by J. A. Hunter
I was comfortable in the air, but riding in the back seat on someone else’s mount was a different experience entirely. I gulped, and found a gnarled length of vine to cling to. The wolf rose quickly into the sky, her wings beating at the air as she wheeled and banked, circling higher and higher. Soon we were soaring overhead, Ravenkirk stretched out below us like a map, and any apprehension I had about the strange wolf faded from my mind as I caught my first look at Osmark’s robot army.
The regular Imperial troops had pulled back from the city, driving toward the remaining supply wagons and siege weapons. In their place was a new threat. They were hulking humanoid automatons, covered in heavy bronzed plates festooned with rivets, gears, and clanking cogs. Each of the mechanical monstrosities was just a shell, though—a steampunk frame protecting a player within. A mech. And even from my vantage, it was easy to spot Osmark leading the charge in a formidable mech of his own. These, then, were the Artificers.
The players Osmark had scoured Eldgard in search of.
And it was easy to see why.
Each of their metal suits stood fifteen feet tall, was built like an impenetrable tank, and was decked out with a wide array of brutal weaponry. Some had giant, whirling buzzsaws the size of car tires. Others wielded Gatling-gun turrets. A few had flamethrowers. Some bore huge shields on one arm and brutal oversized battering rams on the other. Each was slightly different from the others, but they were uniformly intimidating. The hulking creatures advanced through the streets in neat, even lines, massacring anyone brazen enough—or maybe stupid enough—to take to the streets.
Unfortunately, those barricaded inside the houses didn’t fare much better.
The flamethrowers burned the plaster with deadly efficiency, while an onslaught of bullets punched through the walls, penetrating even the reinforced steel plating we’d installed. The giant buzzsaws sliced through anything unlucky enough to get in the way, and the heavy-duty tank mechs with the shields and the battering rams breached the doorways with pitiful ease. The only marginal benefit was that the creatures were too large to stomp and smash their way inside the houses, but even that wasn’t a surefire protection.
Because the iron mechs had minions. A whole host of engineered creatures: metal scorpions with buzzsaw tails, darting aerial drones, multi-legged mechanical squids that crept along on bronze tentacles. And those things dutifully scuttled around the steam-powered mechs, flooding the houses as they went. Cries and screams followed in their wake. The vine wolf banked right, bringing us around in a slow circle. I watched as one of the steam-powered mech suits smashed a reinforced door to pieces—wood and metal exploding inward like shrapnel.
“Hold the line,” a familiar voice bellowed. Forge dashed out of the house, his face a grimace of pain and unflinching dedication. One of the buzzsaw scorpions scuttled forward, but Forge didn’t care. He darted right, avoiding a thrust of the creature’s tail, before shearing the thing in two with his axe. More of the clockwork beasts came, but Forge kept right on fighting while arrows and fiery spells exploded from the windows.
More of the steel minions fell, magic burning them to a crisp or freezing them in place, while Forge mercilessly pounded his way through the ranks. He hacked off tails, tentacles, and everything in between. He suffered a score of slashes for his efforts, but they didn’t seem to slow him at all. At least, not until he blundered head-on into one of the iron mechs wielding a flamethrower on its left arm and a giant buzzsaw on the right. Forge struck hard and fast, his axe smashing into metal plating, releasing a violent shower of sparks.
The attack barely left a scratch on the armored Artificer, and before he could dance away, a giant foot flashed out, catching the Risi in the chest. He soared backward through the air like a rag doll.
More minions appeared, darting from a nearby alleyway, converging on the downed warrior. I watched, horrified, as they swarmed him, pinching, slashing, tearing, devouring. But Forge wasn’t out of the fight—not completely—and that gave me some small measure of hope; if Forge could win this scuffle, then maybe, maybe, there was hope for us. More magic and arrows sailed from the house, peppering the steel monsters, buying Forge just enough time to fight his way upright. He was covered in lacerations, his armor heavily stained with blood, but he ignored it all, charging the armor-suited Artificer once again.
Instead of attacking with one hard blow, Forge took a different approach—piling on a flurry of lightning-fast attacks. Slash, thrust, dive, dodge, hack, parry, backpedal, repeat.
Forge wasn’t fast by nature, but he was still quicker than the mech; sadly, his attacks were borderline useless. So instead, he stowed his axe and fished out several of the sludge-filled acid grenades Vlad had built. Forge backpedaled like mad, avoiding the minions as he hurled the orbs at the lumbering automaton. Those, at least, proved effective. They exploded against the steel frame, spilling out corrosive acid, which pitted the metal with ease. But the Artificer was closing in, slowly backing Forge against a wall.
The Risi feinted right, then bolted left, and leapt to avoid a torrent of flame, courtesy of the flamethrower—
The mech caught him midair, and this time, it wasn’t a metal foot to the chest, but rather a buzzsaw to the shoulder. Forge screamed, his body spasming and buckling as the blade slashed home, spraying blood out in an arc as his HP fell like a stone dropped into the Grand Canyon. Before my eyes I watched him die; the Artificer simply shook the body free without a care and turned his attention back to the house, unleashing a wave of flame, which quickly ignited the place.
In seconds, the home was a roaring bonfire, and that’s when I knew Chief Kolle was right. We’d lost this fight. If Forge—one of the best tanks we had—couldn’t stand toe-to-toe against something like that, then no one could. It was time to get out of dodge and regroup. With a reluctant sigh, I pulled up my Faction Inbox:
<<<>>>
Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk
Alert!
I can’t say how proud I am of everyone who fought today—we’ve done something incredible here, and the Imperials can’t take that away from us. But now it’s time to retreat. All siege operators, break down your weapons and get back to Rowanheath, ASAP. Catapult operators, put your rigs to the torch—make sure the Legion can’t salvage anything. All citizens, proceed through the tunnels to the chapel for immediate evacuation. Travelers, you’re the last line of defense. Fight until the end if need be. Just hold your positions long enough to let citizens and siege operators get clear.
—Faction Commander, Grim Jack
<<<>>>
I sent the message, feeling despair churn inside me like a hurricane making landfall. We’d lost. I’d lost. Outsmarted by Osmark. Again.
THIRTY-ONE_
The Horde
“Sir,” came the Druid’s voice, drawing me out of my melancholy thoughts. “There’s movement down there. Troops pouring from the Avilynn Wood.” He jabbed a finger at the sprawling forest below, his winged wolf circling slowly to the right, offering us a better view. “Are those our men or Imperial reinforcements?” the man mused, not really asking me.
I glanced down at the scene, eyes narrowing in focus.
He was right. Troops were charging from the dense tree cover and into the grassy valley outside of Ravenkirk with cruel weapons raised, ready to fight. To kill. And it wasn’t a small band of warriors—no, there were thousands of them. Not quite as numerous as the Imperial forces arrayed in the valley, but more troops than the Alliance had by a fair margin. From this height, the attackers looked almost human, and to someone who didn’t know any better, the horns poking up from their heads could’ve been elaborate helmets.
But I did know better.
I’d spent hours and hours fighting Vogthar, so I recognized their kind in a heartbeat. Their strange, fleshy armor, their pale skin, their spiked horns. They were unmistakable.
As I watched, more creatures surged from the tree line, and these weren’t the run-of-t
he-mill Vogthar, these were the hulking monstrosities I’d glimpsed through the portal deep in the heart of the Warrens of Axrukis. A towering two-headed cyclops shouldered a tree aside and stomped into view, carrying a crude warhammer bigger than a man in one hand and a stone shield in the other. A massive hound built from ice and snow—which could’ve been a brother to the gatekeeper we’d tangled with—slipped out from behind the cyclops.
And they were just the tip of the iceberg. There were molten drakes, humongous hell-toads the size of pickup trucks, and enormous wolves built from ash and gray stone.
The armies of Serth-Rog had come.
There were cries of panic from the Imperial foot soldiers—now circled around the wagons and siege weapons—as they spotted the encroaching monsters. Orders went up as officers and platoon commanders took charge, reforming their ranks, sorting them into tight shield walls and clusters of spellcasters to fend off the incoming forces. The Imperials were still scrambling into place when the first wave of Vogthar smashed into their lines. The residents of Morsheim fought with ferocity and brutality, throwing themselves forward, unconcerned with flashing Imperial spears or cleaving swords.
The Vogthar fought like creatures possessed and unafraid to die.
For a second, the Imperials held, their discipline and training shining through; this was precisely the kind of battle they had prepared for, and it showed. The frontline tanks interlocked shields, while midline fighters jabbed with spears and hooked halberds. Farther back, tucked away behind multiple levels of bodies, archers and rangers unleashed waves of arrows, while casters of all stripes hurled deadly offensive spells. Healers and priests trickled through the masses, casting health auras on the most desperately wounded defenders.
The Legion was a well-oiled machine, but one built to contend against humanoid enemies, not the giant monstrosities breaking from the woods.
The second the gigantic heavy-hitting monsters waded into the fray, the lines broke as easily as dry hay. Several two-headed cyclopes smashed their way past even the most stalwart Imperial combatants, using their hammers or giant feet to send the Imperial fighters flying through the air. Their colossal shields absorbed the majority of the arrow fire, and the magical offensive attacks seemed to bounce off their pebbled hides with little to no effect. And the other creatures were just as destructive:
[Ragna-Wolves] shredded armor and flesh in powerful jaws.
The deadly [Vogthar Drakes], built entirely from magma, spewed ash and fire.
The [Hell-Toads], each covered in barbed spikes, were like unstoppable battering rams.
In next to no time, the shield wall fell apart—huge breaches opening in the lines—and the Vogthar foot soldiers swarmed into the gaps, further splitting the Imperial ranks, driving toward the powerful, but vulnerable, casters at the rear of the formation. And the boss mobs just kept hammering away at the tanks, taking them out with brutal efficiency. I glanced left and noticed that the Artificers in their steam-powered suits were retreating from Ravenkirk, lumbering away from the burning ruins of the town and beelining for the incoming Vogthar.
Osmark wasn’t anyone’s fool—he had eyes to see what was happening.
And even if he didn’t know what the Vogthar were, he’d be able to tell how much trouble his forces were in.
The Druid whooped in victory, pumping one fist in the air while he brought us around in a circle, keeping us out of arrow range, but close enough to see the action. I could understand his enthusiasm—just moments before, our forces were falling back, beaten and bloody, and in a single instant the tide had turned. I didn’t share his enthusiasm, however, because I knew the Vogthar were far from friendly. Yes, they were attacking our enemies at the moment, but that wouldn’t last long. They were like rabid dogs, and any moment they’d turn on us.
Worse, as I saw Imperials fall—their life draining away as they bled out in the grass—I couldn’t help but think about the Malware Blade of Serth-Rog tucked away inside my bag. How many of the Vogthar down there carried similar weapons? How many of the players dying below were suffering from the Thanatos Virus? How many real people would close their eyes and never open them again? Dead. Unable to respawn. Deleted. It was impossible to say for sure, but I had a terrible feeling in my gut that the numbers would be devastatingly high.
I wanted Osmark to fail, but not like this. Not at the expense of the actual lives of men and women who were mostly innocent.
The officer commlink buzzed to life in my ear, pulling me from my morbid thoughts as Abby’s voice resonated inside my skull. “Jack, sorry to interrupt you, but we have some big problems.” A strong thread of genuine fear resonated in her voice.
“Not great timing,” I replied, pressing a hand to my ear, trying to block out the rush of the wind, “but what’s going on?”
“We’re under attack, Jack. There are monsters at our walls, battering against the gates. Trying to overrun Rowanheath. And not just here—everywhere. Reports are flooding in from the city magistrates that the same thing is happening in every single one of our territories. It’s bad, Jack. Ugly.”
“Have they breached the defenses anywhere?” I shouted back, keeping one eye on the battle raging below. The Imperial mech-suit warriors had finally engaged with the Vogthar, slamming hard into their left flank. Gatling guns and oversized buzzsaws cut down the lesser Vogthar with ruthless ease, but the real aim was the Vogthar bosses, doing so much damage to the regular players.
“No,” she replied after a moment of hesitation, “but we got lucky. Those names from the journal? Yeah, all Vogthar agents. We rounded them up and locked them away—and good thing too. From what our Inquisitors have been able to find out, they were supposed to sabotage our efforts from within. Open the gates. Assassinate watch commanders and field officers.
“Purposely sow chaos so our towns couldn’t coordinate in time,” she continued. “And even with the list, we missed a few of the sleeper agents. We lost a lot of good men and women. If it weren’t for the fact that we were actively preparing for an attack, we’d be in real trouble. And we’re not out of the woods yet—these things are tough, Jack.”
I was silent for a second, the wheels spinning in my head.
I had no doubt our forces would repel the Vogthar this time around, but there was no way the Alliance was the only target. It was a safe bet they’d launched similar campaigns against most of the major cities, Imperial, Neutral, and Alliance alike. How many towns would be lost in this invasion? How many people would die because of this? I had no idea, but suddenly the thought of losing this little skirmish to Osmark seemed like the least of my worries.
“Okay, Abby,” I said with a shake of my head. “Keep holding down the fort. Push back hard, and make these jerks think twice before they try this again. We’re dealing with the same thing on our end. A huge mob of Vogthar are storming in from the Avilynn—they’re going after the Imperials at the moment, but it’s only a matter of time before they turn on us. I need to get my head back in the game.”
“Understood,” came her curt reply, followed by a taut pause. “Jack, please be careful out there,” she whispered. “These things can kill you. Really kill you, so don’t do anything too insane, okay?”
“I’ll do my best, Abby. Same goes for you—the Alliance can’t afford to lose you. You’re the brain holding this thing together.” It was my turn to hesitate. “And I can’t afford to lose you either,” I finished softly, “so no heroics.”
“Love you, Jack,” came her reply.
“Love you, too,” I said back, but the comm was already dead in my ear.
Before I could do anything else, the comm link buzzed to life again and a new voice filled my ears. Chief Kolle. “Grim Jack,” he said. “We have reports about some new force invading from the north, battering against the Imperials,” just like the Druid who’d cheered at the arrival of the Vogthar, Kolle sounded positively giddy at the development. I could hear victory in his voice. “The ir
on warriors are retreating, and better yet Chakan has arrived with the War Bands. Fifteen hundred of the Dokkalfar’s strongest warriors and Maa-Tál await your orders on the edge of the Storme Marshes.
“They’re exhausted from the march but ready to fight all the same. We can win this, Grim Jack,” he said after a beat. “The scouts report that the Imperials are all lined up toward the north, dealing with these new invaders. Their backs are exposed to the south—toward our men. If we move now, we can destroy them root and branch. Neang seua pad joun ra kay, as my people say—we have escaped from the tiger and become the crocodile. These invaders shall be the anvil. We will be the hammer. We can destroy everything, Grim Jack. Everything.”
I thought about his words for a moment, letting the wind gently slap against my skin and pull at my cloak as I watched the Imperials struggle below. Osmark’s Artificers were finally making a dent against the Vogthar, but it was too little too late. If we acted now, we could burn the Legion to the ground. Hell, at this point even if we did nothing, it was possible the Vogthar horde would wipe out Osmark and his forces. The Alliance had hurt them badly during our initial assault, and this new wave of attackers had caught them unaware and flatfooted.
“Grim Jack,” Chief Kolle’s voice came again, “should I give the command?”
I blanched, uncertainty fluttering in my belly like a swarm of angry bees. Attacking Osmark and the Legion now, when they were weak and vulnerable, was a smart, ruthless play. Exactly the kind of thing Osmark himself would do. But I couldn’t do it. There was no doubt real people were dying down there, and we could help. “No,” I said, my voice creaking. “I want you to attack those invaders with everything you have. Tell the War Bands to avoid the Legionnaires for the time being. The invaders are the real threat.”