by Troy Osgood
Sabine had never seen a Feraltaur before that morning. Like a centaur, which was half-man and half-horse, this was half-man and half-cat. And far deadlier than either.
The spear plunged down toward her.
She winced as it passed to the side. She could feel the air pressure of its passage. Confused, the Feraltaur pulled back as the image of Sabine disappeared, leaving two remaining, one fake and one real. Sabine smiled, glad her magic could confuse the heightened senses of the creature.
Holding out a hand, she sent a Hexbolt flying. Purple lightning crackled as it struck, spreading around the Feraltaur’s chest. It tried to move, but its body rebelled, spasming and sending shocks of pain throughout. She loved the additional power her Hexbolt had now that she had reached level twelve.
Salem, her Minx cat familiar, appeared on the Feraltaur’s unarmored back. Small claws dug in, barely finding purchase through the thick fur. The Feraltaur didn’t even feel the purple and green cat’s claws, but it felt the magic spreading through its body. A large creature, the Minx cat’s poison wouldn’t do much, but it would slow it just enough.
Pulling out a wand, making sure Salem had disappeared, Sabine sent a fireball flying from the rounded tip of the rod. It slammed into the Feraltaur, waves of heat exploding out. Sabine turned away, feeling the searing waves.
From this close, the Feraltaur felt the full impact, flames engulfing its upper body. The smell of burning fur spread throughout the camp. It roared in pain, falling back, dropping the sword to swat at the flames quickly burning it.
Sabine took the opportunity to put more distance between her and the massive creature. Just one swipe of its paws, arms or legs, would send her flying and probably kill her. The thing was just that big. It towered over her, all muscle and rage.
It thrashed around, trying to put out the flames, but the Hexbolt wouldn’t let it. Roaring in pain and frustration, the Feraltaur fell to the ground where it lay, rolling around as its body spasmed.
Sabine felt a little bad for it.
But just a little.
It had been in her way.
White fur blackened, the stench unbearable.
She turned away, seeing Iron approaching her.
He looked impressive in his new armor. Arms still exposed, even in the cold of northern Norish, one of the Storvgarde islands. His black tattoos covered his heavily muscled arms, disappearing under the rune-covered leather bracers he wore. The black and brown chest piece looked like overlapping scales, two thick strips down the sides and over his shoulders. His two-handed axe sat on his shoulder.
Like the Feraltaur, Iron towered over her.
She’d learned a lot about him in the last few months since leaving Hall and Caryn, joining Iron’s Army. At least she had learned who Iron was now. She had no idea who he had been. Now he was the leader of a large army. Huntley, all of it except for the Dwarves trapped in Axestorm Hall, was under his control, and he was well on his way in capturing Norish.
A wilder island, the tribe of Feraltaur they had come across wasn’t the first nonhuman village to fall to Iron and his army.
“Would you like me to finish it off?” he asked, stopping next to her, looking down at the thrashing Feraltaur.
“If you want,” she replied with a shrug, sounding nonchalant when she really did want him to kill the Feraltaur. It just needed to be quiet. The roars of pain were getting to her.
With a smile, lifting his heavy axe off his shoulder, Iron walked past. She heard his footsteps stop and then the axe whistling through the air. There was a thud, and the Feraltaur fell silent.
SLAIN: Whiteclaw Clan Slasher
+40 Experience (+40 Faction Enemy Bonus Experience)
Skill Gain!
Wands Rank Three +.4
She studied the numbers before dismissing the notifications. Tig had been correct, the gains had recently changed. Again. Both experience and skill. She didn’t know why and didn’t care. It just meant she would level that much faster.
It still felt weird being level twelve after so long in the post-Glitch world. Pre-Glitch she would have been max level for weeks, experiencing all that the endgame had to offer. But this new game was something different.
Even Iron was surprised at the changes.
Not in public, where most of the players and the NPCs could see.
But in private. When it was just the two of them.
He let his guard down. Some.
“It’s a shame they would not join us,” Iron said, stepping up next to her, his eyes looking out over the village.
A small village, only a couple of dozen yurts, most of them were aflame now. There were still pockets of fighting, but most of it was over. Iron’s Army had taken few casualties.
“The Whiteclaw Feraltaurs would have made strong allies,” Iron continued.
“If not for the Norns,” Sabine said, something she had said a couple of times before.
Iron wanted to rule, not destroy. He wanted the various villages they came across to join his army. At first it had just been Storvgardes from Huntley, different tribes. But now there were others in the ranks. A clan of centaurs from northern Huntley, Gnomes from southern Norish, and others. The Feraltaurs would have been welcomed to the army.
Instead, the Norns of the Cerulean Regency had gotten to them first, somehow convincing the Whiteclaw that Iron needed to be destroyed.
None of them understood why. First encountered as the first behind a Storvgarde tribe called the Svertleim, when Sabine had first come across Iron, the Norns seemed to want to do everything they could to kill Iron.
There had even been assassins.
The reason why was mostly unknown. What they did know was that it involved people called Champions. They now knew Iron was one.
What exactly a Champion was for, that was still unknown, but it had something to do with the Cerulean Regency’s plans. Probably stopping them most likely.
Sabine was a little jealous that Iron was one of these Champions. Hall was too. She wanted to be, mostly. Dealing with assassination attempts wasn’t something she wanted to deal with and hadn’t thought it would be something in a game. Sabine wanted the power and prestige that would come with being a Champion.
Sky Realms Online was a game, even if they were trapped within the game world, and as such, being a Champion would probably involve some epic quest line and loot. That was something she wanted to be in.
If she wasn’t a Champion, she would have to make sure she stayed close to one.
“Maybe we need to concentrate on finding the Norns,” she suggested, not for the first time.
Iron laughed. “No, they will come to me.”
Sometimes Iron’s confidence annoyed her. He was arrogant, but could back it up. The man was a tactical genius and used just the right amounts of charisma, fear and force to keep the elements of the army together. Some worshipped the ground he walked on; others feared that same ground. All did what he commanded.
Or what his chosen few commanded.
All of Iron’s leaders were players, like Sabine. Those trapped in the game. Which made them better than any of the NPCs. They had lost some in the fighting, but gained a couple as well.
Next to her, Iron hadn’t moved. She looked up, recognizing the look. He was thinking. Iron would run all the variables, every option he could think of, seeing what the results would be, coming to the best conclusion. She wondered if he had been a mathematician pre-Glitch.
He played a large Storvgardian Warden, but Sabine knew he wasn’t a large man in real life. In the real world, the person behind Iron was anything but what he looked like now. And it wasn’t like she was the same as her avatar, but the differences between the real her and the computer game her were far less than with Iron.
“You may be right,” he finally said. “Maybe it is time we took the fight to the Norns. Maybe it is time we learned more about what it means to be a Champion.”
He fell silent again, eyes roaming the fires in the village
. The yurts were big, taking up a lot of space, made from dozens of mammoth hides. Even in the cold and wet environment, they had caught fire quickly.
“Tig can control the army,” Iron said, thinking through the change in plans. “Come, my dear,” he told her, walking away. “We have plans to make.”
Sabine bit back a retort. Iron was a bit too commanding for her sometimes, but he was what she needed right now. She could deal with his attitude. For now.
Getting away from Tig would be good, she thought, following Iron. Ever since she had left him for Iron, the Arashi player was cold to her, angry. Sabine somewhat expected a knife in the back, the way Tig acted.
But what did he expect? He was just a commander in the army. A stepping-stone. She deserved the best, and for that, she needed to be with the one in charge of Iron’s Army.
“The ship is secured,” his first mate barked.
Durch nodded, adjusting his tight-fitting red cap. His ship, the Dark Scavenger, moved with the wind. The lines attaching it to the rock held it tight, restricting the amount of movement. Making sure both his hand axes were secure, the Duntin captain walked to the railing. Two sailors dropped the rope ladder down. Durch looked over, seeing the heavy weights hit the rocky ground.
The island was nothing special. One of the many debris islands in this area. North and above the island of Thun, one of the larger but one no kingdom had claimed. A wild place. Perfect for the Duntins. Gray rock covered the entire island, not a bit of green. A single large hill of jagged stone rose in the middle.
The Dark Scavenger had come from the south, descending from a higher elevation. Over a week ago, they had passed by the island of Edin, where they were supposed to meet with two other Duntin ships commanded by Corht of the Roc Reaver. The ships were gone, as were Corht and his Duntins.
Durch had an idea what had happened. The small village to the north, the reason Corht had been on Edin in the first place. The Roc Reaver captain had failed. And Durch knew he would be the one to answer for it.
He would have sailed on, skipping this rendezvous, but what choice did he really have?
None.
Climbing over the railing, Durch quickly descended the rope ladder. It swayed in the breeze, but it was nothing to a Duntin.
Booted feet touching stone, Durch walked away from his ship. He fought the urge to look up. That was a sign of weakness, and he couldn’t display that. Not to his crew and not to the people waiting just ahead.
He had seen the three ships already moored on the island, spread out as much as possible on the small unnamed rock. Two were forms he knew. The smaller was a Norn ship, built for carrying a few passengers somewhere quickly. He’d destroyed a couple in his time, not that he would mention that now. The other was large and sleek, narrow but long with three masts, the sales triangular. It was a Dracon ship. Far from their home skies. Durch had never encountered the Dracon in the sky, in battle or in passing.
The last ship was a design he had never seen or heard of.
Which made sense. It was from very far to the east, lands that no Duntin had ever seen.
It belonged to the Desmarik Republic and was the reason they were all here.
It didn’t take long to reach the center of the island, where the others waited, gathered at the base of the hill. They all watched.
“You’re late,” the Dracon, Siltar, growled.
“Storms off Edin,” Durch answered with a shrug. Not that it was Siltar’s concern.
“Where is Corht?”
The voice was heavy, deep and accented. It spoke the language clearly, just with a thick accent. Not its native tongue. The speaker towered over the short Duntin. Dark red skin, heavily muscled. He wore armor made of some strange metal that looked pitted and rough, leaving the arms exposed. Spiky pauldrons covered his shoulders. A large two-handed sword hung across his back, a strange amulet over his chest. It was a single eye, intricately carved.
Durch thought the amulet strange and somewhat creepy. The eye seemed to follow him no matter where he went. He felt naked in front of it, like his mind was exposed.
The speaker was a Desmarik. Gruthuk, he was called. It was by his command that they were all there, all working together.
“Dead most likely,” Durch answered, not explaining.
“Which means he failed to kill the Champion,” the Norn, Karehiliot, said. There was no emotion in the voice. Cold, just like all Norns.
“Such a simple task,” Siltar growled. “Maybe the Duntins are not worthy?”
Durch moved quickly, faster than anyone could react. Both his hand axes were out, the blade of one against the back of Siltar’s leg, ready to cut a tendon. The other was held vertically, poised right between the Dracon’s legs.
Siltar just laughed.
“Enough,” Gruthuk said, not amused.
Durch returned his axes to their sheaths, not looking at the chuckling Siltar.
Gruthuk’s gaze turned to Siltar, shutting the Dracon up. Then it fell to Durch, looking down, which increased the intimidation factor. Durch looked up, doing his best not to shake. It wasn’t Gruthuk that unnerved him, it was the amulet. He could feel that metal eye staring at him, judging him, measuring him.
And finding him lacking.
“Noble Siltar does have a point,” Gruthuk said. Durch wondered if the Dracon caught the derision when the Desmarik said noble. “First Corht lost the treasure cache that was to go to our human pawns and now this failure. If you cannot be counted on to uphold your end of the deal…”
He didn’t finish saying it. Durch knew what he was getting at.
Durch nodded. He understood.
Gruthuk stared a moment longer, turning to face the others.
“You all have your parts to play,” Gruthuk said, his voice always sounding like a growl. “But there is more yet to do. The end is approaching.”
Durch often wondered if Gruthuk was the ruler of the Desmarik or just a general. Maybe not even that. How many were above Gruthuk? How large was the Desmarik Republic? Just how powerful? Sometimes, he regretted this alliance. The rewards would be great, but so would the punishments if they failed.
“The end when you don’t take Hankarth,” Siltar said sarcastically, in his own growl.
The Dracon stood a foot taller than the Desmarik, just as wide, but the relatively smaller Gruthuk didn’t back down. He glared up at Siltar, sneering.
“As agreed, the Desmarik do not want Hankarth,” Gruthuk stated.
Siltar seemed to accept that, nodding his scaled head.
“I find that hard to believe,” Karehiliot said.
Gruthuk turned to the smaller Norn, chuckling. “Yet you still agreed to our help with your goals for helping us with ours.”
Karehiliot shrugged. “The Cerulean Regency cannot take over the Norn Hierarchy without aid,” he said. There was no anger or embarrassment in his tone, just simple fact. “You say you do not want Hankarth now, and the Regency accepts that. I believe we are just pushing off one problem for another in the future.”
“You still agreed to it,” Gruthuk said.
“It was not my decision,” Karehiliot replied with a shrug. “I do not believe the only reason you are in Hankarth is to kill these Champions.”
Durch kept his face impassive, but was shocked Karehiliot had spoken what they were all thinking. He’d had those same thoughts. The deal with the Desmarik was too good. They would get the aid of the Republic and their pet demons so they could take more territory, become more powerful and finally overtake the major races on Hankarth. And for what? Help in finding and killing a handful of people?
What were these Champions?
Gruthuk had never said why they needed to die, just that the Republic wanted them dead. Durch was fine with killing some people so the Duntin could move beyond being pirates and take back their place as equals, or betters, to the Dwarves. He, like the Norn, thought there was more to the Desmarik’s deal.
They were good ones for deals. Everything w
as a bargain with them.
Durch had a feeling there was more to the Desmarik Republic. He felt the eye of Gruthuk’s amulet staring at him. Tearing his eyes away from the metal, he focused on the taller Desmarik.
“Believe what you want,” Gruthuk said, looking from one to the other. “The Desmarik Republic has no desire to stay in Hankarth, of that you have my promise.”
It sounded good, Durch thought, and maybe it was. He was under no illusions. Once each of the races, and the Expedition Lumber Company, got what they wanted, this alliance would end. But the world would be a different place at that point and the Duntins in a better position to take advantage of it.
Which was fine with Durch.
“As for why you were called here,” Gruthuk said, drawing Durch’s attention away from thoughts of rampaging through the tunnels of Axestorm Hall.
Name: Hall
Race: Half-Elf
Class: Skirmisher
Level: 9
Experience:
Total:1,960
Next Level: 4,600
Unassigned Stat Points: 1
Health:
Base: 110
Adjusted: 0
Total: 110
Energy:
Base: 135
Adjusted: 0
Total: 135
Vitality:
Base: 30
Adjusted: 0
Total: 30
Attributes
Strength:
Base: 13
Adjusted: 4
Total: 17
Agility:
Base:18
Adjusted: 7
Total: 25
Wellness:
Base: 13
Adjusted: 1
Total: 14
Intelligence:
Base: 13
Adjusted: 0
Total: 13