Viridian Gate Online: Books 1 - 3 (Cataclysm, Crimson Alliance, The Jade Lord)

by James Hunter

  The last two points … Well, those I saved. Maybe it would’ve made sense to spend it, but in my experience, it was always better to have an extra point in reserve, just in case.

  With all of my points divvied up and parceled out, I scrolled over to my main interface to check the time: 10:19 PM. I swore under my breath. On top of everything else, dying had cost me eight hours. Great. Perfect. I had a little less than a day left before the planned raid on Rowanheath was supposed to go down. In a huff, I closed my interface, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and pushed myself upright with a heave and a groan. Even with all of my new perks, the pain was still too much, and my legs buckled beneath me, landing me back on the mattress.

  I ground my teeth in frustration. A part of me liked the idea of flopping down and closing my eyes for the next eight hours—just try to sleep through these awful debuffs—but I couldn’t afford to lose any more time. So I pulled a Health Regen vial from a pouch at my belt, downed the contents in one gulp, then quickly cast my Night Armor ability, wrapping myself in a swirling, second skin of shadowy energy. Obviously, I didn’t have to worry about enemies here in the Keep, but Night Armor also came with the uncanny ability to ease a small amount of physical pain.

  TWENTY-TWO: Reports, Reports, Reports

  Between the potion and the spell, the hardest edge of the fatigue and pain faded to the background, giving me enough strength to stand, though only barely. I took a deep breath, then gingerly shuffled for the door, bent on finding Abby and figuring out what I’d missed in the ten hours I’d been gone. I hobbled down a passageway, moving like a recent car-wreck victim, and took turn after turn until I eventually found myself at the base of the stairs that spiraled up toward the Keep’s control room. If Abby was here, that’s where she’d be.

  I didn’t relish the notion of climbing all those stairs, though.

  I really should’ve splurged for the Keep’s internal teleportation system. A sudden flash of inspiration hit me a second later, and I pulled open my Keep interface, my lips stretching into a devious grin. There were all kinds of kickass abilities, and it only took me a few moments to find what I wanted: “Summon Keeper.” I activated the button; immediately, there was a burst of angry red light as one of the stone guardians pulled itself from the Keep’s floor. Thankfully, it wasn’t Brewald the Golem, just some nameless Keeper.

  The creature mutely regarded me with its single giant eye, patiently waiting for instructions. I cleared my throat, shifting uncomfortably under the thing’s gaze. “I need a ride to the control room,” I said, waving a hand toward the stairs.

  The creature didn’t speak, but it stared at me for a long hard second. Seriously? that look seemed to say. But after a beat, the Keeper complied, shuffling forward, then scooping me up in burly arms, before wheeling around and taking the stairs two at a time. The ride wasn’t comfortable, but in next to no time, we rounded a bend and emerged into the Keep’s control room, which was filled with a spattering of people, including Abby and the chief. All conversation ceased as the Keeper carried me into the room, cradling me in its oversized arms like a newborn.

  For a second everything fell silent, then Abby broke the spell by busting out in laughter, which quickly started a chain reaction of hoots and knee slapping. Red crept into my cheeks, but I fought to brush off the embarrassment—they could laugh all they wanted, because I hadn’t had to hoof it up all those stairs in my sad state.

  “Welcome, your majesty,” Abby giggled, dabbing at her eyes, “glad to see you’re alive and misusing our guards. Why didn’t I think of riding them around as mounts instead of just using my legs?”

  “Funny,” I said, quirking an eyebrow at her. “But I wouldn’t be doing this if I could walk. I died, the Spider Queen killed me, and now I can hardly move.”

  “Death’s Curse?” she offered with a wince.

  “Yeah,” I replied as I motioned for the Keeper to set me down. Gingerly, I hobbled over to one of the highbacked chairs. “Why didn’t anyone tell me how bad it sucks to die?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “It’s one of those things you just have to experience for yourself. I’ve died four times so far, and it never gets better—in fact, it actually gets worse the higher up you go. The debuffs last the same amount of time but the effects are all amped up, and the pain …” She trailed off, her lips turning down into a frown. “I’ve heard that after you hit level fifty, you’re pretty much incapacitated by Death’s Sting. Just hearsay, but I believe it.”

  “Is that really you, Jacky-boy?” someone boomed from across the room, cutting through my conversation with Abby. I glanced up to find a whip-thin Dawn Elf, sporting expensive robes covered in golden scrollwork, striding purposefully toward me. His face didn’t look familiar, but his voice rang a bell inside my head. Jacky-boy, he’d called me. Only one person I knew ever called me that.

  “Wait, Anton Black?” I said, taken aback.

  IRL, Anton was a tax accountant from the UK. Bradford, I thought. He’d been with our old gaming guild for as long as it’d been around, but the character before me couldn’t have been Anton. Anton always played hard-hitting, melee characters—warriors, barbs, berserkers, and endless variations thereof were all in his wheelhouse. But the lanky elf before me, with his fine robes and his delicate features, wasn’t a fighter by any stretch of the imagination. He looked far closer to an alchemist or a merchant than a sword-wielding meathead.

  “One and the same,” the man said with a grin and a cheesy bow.

  “But, but look at you,” I stammered. “What class are you?”

  He paused and blushed. “Merchant. I thought about picking a Risi,” he said, as though reading the question directly from my mind, “but this is real life now. Being a warrior is great in games, but that’s not how I want to spend my existence. Not to mention, my wife, Angie, put her foot down hard on the notion. ‘I refuse to be married to one of those green monsters,’” he mimed in a bad falsetto, before shrugging.

  “She’s right though”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“they are ugly. Plus, at the end of the day, I’m a tax accountant, not a fighter. I’m way more comfortable crunching numbers and balancing ledgers than bashing skulls, so this seemed like a better fit. I contacted our girl there,” he continued, jerking his head toward Abby, “the second the Universal Alert about the Crimson Alliance went out. I knew it had to be you, though damned if I know how you pulled this whole thing off.” He paused and stared around the Command Center with a certain admiration. “For the time being, I’m going to be working as the faction quartermaster and logistics officer.”

  “Well holy crap is that good news,” I replied. “We need all the help we can get around here. Besides, it sure is good to see some more familiar faces. Out of curiosity, is your wife here with you?”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, crossing his arms. “She’s a deadly chef. The absolute best. Abby already got us set up in the new housing development on the edge of Yunnam, and she’s downstairs working in the kitchen. Our little girl’s here, too. Rachael. Only eleven, but she seems to be adjusting okay to all of this. Heck, I’d say she’s adjusting better than we are. Alright,” he said, clapping his hands together, “we’ll catch up a little more later—I’ve got to deal with this joker over here.” He hooked a thumb toward a boxy, dour-faced Dwarf with an epic beard across the room.

  “He’s our new Mine Overseer, Mark Muller.” He paused, and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “He’s a good guy, very competent, but there’re already a load of issues. It’s those damned Void Terrors. They keep respawning and harassing our diggers. It’s a real headache. But you’ve got enough to sort out, Jacky-Boy. We’ll talk more later,” he said, before shuffling off toward the surly dwarf with a sigh. I knew from firsthand experience how much of a nuisance the Terrors could be, but I was glad to hear they’d respawned. That meant more potential minions for me, though admittedly it was going to be a pain in the ass for everyone else.

  I turned back to Abby,
a lopsided smile on my face. “It’s good to see him, isn’t it?” she asked.

  I nodded. “Yeah, it really is.” I paused, glancing around at all the people hustling and bustling through the room. “So, care to fill me in on what’s going on around here?”

  “Absolutely,” she replied, “but first, I’ve got a little surprise for you. I took the liberty of ordering you some breakfast”—she waved toward the far door—“well, dinner actually, but you get the idea. The food should help with the pain a bit.”

  I turned in my seat and found a mousy Murk Elf woman scurrying toward me with a tray laden down with food. Some of it was clearly Eldgard fare—honeyed porridge and seared pork—but another plate held something that looked suspiciously like flapjacks. My stomach rumbled in anticipation. The woman set the tray down with a brief curtsy. I fished a silver mark from my bag and pressed it into her hand as she was preparing to turn away. “Thank you, ma’am,” I muttered sheepishly.

  She offered me a toothy, grateful smile in return, then hurried off, back the way she’d come.

  I picked up the silverware in shaky hands and tore into the food, taking huge bites with great gusto. Amazing. The flapjacks, called [Old Fashioned Hotcakes], tasted spot on and even came with something eerily similar to maple syrup. “Wow,” I moaned around a mouthful of food.

  “Good, right?” Abby asked, more statement than question, a ghost of a smile dancing on her lips as she watched me devour each bite.

  “So good,” I mumbled.

  “Now try that.” She gestured toward a porcelain cup filled with something dark, steaming, and potent smelling. Slowly, I lifted the cup, inhaled a deep whiff of the rich aroma, and took a sip: nutty, rich, delicious. I almost cried. It was coffee. And not crappy instant coffee. Good coffee. I felt a little teary-eyed. Back IRL, coffee had been a staple of my existence, and I’d sincerely thought I’d never enjoy another cup. Even better, it did help with the Death debuffs, even if only indirectly, since it offered some awesome benefits:

  <<<>>>

  Buffs Added

  Western Brew: Restore 150 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health Regen by 18%; duration, 30 minutes.

  Caffeinated: Base Intelligence increased by (5) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Vitality increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Strength increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes.

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

  <<<>>>

  I grinned. Despite being mentally unhinged, apparently the Devs still had some small sense of humor.

  “This is so, so, so amazing,” I murmured contentedly. “It’s heaven. Delicious coffee heaven. Maybe I can make it here, after all.”

  “Well, enjoy it sparingly,” she said. “Unfortunately, the beans needed to brew it only grow in a couple of dirt-speck farming towns on the other side of the Barren Sands, so it costs a fortune to acquire and ship. Anton brought it with him, so you need to thank him later.”

  “Yeah,” I said, inhaling another deep whiff. “I know you’re already crazy busy, but let’s find someone with a farming specialization and see if we can’t manage to get this growing around here. Everyone is gonna want to get their hands on this. Everyone.”

  She smiled, her nose crinkling. “You’re so cute, Jack,” she said, reaching up and patting me on the cheek. “I’m already on it—I’ve got headhunters searching for compatible farmers as we speak.”

  “You’re really on the ball here”—I gestured with my syrup-covered fork—“you’ve got everything in hand. I feel like you don’t even need me.”

  “I’m good with organizing,” she said with a noncommittal shrug. “Program management was a big part of what I did back at Osmark Tech. Good management is all about finding good people. Once you’ve got a solid team, you just need to delegate appropriately, then get the hell out of the way so they can do their work. The hardest part was sorting through the flood of emails we got last night, but once I found some good candidates, everything else sort of clicked into place. Anton’s running logistics. Delor Damian”—he was another former Crimson Alliance Clan member—“is in the fold now, too. He’s an Accipiter Scout, and he brought along a couple of others with him. They’ve been absolutely invaluable.

  “And that’s only the tip of the iceberg,” she said, clearly excited by the progress. “We’ve seen a flood of craftsmen and gatherers. We’ve got miners, engineers, woodworkers—those faction buffs have been a huge draw, especially among Rebel-aligned NPCs. We’ve probably only managed to snag a handful of people compared to the Viridian factions, but I still think we’re doing good. We even picked up another Shadowmancer—a fourteen-year-old kid from Denmark named Michael.” She paused, her lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “Real sad story, that kid. Parents could only afford one capsule, so he’s in here on his own.”

  She glanced away for a second, a hint of pain lingering in the lines of her face. “Anyway,” she said after a beat, “with him on the team, we’ve even managed to get the Darkshard Mine up and in full swing. Churning out Raw Darkshard Ore like there’s no tomorrow. There’s about a thousand pounds down there, and it replenishes every eight hours or so. It’s good. All good. The only real hiccup we’ve had so far is with the Arcane Shadow Cannons. We haven’t been able to find an engineer with the chops or the skill set to alter the plans. We’re working on it, though. I’m sure things will come together.”

  She tried to sound reassuring, but I knew her well enough to hear the hint of worry simmering beneath the words.

  I took a huge bite of greasy seared pork, savoring the flavor as I processed. “Any other Dark Templars besides the Danish kid?” I asked, trying to change the topic.

  “A few,” she said with a nod. “Hold on, let me just pull it up.” She paused, her eyes scanning over something invisible—likely her user interface. “Ah, there it is. Yeah, we picked up one Necromancer from Houston, one Plague Bringer from Belgium, and four more Dark Templars who don’t have specializations yet. Not bad, considering it seems like a pretty rare class overall.”

  “Wow,” I said again, feeling a little thunderstruck.

  This was all happening so fast. Less than a day ago, we’d been a handful of people with little hope, and now? Now we were an army. Even if a small one. “How are you getting all these people here?” I asked, incredulous. “The swamp’s damn near impossible to navigate. And how in the world are you vetting them?”

  She smiled again. “I located a trio of Rebel-aligned initiates from the Mystica Ordo—a cohort of transport specalists in the making. Except, they defected to us in exhange for some hefty bonuses, and now they’re doing all kinds of port skips. Picking people up at a variety of rallying points on the border of the Storme Marshes, then ferrying them back to Yunnam. As to vetting …”She paused, then waved the question away. “The answer is long, tedious, and unimportant, but we’ve got a system worked out.”

  Man, Abby was way better at this faction business than I was.

  Suprisingly, that didn’t bother me. I wasn’t much of an organizer anyway, so all of this stuff sounded like absolute torture. I was just glad I had someone efficent and capable on my team; I was going to take her advice: find good people, then get out of their way so they could work their magic.

  “What about enemies?” I asked before setting down my fork and taking another deep, long pull of coffee, letting the warm liquid heat me up from the inside out.

  “A few,” came the chief’s voice. The man dropped into a seat across from me. He looked content, but tired—deep purple bags lingered under his eyes as though he hadn’t gotten a proper wink of sleep in days. “No organized incursions, though,” he continued. “Amara and the Scouts believe they’re unaffiliated travelers, likely looking to curry favor with the empire, or earn a lucrative bounty. But enough of all that,” he said, slouching back in his chair, letting it cradle him. “Tell us how things turned out with the Spider Queen. The Accipiter Scouts report the spiderkin are moving into the jung
le around Yunnam, so I assumed it went according to plan, but …” He faded off, leaving the obvious question unasked:

  But if you died, maybe things didn’t go so well.

  I grinned at the chief. “No, things went fine. Well, mostly. Apparently, the Spider Nation seals their bargains with a blood sacrifice,” I said, before launching into a brief account of my encounter with the spiderkin and the terms of our deal with the arachnoid matriarch.

  The chief seemed to deflate a bit after that, built-up tension easing out of his shoulders as he let out a pent-up breath. “Thank all the great gods and goddesses above,” he said as I finished. “In truth, I thought your plan was something of a fool’s errand, but I am genuinely glad to be wrong. With the orbweavers prowling our borders and freeing up our scouts, our manpower and defensive capabilities will increase ten-fold at least. As to the Queen’s act of treachery: do not be overly concerned, Grim Jack. No one has much experience with their kind, but I have more than most, and I’ll tell you this—you should feel honored. The spiderkin are predators to their very core. For the Queen herself to dispatch you in such a grisly fashion is a sign of respect between equals. It means she is taking you seriously and respects your strength and cunning.”

  I grunted noncommittally. That was certainly a different way to look at it. But maybe the chief was right—why would I expect them to think or act like humans? With that said, knowing the Queen had “honored” me didn’t do much to mollify me. I shoveled down the last of my pork and flapjacks, enjoying every second, then pushed the tray away and leaned back in my seat, fat and happy. “Any word from Cutter?” I asked, taking a quick survey of the room to make sure I hadn’t missed him.

  “Yeah,” Abby replied. “Last I saw him, he was in Yunnam—he’s probably still there. We ended up with a quite a few rogues, but they’re all lowbies. Can barely tell one end of a dagger from the other. He begrudgingly consented to train them up so they won’t be dangerous to themselves. He also got ahold of the mercs in Harrowick—he’s surprisingly competent when he wants to be—and Otto took off a few hours ago to get everything set up. We should have forty or fifty mercs when the time comes. It’ll cost us a pretty penny, but with this influx of new recruits, our faction coffers should manage to cover it.”