

But there was nothing he could change. Not now. All he could do was stay the course.

Roark focused on the grimoire and let out a soft sigh of relief: the creatures of the citadel were sticking to their training. So far, so good. He watched through the magick of the Overseer spell book as a pair of Changelings harried the heroes at the front of the antechamber with bows and arrows. The heroes gave chase, swinging heavy two-handed weapons as they followed the Changelings into the hall branching toward the library. Meanwhile, Reaver Bats dove from the ceiling to attack archers and spellcasters, anyone with a ranged weapon.

They’d taken two casualties from the heroes so far—a level-two Changeling guard who’d been posted at the top of the staircase and a Reaver Bat in the antechamber—but none of the rest seemed to be panicking or reverting back to their lone-wolf ways. Hopefully the changes would stay when the fighting intensified. Which it would.

Roark selected the mass contact option, opening a one-way connection to every creature on the level. “You’re doing brilliant, mates. These bastard heroes might kill us all, but we’ll make them pay for every inch they take in blood. A sea of blood. We’ll drown them in it, then we’ll grief their bodies for their trouble.”

Just then, a group of heroes pushing into the great hall triggered the massive chandelier. Chains clanked, and tackle squealed as the enormous hunk of metal dropped on top of them with a clatter. One hero—an elven woman in flowing crimson robes—died on impact, but the rest were tangled in metal, chain, and one another’s limbs.

Sadly, no Trolls seized the opportunity to overrun the occupied heroes.

“Great hall pack, attack them!” Roark shouted, pounding one fist against the armrest.

That snapped the Changelings out of their stupor. A gang of the scrawny blue Trolls rushed out from behind the flipped-over tables, their claws and weapons raised, screechy battle cries rising from their throats. They swarmed the trapped heroes, tearing at them with tooth and claw as much as sword and mace. The trapped heroes began to die—a beefy human warrior in shining plate mail perished with a scream as a fine steel sword cleaved his head in two—and one of the Changelings leveled up to four, immediately Evolving into a Thursr.

Still more heroes fought their way in through the great room door, but the Changelings were ready. They turned and scampered back, feigning a chaotic retreat, which only invited the raiders in farther. The heroes smelled weakness and intended to exploit it—to their detriment. When the heroes had overcommitted themselves, a trio of Thursrs, who’d been loitering in pockets of shadow, rushed in from the right flank, blocking the door with a massive, rough-hewn table that would take five men to budge. In one move, they cut off the heroes’ combat support and their only avenue of retreat.

The butchery started in earnest, and Roark could only smile.

In the throne room, the portcullis ripped open with a great screech. Kaz burst into the throne room, chest heaving, the black plumage on his headdress dancing. He pointed one of his twin Hooked Swords at Roark.

“Is Roark okay?”

“Fine,” Roark said absently, watching the Thursrs clashing with the dozen segregated heroes in the great hall. From the antechamber, a mage cast a Plague Cloud on the Trolls through the open top half of the table-blocked doorway. Damn. The tide shifted at once, turning back in favor of the heroes as the sulfuric yellow cloud billowed at the center of the fighting. The heroes in the great hall seemed utterly unaffected, but the Thursrs and Changelings choked and gasped, clawing at their throats and bulging, bleeding eyes.

“Where is Zyra?” Kaz asked in between panting breaths, scanning the shadows for any sign of the Reaver.

Roark gestured to the body at the foot of the dais which Kaz had somehow missed.

“Respawning. That cur Azibek attacked us from behind while we were fighting the heroes at our front.” Roark held up a finger—one moment please—and switched over to the mass telepathy. “Rog mage in purple Infernal robes near the doorway to the great hall. Take him down!”

A moment later, a level-one Stone Salamander dropped from the ceiling onto the mage’s chest, tearing at his eyes and face with rows of jagged, needle-sharp teeth.

In the great hall, the Plague Cloud had finally dissipated. Two of the Changelings had died of its effects, but the Thursrs were now wading through the heroes, dealing out massive crushing and slicing damage while the remaining Changelings spread out and encircled the heroes, shooting arrows and slinging spears into the fray.

Another loud screech filled the throne room as Kaz lowered the portcullis, then came to take his post beside Roark’s throne, facing the shadowy doorway down to the second floor, his twin Hooked Swords crossed and ready for battle.

“Kaz will not let anyone attack Roark from behind,” the Thursr vowed, sounding far fiercer that Roark had ever heard before.

At the edge of the cold fury in his gut, Roark felt a twinge of gratitude, but he couldn’t take his focus from the Overseer’s grimoire.

The pair of Changeling archers who’d harried and led astray a small group of heroes finally reached one of the dead ends. Two sticky tongues snapped down at the last moment and snatched the scrawny blue archers up to the ceiling just as spring-loaded spears shot out of the walls, impaling the incoming heroes from both directions. The Changelings and the Stone Salamanders dropped down and made short work of the heroes’ remaining Health.

Along another branch of the hall, a deadly firebomb exploded, orange flames scorching the walls and charbroiling flesh. One hero—a male archer in forest-green leathers—died instantly, while two more took heavy damage, their Health bars dropping into the critical zone.

Near the smithy, a pack of Changelings were running from a trio of heroes in Divine plate mail and golden robes. The Changelings’ nimble, misshapen blue feet leapt easily over the tripwire, but the heroes blundered right through it, oblivious to its presence. The spiked grate, so cunningly attached to the ceiling, swung free, slamming two of the heroes flat against the wall. The golden-robed mage threw up her fist, tossing off an orb of golden light that swelled and swelled, burning with the fury of a miniature sun—

Right until a Thursr stepped out of the shadows behind the mage and crushed the hero’s head like an egg with a stunning blow from his huge war hammer. Together, the Thursr and the Changelings went to work on the mail-wearing heroes frantically trying to extricate themselves from the clutches of the spiked grate.

In the opposite corner of the map, heroes were pushing past the great hall now, though their ranks thinned out considerably the farther into the floor they went. A group of four, half-dead from their battle with the Thursrs and Changelings in the great hall, entered the kitchen searching for Trolls to massacre. There was a bloodthirsty gleam in their eyes. They wanted to kill, they wanted vengeance. They were about to be sorely disappointed instead.

A level-two spell Roark had inscribed while still under Azibek’s magic-heightening blessing—If anything but a Troll, Bat, or Salamander crosses this threshold, the air in this room will ignite—blew the heroes from their feet and triggered the firebomb trap set up nearby. The inferno killed two outright and sent the others’ Health bars down under ten percent, life vials strobing manically.

“Anyone left alive in the great hall, get to the kitchen and finish off the heroes there,” Roark barked. A wounded Thursr and a pair of Stone Salamanders raced off to carry out the order. “Leg it, mates. The mage is healing them as we speak.”

All over, the scene was the same. Infernal creatures leading heroes into traps, drawing them away from support, cutting off their retreat, and surprise attacking them from above. The creatures were taking casualties, of course, but the heroes were as well. But in spite of their valiant efforts, the raiding party was pushing deeper into the floor—though it was a slow, ponderous push, almost as if they were dazed. Clearly they hadn’t been expecting this sort of resistance from the creatures of the citadel. Certainly not on the first level.

Some small, cruel part of Roark felt like cackling. Served them right, the whole lot of them.

Just before the iron portcullis opened, Roark caught sight of a level-five Thursr and a level-three Changeling on the map in the corridor. The pair of them sprinted inside the throne room and spun around, weapons raised, facing whatever threat had chased them into the throne room. At Roark’s side, Kaz looked from the shadowy doorway leading downstairs to the iron portcullis, torn between defending them from the immediate threat or the insidious one that could strike without warning.

A nameplate coming down the corridor caught Roark’s eye: [PwnrBwner_OG]. Strange that he’d changed his name. But the name change wasn’t the only difference. The status on the hero now marked him as a Level 22 High Combat Cleric.

PwnrBwner_OG strode into the throne room surrounded by a small group of heroes. Roark thought he recognized the dark elf Dude_Farkowitz, now under the nameplate [Gazebo_Goatee], and the fire-slinging mage Junior inside a Level 15 Necro-Berserker. The other three, however, he didn’t recognize.

PwnrBwner_OG had also swapped the archer’s leathers and bow for heavy obsidian armor that had obviously been enchanted. Broad, spiked pauldrons rose up higher than his head on either shoulder, connected by a thorny chest plate edged in pure gold. Arcs of blue and orange energy zipped along its glossy black surface. In his obsidian-gauntleted fist, PwnrBwner_OG carried a massive mace; its dark green handle was covered in spiny projections, and it flared into a glowing red crystal layered and shaped like the craggy, angry petals of a malicious rose.

“Hey, dickface,” PwnrBwner_OG said, smiling inside his horned obsidian helm. “How you like my guild? Bet you thought you were just griefin’ some newb. But holy shit were you wrong.”

“I suppose they’re the best you could do on short notice.” Roark slid from the throne, equipping the Maple Wand. “Personally, I’m unimpressed.”

“Ready to die?” the archer turned High Combat Cleric growled, prowling slowly forward.

Roark nodded, but not in answer to the hero’s question.

A colony of Reaver Bats dove from the ceiling, going for the heroes’ eyes and faces. Longswords and axes and bolts of purple light sliced through the air, trying to fend the ferocious winged beasts off.

“Attack,” Roark ordered.

The Changeling backpedaled, firing arrows from his bow, while Kaz and the level-five Thursr waded into the midst of the heroes as though they were trying to ford a river made of flesh and steel.

A crack of lightning erupted from PwnrBwner_OG’s rose mace, filling the throne room with blinding light followed by ear-hammering thunder. With a screech, a pair of Reaver Bats fell from the air dead. PwnrBwner_OG raised his mace again and shouted in a language Roark didn’t know. A ring of blue light flared around the heroes. Gazebo_Goatee in his shining Divine Plate Mail, the Necro-Berserker, and the rest of the heroes doubled in size, amplified muscles bulging and pulsing. A strength spell of some sort.

“Take out the tanks first!” PwnrBwner_OG ordered his warriors. “I got the archer! And no one touch that dickweed Griefer. That little asshole is mine!”

Roark darted into the fray, casting Increased Speed on Kaz—another of the Level Two spells he’d inscribed earlier under Azibek’s magic-enhancing blessing—then ducked back out of range before a hero could take his head off. The spell granted Kaz a 45% movement bonus for 45 seconds. Kaz became a blur, his Hook Blades flashing between a musclebound hulk of an olm and a green-robed elf wielding a delicate looking bastard sword.

Then, while Roark still had the Health to spare, he cast Spectral Hands on Gazebo_Goatee. Precious red drained out of his filigreed vial, and a garden of ghostly blue arms grew up out of the stone floor, snatching the dark elf’s ankles, arms, armor—anything they could grab—and held him in place for the Level 5 Thursr.

Another crack of thunder shook the throne room, and stinging rain fell from the ceiling in a sheet. Roark’s leathery skin hissed and blistered under the drops, more red draining from his Health vial. He spun around just in time to see PwnrBwner_OG’s rose mace bash in the head of the level-three Changeling. The Infernal creature’s head snapped to the side, a substantial portion of his face caving in from the impact. The hit plus the deadly rain was too much for the scrawny, potbellied creature. It did a limp pirouette before flopping to the floor, dead, dual trails of blood leaking from its cloudy eyes.

Roark ripped the Initiate’s Spell Book from his Inventory and began writing desperately in one of the two Level One slots he’d left empty just in case. A writ to dispel magick almost certainly wouldn’t work on a Level 22’s toxic rain, so he didn’t even bother trying. Creativity and speed were in order now. He cast the spell the second it was inscribed.

[All Infernal creatures within a fifteen-foot radius are impervious to rain.]

A mist of splatter appeared a hair’s breadth above the flesh of his arm, the visible manifestation of the rain shield splashing the toxic deluge harmlessly away. The same hazy mist of rebounding droplets covered Kaz and the level-five Thursr. In the moment of calm, Roark reached into his Inventory again and bolted down a magenta potion, refilling 25 points of his Health.

Thanks to the Spectral Hands, the Level 5 Thursr had finished off Gazebo_Goatee, but now he was facing the Necro-Berserker, and the Thursr was woefully outclassed. The Necro-Berserker was massive and clad in blocky, glowing armor built from white bone, etched with golden runes of power. She carried a formidable shield crafted to look like a giant skull in one hand and a curling whip sword, called an Urumis, in the other. With a scream of challenge, the Necro whirled and whipped her many-bladed Urumis at the beefy Troll, driving him back and away from Kaz, who was having his own problems.

Kaz had finished off both the musclebound olm and the green-robed elf—their bodies littered the floor at the center of the toxic downpour—but his movement bonus had worn off. Another olm, this one slim and sinuous, wreathed in black smoke, darted in and out of Kaz’s guard, raking a handful of hooked metal claws across Kaz’s face, throat, and sides—any bit of exposed flesh—too fast for Kaz to keep up.

As Roark watched, PwnrBwner_OG leveled the head of his mace at the olm and shouted some arcane spell in that strange language he’d used earlier. The toxic rain finally cut off, but rings of green light appeared around the olm, and the smoke coming off the sinuous creature’s leathers turned a sickly emerald. The olm darted in again, striking out with the metal claws, and Kaz’s Health bar flashed cancerous green. He’d been poisoned.

Roark took aim and cast his Level One Ball Lightning spell at the olm. With Azibek’s blessing, it did half again as much damage as Roark’s regular Ball Lightning would, and the knockback was all but guaranteed. The crackling sphere of raw elemental force slammed into the olm’s chest like a war hammer of elemental force, stealing away a good chunk of his Health bar and knocking him backward a step.

An agonized roar sounded across the room as the Level 5 Thursr died, his head falling away from blocky shoulders. Decapitated. Lovely, Roark thought with a grimace. The Necro-Berserker spun away from the Troll’s still-falling corpse and fixed her attention firmly on Kaz.

“Kaz, behind you!” Roark pulled his rapier free of his Inventory and touched the Maple Wand to his own chest as he ran at the sinuous, poison-enhanced olm.

[45% of all damage done to target rebounds to the opponent for 45 seconds.]

Like the rest of the spells Roark had inscribed beforehand, Azibek’s blessing had increased the Level One Rebound Spell’s power by half. The olm, none the wiser, attacked with those metal claws, taking not only 45% of the damage he’d intended to deal to Roark, but also 45% of the poison damage the green smoke was doing. Rather than attempt to block the olm’s slashes, Roark pressed inside the creature’s guard in a suicidal-looking series of descending cuts, mandritto and riverso fendentes that opened up oozing vertical wounds down the olm’s face, chest, and arms.

The play worked—along with the damage the olm was doing to himself by attacking Roark, the rapier wounds were stealing away massive chunks of the olm’s Health. In a final frustrated attempt to kill, the olm lunged at Roark, slashing upward with the metal claws as if to eviscerate him. Roark sidestepped the impassioned attack easily, knocking the claws aside and then running the olm through, rippido. The olm’s poisoned Health bar flashed critical, and he stumbled, then dropped to the floor dead in a heap of smoke and tail.

Already downing a Modest Health Potion, Roark scanned the room for the next threat. Kaz was holding his own, his Hooked Swords flashing and clashing with the Necro-Berserker’s glinting many-bladed Urumis. As Roark gulped a second magenta concoction, the stone floor quaked and thunder crashed through the throne room.

Snarled brambles erupted from underfoot, ensnaring Roark and Kaz. The thorn-covered vines ripped away a quarter of Roark’s Health, dropping him back down to half a vial. As he searched for the High Combat Cleric, what felt like a boulder crashed into the side of Roark’s head, nearly ripping off his ear. Without the brambles holding him in place, Roark might’ve gone flipping end over end across the room. Instead, he slammed to the floor, less than a tenth of his Health remaining. The rapier rattled across the stone as it rolled out of reach. White pain sparks squirmed and danced in front of his eyes.

[You have been temporarily dazed! Dexterity decreased by 50% for 22 seconds!]

PwnrBwner_OG stood over him, grinning. “Any last words, jizm pit?”

THIRTY:

Showdown

“Yes,” Roark said, glancing at the shadowy distortion on the ceiling. “Watch yourself, mate.”

PwnrBwner_OG snorted and rolled his eyes at Roark. “You must be fucking braindead if you think I’ll fall for—”

Six and a half feet of fat-padded Elite Stone Salamander crashed down on top of his head. The gloating High Combat Cleric crumbled under Macaroni’s weight, the two of them slamming into the ground with a metallic commotion like someone smashing a sack full of tin cups against a boulder. Macaroni scrambled to the top of the heap and attacked, tearing into PwnrBwner_OG’s throat. The High Combat Cleric screamed as the red Health bar over his head flashed green—thanks no doubt to the bloodthirsty salamander’s new Venomous Fang ability—and dropped by a quarter.

Never one to waste a distraction, Roark jerked the Kaiken Dagger out of his Inventory and hacked away the thorny brambles holding him down. The thorn-covered vines were hardy things, thicker than the brambles created by the defensive spell he frequently used back on Traisbin. They sliced into his skin and bit at his clothing, but the knife—with its superior edge—cut through them with ease. There were just so damned many of the brambles that it was rather slow going.

Kaz gave out a powerful war cry from behind Roark. In spite of his reduced Dexterity, Roark struggled to his knees just in time to see Kaz leap at the Urumis-wielding Necro-Berserker.

The bone-armor wearing warrior was ready and danced back, absorbing an overhead strike on her skull-shaped shield before lashing out with the Urumis. One of the gleaming whip-like blades slashed a deep cut across Kaz’s cheek, nearly taking his eye in the process. But Kaz—totally focused now—didn’t even flinch. He simply bared his jagged teeth in a snarl and pushed forward.

“For Roark! For Zyra!” he screamed. “And for SALT! All the SALT!”

The Necro backpedaled, a look of utter confusion flashing across her face. Her heel caught on a blue-skinned arm crudely cut away from its body. She stumbled and pulled her eyes away from the charging Kaz for only a moment. But a moment was long enough. He leapt forward and scissored her head off with his twin Hooked Swords, blood spurting out in an arc. Before the body had even hit the floor, Kaz was moving. Using his blades, he sliced away the few remaining brambles clinging to his legs, then lunged at PwnrBwner_OG, who had just disentangled himself from Macaroni’s deadly jaws and stumbled drunkenly to his feet.

Seeing the furious Thursr charging him, the High Combat Cleric shouted in that strange tongue and batted Kaz’s Hooked Swords aside with a backhanded blow from the mace. Blue peals of lightning crackled across the Thursr’s skin, sending Kaz flipping head over heels, then slamming down onto the uneven flagstones, his legs and arms sprawled out. But Macaroni was back on his feet, growling and tearing at PwnrBwner_OG’s armored shins, preventing the Cleric from closing with the downed Thursr.

With no spells remaining and no scrolls to cast, Roark checked his filigreed vial. The red was dishearteningly low, but there was no other way to end this. He couldn’t hope to survive close-quarters combat while PwnrBwner_OG had that enchanted mace, and the iron arrows Roark had would barely touch the Cleric’s Health—and that was assuming they could penetrate his armor, which looked exceedingly unlikely.

PwnrBwner_OG’s rose mace whipped out, battering Macaroni’s bulbous head with a wet crunch. The Elite Stone Salamander slumped to the floor, red bar flashing a critical warning. Not dead, but unconscious. Macaroni had done little to no real damage, but he’d bought Kaz enough time to gain his feet and shake off the blow that had tossed him through the air.

Kaz circled and rushed PwnrBwner_OG from behind, but the cleric spun and swung the mace at him.

Roark bolted his final Modest Health Potion, returning a much smaller fraction of red to the vial than he had hoped. He was still reeling from the bash to the head, but he lifted the Kaiken Dagger and carved an offensive spell into his leathery blue Changeling flesh with strokes as swift as he dared. This was even more dangerous than a blood cantrip—a failed offensive spell cast in blood would kill him in unimaginable agony without a doubt. Hells, even if he wrote the spell perfectly, there was a chance that potion wouldn’t be enough to stop the spell from draining what was left of his Health and killing him anyway.

It was a dangerous play, but then every play was a dangerous play when your life was on the line.

The enchanted mace’s lightning cracked through the throne room once more, and Kaz shouted in pain. Roark amended his thought: when your life and the lives of your friends were on the line.

Roark stabbed the period at the end of his spell, left hand spasming into a fist as he hit a tendon. Blood flew from the tip of his dagger. He raised a shaky arm and pointed his palm at PwnrBwner_OG’s chest just as the High Combat Cleric leveled his thorny mace at Kaz’s head, ready to end Roark’s friend. His first friend, perhaps ever. PwnrBwner_OG opened his mouth to cast some terrible spell, but the words died on his lips as Roark opened his fist, triggering the spell carved into his arm:

[When I open my hand, a stone lance shoots from my palm and impales the target through the heart.]

A stone spear as wide as Roark’s palm ripped from the center of his open hand, tearing a shout of pain up from the pit of his stomach. The lance skewered PwnrBwner_OG through the sternum and ripped out his back, protruding a full two feet, all of it slick with crimson. The High Combat Cleric’s strange words twisted into a shocked grunt of agony as his eyes bulged in a combination of shock and bewilderment. No, this isn’t the way it was supposed to go, that look said. I’m PwnrBwner_OG … I should’ve wiped the floor with these things … The rose mace dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor, forgotten.

The red in Roark’s Health vial plummeted, burned away by the offensive spell until there was barely a drop left. His head spun, vertigo tearing through his body like a whirlwind, and he dropped to all fours, his limbs weak, his skin clammy. For one uncertain moment, his Health vial flashed in a syncopated panic with PwnrBwner’s. Blackness closed in on Roark’s vision until he was staring down at the floor through a tunnel of shadow. This was it then, he was going to die—and right on the precipice of gaining his eighth level. Right on the edge of Evolution.

Then PwnrBwner_OG collapsed backward, shattering the bloody end of the stone lance on impact. The High Combat Cleric only had the barest hint of life left, but already he was reaching down toward his belt, where a magenta potion waited.

Not this time, Roark thought. Perhaps Roark would die, but not before he sent PwnrBwner off for respawn. He’d somehow lost his Kaiken Dagger after the Stone Lance spell had taken effect, and his rapier was long gone, but there—not three paces away—was the poison-coated ebony blade Azibek’s assassin Reaver had used on Zyra.

Roark gritted his teeth and crawled forward using his knobby elbows and knees. Every inch was torture. He glanced at PwnrBwner, who now had his hand wrapped around the Healing potion. With a pained grunt, Roark shot forward, grabbing up the blade in a trembling, bloody hand.

The High Combat Cleric slowly raised the glass vial toward his lips, a malicious glint in his eye. I’m gonna win yet. Roark lunged, flopping onto his belly as he drove the cruel black dagger firmly into PwnrBwner_OG’s exposed neck. He sank the blade to the hilt, using every ounce of strength left in his body, sure that the movement would kill him through sheer agony.

Suddenly, the High Combat Cleric’s hand fell away, fingers going limp as the magenta potion rolled across the floor, click-clack-click-clack. His eyes were glazed over, his mouth open in a shocked “O.”

Roark felt like laughing, but everything hurt too much … At least it did until golden light burst from his blue skin a moment later and an ascending chime rang through the throne room. The threatening blackness of unconsciousness receded, and Health rushed back into his filigreed vial, the comforting warmth and vitality flowing through his veins and repairing the damage the battle with PwnrBwner had done.

[LEVEL UP!]

Without warning, a halo of indigo energy absorbed the golden light, throwing off crackling, sparking electrical arcs while simultaneously lifting Roark to his feet. The hot smell of molten slag filled the throne room like a foundry, tingling inside Roark’s nostrils as the halo swelled and darkened, turning the usual gloom into a blue-black darkness. The bass blast of an enormous war horn shook the walls, dust raining down from overhead, followed by the rolling thunder of kettle drums.

Roark felt his body growing and stretching.

The floor got farther and farther away, and the lumpy Changeling feet he’d become accustomed to elongated. Black claws sprouted from his toes, and the ones at the tips of his fingers hooked into deadly talons. His arms and legs lengthened and bulged with lean, sinewy muscle as his potbelly flattened and hardened. The bones in his chest and shoulders creaked as they broadened, his shoulder blades moving strangely beneath his flesh, almost like vestigial wing bones. His skin paled from Changeling-blue to smoke white. Hair sprouted from his bald scalp, hanging around his face in a shaggy black curtain.

The music reached a deafening climax, cymbals clashing furiously. Insane arcs of raw opalescent power leapt and danced around the indigo halo, snapping and sizzling in a frenzy. Slowly, the kettle drums and war horn faded. The normal gloomy light returned to the throne room as the cloud of Infernal energy drifted away like smoke dissipated on the wind. The smell of cooled metal filled the air.

Roark stood looking down at Kaz—he was half a foot taller than the Thursr now. Though Kaz was battered and bloodied from the fight, his onyx eyes were as wide and starry as the night sky.

“Evolution,” Kaz whispered reverently. Then the Thursr bounced up onto his toes and shouted, “Roark is a Jotnar! Roark did it!” He pumped an oversized arm in the air.

Roark flexed his smoke-white fist, closing his fingers over his razor-sharp talons, and watched the bulging veins and flat straps of muscle shift and move in his forearms. He wasn’t nearly as large as Azibek, but he certainly wasn’t as far removed as he’d been before, either. With time and levels, this wiry form would fill out into an Infernal monster to rival the Exarch Dungeon Lord. And then … Roark smiled at the thought, feeling deadly, serrated teeth against the backs of his lips.

Instantly he pulled up his Character sheet:

The new level also came with a boost to his magic—his Spellcraft jumped to Level 2, and he earned two more Level 1 Spell Slots, another Level 2, and for the first time, a Level 3 Spell Slot.

Roark dismissed the grimoire. He could distribute his points and tinker with inscribing new spells later. For now, he had work to do. The corpse of PwnrBwner_OG lay a few feet away, a stark reminder that the heroes were still overrunning the citadel’s first floor, killing the Changelings, Thursrs, bats, and salamanders. Roark could hear the sounds of combat echoing through the corridors—the clash of metal on metal, the whumph of triggered firebombs, the clang of the spiked grate slamming against the stone wall.

“Top off your Health if you’ve got any potions left,” Roark told Kaz. His voice no longer croaked like a bullfrog. It was still deep and gravelly, but there was something strangely compelling about it. Level and deadly, but honeyed, like one might expect a demon to sound. “We have a raiding party to mop up.”

While Kaz knocked back a glowing magenta concoction, Roark found his rapier near the foot of the dais. One delicate, leather-wrapped hand lay open beside the hilt as if Zyra were the one who’d dropped the slender blade.

Roark picked up the rapier, and with a final glance back at the hooded Reaver’s corpse, he headed for the open portcullis. He had survived. He’d won. The only thing remaining was to kill them all. Over and over again. As many times as the heroes came back, Roark would happily earn his nickname griefing them.

THIRTY-ONE:

Looming Threats

It took another twenty minutes of bloody combat—moving room by room, hallway by hallway—but finally Roark, Kaz, Mac, and the remaining Infernal creatures cleared the first floor of the heroes, the last either dead or fleeing for their lives.

Roark’s new Jotnar form had certainly not disappointed. His speed, size, and raw strength scattered warriors and magick users before him like chaff in a hard wind. By the time they were done, corpses littered the corridors, strewn across every floor and open space, slumped in corners, burnt to a crisp in dead ends, or impaled on spring-loaded spear traps and spiked grates. Most of the bodies belonged to the invading heroes, but a good number of Trolls, Reaver Bats, and Stone Salamanders lay dead among them.

In the aftermath, Kaz finally shook off his fear of the greatest Troll taboo and helped Roark loot the heroes’ corpses. Seeing a Jotnar—one who also happened to be their floor Overseer—crouched beside heroes’ bodies, emptying their Inventories with help from a Thursr, seemed to break through to the other Trolls who had survived the battle. Slowly, cautiously, as if expecting a bolt of deadly lightning to smite them for violating the natural order, a few tentatively rifled through the heroes’ possessions. When no Infernal retribution struck those Trolls down, the hesitant stragglers loosened up and began to help as well.

Roark instructed the looting Trolls to take everything to the smithy except the food and ingredients, which went directly to Kaz’s kitchen. The budding army needed to eat, after all. The enchanted armor and high-quality weapons he would distribute to the first-floor Trolls, along with a share of the gold, Health Potions, and other beneficial items. The majority of the spoils, however, Roark would dismantle for their components and forge into better weapons and armor. The process would also allow him to level up his Smithing and Tailoring Skills, which, in turn, would allow him to craft even better, deadlier items.

With everyone pitching in, Roark and Kaz were freed up to go through and mark the positions of the heroes’ bodies on a parchment map and their time until respawn. In three hours, the griefing would begin in earnest.

When the looting was finished, and all the corpses had been marked and all the traps reset, Kaz headed for the kitchen to revel in his new ingredients.

“Kaz will prepare a feast to celebrate our victory,” the Thursr declared proudly, puffing his chest up as he spoke. “Cooking with Gry Feliri said that a feast is a meal where more than one food is consumed! Can Roark imagine? Stew and skewers?”

Roark chuckled. “I look forward to it, mate.”

He glanced around the antechamber at the number of Trolls and other Infernal creatures needing to be fed in this room alone. He rubbed at his chin as he ran numbers in his head. Currently, he and Kaz were the only Trolls in the Dungeon with proper Trade Skills, and that simply wouldn’t do at all. Especially not when they expanded into the lower levels and took new troops on. Kaz could never cook for the whole Dungeon—not alone—nor would Roark be able to do the blacksmithing or weapons training for so many creatures. He would have to do something about that soon.

“Before you head off,” Roark said, “why don’t you ask around and see if you can’t find someone interested in learning how to cook as well. They won’t be able to prepare food properly until we get access to more skill books or a trainer, but they can run errands for you. Ease your workload a bit.”

While Kaz bustled off to find an apprentice chef, Roark set up a rotating force of Changelings in the bailey to watch for returning heroes and new threats. They would draw the invaders inside, kill them and loot the corpses, then trade off with the next group. A clockwork griefing machine.

In the meantime, Roark went to the smithy to sort through the spoils. PwnrBwner_OG’s guild had left behind a handsome assortment of gold, gemstones, potions, and scrolls, but the weapons and armor were mostly of a lower quality than Roark could smith. He set to work sorting the scrap items into one pile and the enchanted and high-level items into another.

An hour into it, the keep pile contained only three enchanted weapons—a Stiletto, a Kukri, and an Oak Staff—one set of Iron Gauntlets of Minor Endurance, and a pair of Flawless Glass Boots which weren’t enchanted but were beyond his current smithing skill.

The assortment of gemstones and gold the heroes had left behind this round made Roark eager to see what they would drop upon their next death. He thought of PwnrBwner’s Rose-headed Mace—now that was an item he was eager to inspect. A little too eager, maybe. If he weren’t griefing for the levels, he knew that twinge of greed could easily get out of hand and shift his priorities.

As it was, his Infernal magick couldn’t even touch portal spells until he’d reached level thirty-six, which meant he needed to outmatch Azibek before he could open a way home. Deconstructing all the scrap weapons and armor and forging new gear would only take Roark so far toward a new level. The griefing would have to continue, for the lower-level Trolls as well as himself. Then there were more Trade Skill books to find and read, so another trip to the marketplace was in order. He was particularly keen to raise his Calligraphy and Enchanting skills. If he could find a way to bring these new magics back to Traisbin, then the fight to depose the Tyrant King would change drastically.

A moving shadow in the corner of Roark’s eye caught his attention. Zyra slipped into the smithy and boosted herself up onto the workbench with catlike grace.

“Congrats on the victory, Griefer,” she said, a playful lilt to her voice. Her leather-wrapped hand reached into her hood, and Roark got the impression she was cupping her chin as she studied him in the fiery light of the forge. “And the Evolution. Jotnar suits you.”

Roark tossed another iron longsword onto the pile of scrap weapons. “Neither would have been possible if you hadn’t absorbed that contact poison.”

“You were the only one who could operate the Overseer’s throne. Besides, I’ve already Evolved; death can’t knock me back further than level six.”

“All the same, I appreciate it,” Roark said, staring into the shadowy hood and hoping he was meeting her gaze.

“I’m a paranoid assassin,” Zyra responded with a careless shrug. “I was only doing my job.” She canted her head to one side. “And unless I’m mistaken, isn’t that exactly why you wanted me in your honor guard, conniving Jotnar?”

“Indeed it is. And may I say that’s the best conniving I’ve done in recent memory.” Roark scooped the final handful of daggers onto the scrap pile and straightened up to his new full height. “Come on, Kaz is preparing a victory feast.” He offered her a hand down. “Try not to poison anyone if you can.”

“Roark the Skittish?” Her voice carried the hint of a mischievous smile. “Don’t worry, I keep spare Antidotes in my Inventory.”

“Lord Overseer!” A Level 3 Changeling sprinted into the smithy, a look of bewildered concern twisting his leathery blue features. “Lord Overseer, there is an intruder!”

“I’m not Lord anything,” Roark said, frowning. “Just Roark. And if there’s a hero invading, then kill him and mark the body for griefing, same as the rest.”

“No, this one is different, strange,” the Changeling said, dancing with impatience. “The chef Kaz said to fetch the Lord Over—to fetch the Roark. Please come.” The Changeling’s eyes bulged and he danced from foot to foot, nearly quivering with barely contained nerves.

Whatever was different about this intruder, it had clearly rattled the poor fellow. Roark’s lips pursed into a thin line as he followed the Changeling out into the stone corridor. He didn’t hear Zyra’s footsteps, but when he looked over his shoulder, he found the hooded Reaver stalking along behind him like a shadow.

Kaz was already at the foot of the staircase when they reached the antechamber, arguing with a strange gold-fleshed creature with the speckled brown-and-white wings of a cana-hiri falcon, its human body wrapped in soft brown leathers crisscrossed with buckles and straps. Roark faltered, uncertain. This beast was unlike any of the races of heroes in Hearthworld, but the soft light shining from its golden flesh gave it away as Divine. Another chimera, perhaps the Divine equivalent to a Troll?

Slowly, Roark resumed his pace. As they approached, the creature’s piercing golden eyes shifted from Kaz to Roark and a smile stretched across its shining face. Roark was on the verge of asking what the hells was going on when he saw the nameplate floating above the creature’s head, situated between the feathered arches of its speckled wings. His heart seemed to seize in his chest, a cold sweat suddenly blooming along his brow.

[Lowen]

Before the bastard could utter a single word, Roark jerked the Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter from his Inventory and loosed arrows one after another at the Tyrant King’s right-hand mage.

Lowen chuckled and flicked a slim olive wand. The arrows burnt to ash midflight.

“Don’t you ever know when you’re outclassed, Graf?” Lowen asked, his speckled brown wings stretched wide, beating at the air and lifting him free of the ground.

As Lowen rose into the air, he offered Roark a cruel smile, then turned that olive wand on Kaz. Roark moved in a blink, bolting toward the Thursr, slamming his shoulder into Kaz’s chest. As a Changeling, Roark never would’ve been able to so much as budge Kaz, but as a Jotnar he easily tackled him out of the way, both hitting the ground several feet away. The flagstones where Kaz had been standing only a moment before exploded, throwing shrapnel in every direction. A sliver of red drained from Roark’s filigreed vial as jagged stone fragments cut into his exposed flesh and peppered his leather armor.

“Still overdoing it, mate,” Roark growled over the rain of grit as he rolled to his feet, coming up in a wary crouch.

“Give me the World Stone!” Lowen shouted down at him, a glower etched into the lines of his inhuman face.

“You’re welcome to come down here and take it,” Roark said, trading his bow for the Kaiken Dagger. All of his Spell Slots were still in cooldown, but his Health vial was nearly full. With a steady hand, he slashed the letters of the spell he’d killed PwnrBwner_OG with into his forearm once more. With a snarl, he thrust his arm out, palm up, fingers splayed back, unleashing a stone lance at the feathery interloper. The shaft of deadly rock screamed through the air while over half the red bled from Roark’s filigreed vial.

Lowen darted aside easily, laughing as the stone lance shattered against the ceiling where he’d been.

But his mirth was cut short as a trio of arrows slammed into the winged bastard—two from his right and one from his left. The Changelings and Thursrs spread around the antechamber reloaded. A pair of flat throwing knives sprouted from Lowen’s thigh and hip like magick an instant later. More sailed past Roark on all sides, courtesy of Zyra.

The Troll archers fired again, sending a cloud of arrows flying at Lowen. Roark switched back to the bow and joined them, nocking an arrow, pulling the string taut, and loosing it in a single fluid motion. A particularly nasty-looking spear with a barbed head thrown by Kaz impaled Lowen’s right wing. Macaroni appeared on the ceiling just over the mage’s head and dropped with a hiss. The little beast—though not so little now—landed with a meaty thump, his feet and claws scrambling for purchase while his jagged needle teeth latched onto Lowen’s feathery wing joint.

The Tyrant King’s lackey promptly tumbled from the air, his single wing unable to support the combined weight of himself and the Elite Salamander. The pair of them landed clumsily at the top of the stone staircase.

Roark was already carving another spell into the unmarked space on the back of his forearm.

“Mac, move!” he shouted, voice ringing off the high stone ceiling.

The salamander scrambled off the winged mage and down the side of the crumbling stairs with a speed belying his fat-padded form. Sensing the danger, Lowen stumbled to his feet as well and ran for the door, his injured wing dragging behind him.

“This isn’t over, Graf!” the mage snarled. “Marek will have his pendant back! You’ll suffer until you beg to die like the dog that you are! You think you’re clever, but we will own this land, just as we own all of Traisbin and Terho beyond that. You can’t escape. You belong to us!”

Roark aimed his palm toward Lowen’s knees and triggered his second spell, firing the bolas. The second offensive spell drained nearly all of Roark’s remaining Health, dropping him to his hands and knees on the shattered stone floor in a wave of pain and encroaching darkness, but he managed to hold off unconsciousness. The bolas sang through the air at the mage, but Lowen darted through the door, bashing his battered wing gracelessly against the side as he disappeared out into the night. There was a clatter of steel on stone as the bolas slammed uselessly against the wall a split second behind him.

“Damn it all,” Roark cursed under his breath. Nausea roiled in his gut—no small part of it due to letting that horse’s ass of a mage escape. In the corner of his eye, his Health vial flashed critical. A good slap across the face would likely kill him.

Kaz’s huge hands gingerly lifted Roark up and set him on his feet. “Kaz will take a party of mighty Thursrs and catch him, Roark.”

“Don’t waste your time,” Zyra said before Roark could respond. She stood in the shadowy doorway, looking out into the darkness. “He’s long gone.”

“He’ll be back,” Roark said, fingering the World Stone’s chain. “Probably with reinforcements. Does anyone know what he was?”

The Trolls seemed to shift uncomfortably. It was Zyra who finally broke the silence. “He was a Malaika Herald. A rare chimera from the great war. He will be part of a dungeon not so different than our own …”

Troubling. Extremely troubling.

Macaroni appeared at Roark’s side, providing something solid to steady him on his feet. Roark scratched the salamander’s head absently as he glanced around the antechamber at the dozen Trolls who had come to his aid just moments before. They must have been changing watch when the mage barged in. Lowen was too smart to assume they were the full force of the citadel. He wouldn’t come back before he felt certain he could kill them all and take the pendant. Roark couldn’t help wonder what sort of forces a Malaika Herald could bring to bear.

“Is the feast ready, Kaz?” Roark asked.

“Yes...yes,” the Thursr stuttered. “Kaz was on his way to tell Roark the food was served when he found this intruder demanding to speak to Roark.” Kaz glared at the place where Lowen had disappeared, the black plumage in his antlered headdress trembling with anger.

“Come on, then.” Roark raised his voice until the whole room could hear him clearly and affected a lighthearted tone he hoped would be contagious. “We’ve fought hard and won a victory over the guild of heroes who sought to demolish us. We will deal with Lowen when the time comes, but for now it is high time we celebrate.”

The play worked. Slowly, the Trolls lowered their weapons and mumbled their agreement. The guards headed up to the bailey to watch for threats with promises of rotation as soon as another group had finished eating. Kaz led the way into the great hall, detailing for Roark and anyone who would listen every food he’d made. Mac slithered along beside Roark, growling once when Zyra sidled up to them, but the bloodthirsty salamander relaxed when she only slipped Roark a Modest Health Potion.

The great hall was already full of hungry Trolls eating the fare Kaz had laid out. Three Changelings in aprons—Kaz’s new apprentices, apparently—bustled around refilling flagons of ale, plates of skewers, stacks of bread, and massive pots of stew. Reaver Bats swooped down at intervals and Stone Salamander tongues shot out to steal morsels off the table, much to the delight of the Trolls. Soon they’d made a game of tossing food to the creatures overhead. Even Zyra tossed the occasional scrap up.

Roark ate and joked and played the part of carefree leader, though his mind was on Azibek the Cruel breathing down his neck and Lowen the winged horse’s ass threatening him from the front. If Lowen had found his way here, it was likely only a matter of time until Marek did as well. When that all came to a head, it would be as ugly as a Rotbeest’s back end. They would need loads of preparation just to survive it. Zyra slipped up beside him and placed a hand on his forearm. Instead of gouging him with poisoned spikes, she simply gave his arm a light squeeze.

Roark offered her a grateful smile, then nodded. He would deal with tomorrow’s troubles tomorrow. For now, though, the Infernal creatures of the citadel’s first floor needed to celebrate while they could … especially since they might not have another chance.

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

If you enjoyed reading about Roark, Kaz, Mac, Zyra and the rest of the crew loitering around in the Rogue Dungeon and want to stay in the loop about the latest book releases, awesome 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: Rogue Dungeon Book 1

If you love my books and need more litRPG right this minute, then you might want to try my other litRPG series Viridian Gate Online: Cataclysm (Book 1). 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)

Other Works by James A. Hunter

LitRPG

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)

Viridian Gate Online: The Lich Priest (Book 5)

The Artificer DLC 1.1: A Viridian Gate Online Novel

***

War God’s Mantle: Ascension (Book 1)

War God’s Mantle: Descent (Book 2)

Urban Fantasy

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)

***

Two-Faced: Legend of the Treesinger

Soul Game: Legend of the Treesinger

Other Works by eden Hudson

eden Hudson

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)

***

Two-Faced: Legend of the Treesinger

Soul Game: Legend of the Treesinger

Books from Shadow Alley Press

Aaron Crash

LitRPG

War God’s Mantle: Ascension (Book 1)

War God’s Mantle: Descent (Book 2)

***

Denver Fury: American Dragons Book 1

Space Opera Adventure

Damnation Robot: Galactic Demon Hunters (Book 1)

Neutron Dragon Attack: Galactic Demon Hunters (Book 2)

Black Hole Werewolves: Galactic Demon Hunters (Book 3)

About the Authors

James A. Hunter

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.

eden Hudson

I am invincible. I am a mutant. I have 3 hearts and was born with no eyes. I had eyes implanted later. I didn’t have hands, either, just stumps. When my eyes were implanted they asked if I would like hands as well and I said, “Yes, I’ll take those,” and pointed with my stump. But sometimes I'm a hellbender peeking out from under a rock. When it rains, I live in a music box.

But I’m also a tattoo-addict, coffee-junkie, drummer, and aspiring skateboarder. I love you. Let’s be friends.

Hang out with me on Goodreads

Drop me a line: imedenhudson@gmail.com

Take a look behind the curtain: WhiteTrashCappuccino.com

Dedication

To our team at Shadow Alley Press—Tamara, Jeanette, Holly, Aaron, Alejandro, Amalia, Armen, Jay, Jake, Jess (lot of As and Js in there)—you guys rock and make this possible. We love you!

Special Thanks

James A. Hunter

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. I need to say thank you to eden Hudson, who is an amazingly talented author and the best co-author on the planet. Despite what she may say, All the mistakes came from me, and all the exciting, breathtaking, and pulse-pounding scenes came from her.

Here’s to the folks of Team Hunter, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers, and to all the awesome people at Shadow Alley Press: Aaron Crash, Jay, Jake, Alejandro, Jeanette (of course) and the amazing eden Hudson—the coolest writer on the planet. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who rocked this book.

—James A. Hunter, July 2018

eden Hudson

Thanks for reading! This story wouldn’t exist without readers like you to read it. It’s basically Shrodinger’s litRPG. It also wouldn’t exist without the alley oop assistance of several PCs, NPCs, and AIs. These ones here, specifically:

God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, the original Devs.

Everyone at Shadow Alley Press, who for some reason haven’t kicked me out of the guild yet.

James Hunter, one of the coolest authors out there willing to play this game in co-op. Everything awesome in this story came straight from him.

Tim McBain, the sounding board for every fit of genre fancy I have.

Nicole, the first Mario to my Luigi.

Emily, the Sideburns to my Junior.

And Joshua, the methodical, logical, clever, warlock to my let’s-pickpocket-everything-and-then-stab-it rogue.

Copyright

Rogue Dungeon: The Rogue Dungeon Book 1 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 © 2018 by James A. Hunter, eden Hudson, 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

Table of Contents

Contents

Summary

James Hunter's Mailing List

ONE: Heroes and Cowards

TWO: Graf Manor

THREE: Fallback Plan

FOUR: The Citadel

FIVE: Hearth of the World

SIX: Mystic Grimoire

SEVEN: PwnrBwner_007

EIGHT: Troll Taboo

NINE: Floor Boss

TEN: Supplies

ELEVEN: It’s a Trap

TWELVE: Evolution

THIRTEEN: Ancient Tome

FOURTEEN: The Averi Marketplace

FIFTEEN: King of Wolves

SIXTEEN: The Art of Lettering

SEVENTEEN: The Griefer

EIGHTEEN: Tradecraft

NINETEEN: Choices

TWENTY: Formal Challenge

TWENTY-ONE: Getting Ahead

TWENTY-TWO: Down, Down, Down

TWENTY-THREE: Azibek the Cruel

TWENTY-FOUR: Partnerships

TWENTY-FIVE: Death Trap

TWENTY-SIX: Hammer and Steel

TWENTY-SEVEN: Fresh Meat

TWENTY-EIGHT: Backstab

TWENTY-NINE: Incoming

THIRTY: Showdown

THIRTY-ONE: Looming Threats

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

Other Works by James A. Hunter

Other Works by eden Hudson

Books from Shadow Alley Press

About the Authors

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright