by James Hunter
The place, as always, was busy and buzzing with life and restless activity. Players from a host of different IRL nations dawdled around the room in small pockets, speaking in muted conversational tones as they pored over reports or discussed camp operations. As usual, I felt a flicker of guilt looking at them—they were all better at this than me. We had attorneys, doctors, professors, former military officers, even a smattering of politicians. Any of them should’ve been in charge of the Crimson Alliance, yet for some reason, they were following me. Well, me and Abby.
Mostly Abby.
Sure, I came up with plans and saw they got carried out, but Abby was the brains behind the operation. She was the elbow grease that kept everything running along, nice and smooth. Or as smooth as an upstart rebellion could be, anyway.
I untied the velvet rope cordoning off the telepad and quickly scanned the room: Abby sat hunched over a sprawling table, her hands planted on the dark wood, her brow furrowed in thought as she studied a leather-bound ledger filled with reams of hastily scrawled parchment. She was a beautiful woman, Abby. Short and perfectly curvy with dark skin and a pile of intricate brown curls. Chief Kolle, the leader of the Ak-Hani clan and our Murk Elf advisor, flanked her on the right, while Anton Black—a former tax accountant from the UK and now our Chief Logistics Officer—stood to her left.
“I just don’t understand what they gain,” Abby muttered, poring over the ledger. “It just doesn’t add up. They’ve got to be losing money with all of these pointless incursions. It’s not like they even come close to breaching Rowanheath.”
“Oh, they’re hemorrhaging money,” Anton replied, nodding vigorously, his blond hair bobbing. “Moving that number of troops and supplies on a consistent schedule can’t be cheap, plus it must be costing them a fortune in missed quests and dungeon raids. And they accomplish nothing. Nothing.” He shook his head, dumbfounded.
I slipped past a pair of bulky Dwarves—heatedly discussing the finer points of Mine-Craft and ore deposits—and plopped down in one of the padded leather chairs edging the bulky table.
“Jack!” Abby said, her face lighting up with a smile. The smile slipped after a second, her nose scrunching up in distaste. “God, you look terrible.” Her gaze swept over me, pausing on the bloodstains decorating my armor and splattered across my hands and face. “Tough day?”
“They brought siege weapons this time. Big ones. Still not enough to break our defenses, but it’s getting worse. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up. I mean the faction is growing, sure, but not fast enough to sustain this kind of pace. Even with the rotations, our guys on the wall are getting tired—I can see it in them. They’re pulling twelve-hour watch shifts five days a week, and on top of that, most have died multiple times already.” I reached up and tapped a finger against my temple. “It’s messing with their minds.”
“And that,” the chief interjected, leaning forward, his hands resting on the table, “is what the Imperials are accomplishing. We’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. They are not seeking to take Rowanheath—their numbers tell us as much. Rather, their goal is to crush our will to fight. And though it may be costly to wage such a war, it will prove to be far costlier to us in the long run. Now, aside from what Grim Jack has already mentioned, I want you two”—he paused, staring at Abby and Anton in turn—“to think, really think, about what else they’ve achieved.”
Abby and Anton were both silent for a beat, sharing sidelong glances at each other like schoolkids who’d been called out by a particularly demanding teacher. “Well, it’s costing us significantly in trade,” Anton eventually answered, his words slow and thoughtful. “With the constant siege, caravans from other cities haven’t been able to get through, which is a serious blow to Rowanheath’s economy. Food and basic goods will get more expensive, which can’t be good for morale …” He trailed off, anxiously running his hands over his silky robes.
“And, I suppose, it’s costing us a ton in terms of quests, too,” Abby offered. “Our defenders are leveling up from the battles, but with the demanding watch shifts, they don’t have the kind of time they need to complete quests. Not to mention, killing Imperials earns a bit of coin but no loot. I mean, a lot of those guards don’t even have their Specialty classes yet, which means they’ll eventually be at a disadvantage against the troops the Empire is sending our way.”
“Now you begin to see,” the chief replied sagely. “They’re not trying to eradicate us—which is consistent with what Grim Jack told us of this Osmark’s offer. They’re trying to bring us to heel, like a hunter breaking a war hound. Moreover, this Osmark is appeasing the various Imperial-aligned factions in the process. This is not a war of physical domination, it is a war for the mind, for the heart.” He thumped a fist against his chest.
We were quiet in the wake of his words; in fact, I noticed the whole room had fallen silent, all the various pockets of conversation cut short as everyone eavesdropped.
Abby stood, arms folded, a frown glued in place. “If you’re not a faction officer”—she stared daggers around the room—“or the chief, please leave.” Her tone stated plainly that prompt compliance was expected. It took only seconds for the chamber to empty, people breaking for the exit in a barely controlled panic, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Abby rounded on me, her frown turning into a heavy scowl. “Okay, Jack, we need to do something different. I know you don’t want a war, I know you want to trust Osmark, but this isn’t—”
I cut her off. “You weren’t there, Abby. You don’t know,” I said, recalling my strange encounter with Osmark after the battle for Rowanheath. “I don’t want to be ruled over by a tin-pot dictator any more than you do, but Osmark made some good points. I mean, he did save us all. Obviously, he made a few of the deals that were unethical, but if he hadn’t done that, we’d all be dead, Abby. Dead.” I slammed a hand down against the table, envisioning a tsunami of fire washing over the world. “Besides, what about all of the travelers from places like China or Saudi Arabia? Osmark’s right, a lot of those people wouldn’t want what we have to offer. Maybe there is some way we can make peace with the Empire.”
“Attacks every single day? That isn’t peace, Jack,” Abby said. “Osmark’s playing you. He’s just trying to get inside your head, in the same way he’s using this siege to get inside the heads of every faction member we have.”
I waved her objection away. “Eldgard revolves around conflict—the Overminds demand it. Osmark already told me he’d send some token forces against us. None of this is a surprise to me. Besides, they’ve focused solely on Rowanheath. Just look around, Abby. Things have never been better in Yunnam. The economy is growing. We’re recruiting more people every day. We haven’t seen an Imperial in the swamp in a week.”
“This is true, but for how long?” the chief asked, his rough voice brimming with concern.
“How long what?” I snapped back, too annoyed, tired, sore, and hungry to be diplomatic or tactful.
“How long before his benevolence lapses, Grim Jack? Right now, we exist at his mercy. But what if that mercy should fail? We have a saying among the Dokkalfar: ‘never trust a fat crocodile.’ This Osmark, he may have a full belly now, but eventually he will be hungry again, and then he will turn his jaws on us.”
I stood up, feeling the weight of uncertainty press down on me, and began to pace, the sound of my boots absorbed by the thick carpets underfoot. I was reluctant to admit it, but Osmark had shaken me during our brief encounter. Carrera was scary, sure, but he’d been scary in the way a rabid pit bull is scary: all muscle and rage, but nothing else. Osmark was different, though. He was smart—-smart enough to envision Viridian Gate and see it through to completion despite all of the obstacles stacked against him. He’d offered me the semblance of a truce, but he’d made it clear what would happen if we pushed back too hard …
He’d come at us with everything he had, and the way he’d said it—like someone absently explaining how he’d wip
e up a glass of spilled milk—made me believe he could destroy us. Who knew what a man like that might have hiding up his sleeve?
“I know this isn’t easy, Jack,” Abby said, her voice soothing, concern lining her face, “but we’re the only ones that can stop him. Chief Kolle is right. Maybe he’s being genuine, but we’re going to be here a long time, Jack. Maybe forever—no one knows. Are you sure his good intentions will hold forever? Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the power to stop him if push did come to shove? We’re only still alive because we were proactive and bucked the system. Do you honestly think Osmark would’ve stopped Carrera from hunting us down if we hadn’t backed him into a corner by taking Rowanheath?”
I took a few deep breaths, running my sweat-slick palms through my dark hair, then flopped back into my chair. Abby made some good points, too. My fear of Osmark, my fear of the unknown, urged me to sit back and not rock the boat. To fight for the status quo. To turn inward, build up Yunnam, and leave the rest of Eldgard to fend for itself. But, that same fear also whispered something else in my ear: it’s only a matter of time … eventually, he’ll come for you.
Abby looked like she was going to continue, to push her case, but the chief stopped her with an upraised hand. “Abby speaks the truth, but”—he dropped his hands, folding them in resignation on the tabletop—“we will not force you into a decision, Grim Jack. Your instincts have also played a significant role in the victories we’ve had. Let us all”—he stole a long look at Abby and Anton—“never forget that.”
I sighed and slouched back in the chair, letting the comforting leather cradle my battle-sore muscles. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to at least talk about our options,” I finally conceded. “But first, food.”
THREE: Level Up
“Should we get Cutter and Amara before we start?” I asked before sinking my teeth into a char-roasted slab of spider—the meat tender and oddly chicken-like. An explosion of hot grease and smoky flavor ran across my tongue in a delicious wave. God the food in VGO was good. Everything, even skewered rat, tasted better than the best steak I’d ever eaten back IRL, plus it made you feel incredible. I chewed in contemplative silence, then sat back and took a big swig of copper-red ale, which was sweet, but balanced out with hints of hops and honey.
Alcoholic heaven.
“Better not to wait,” the chief replied. “They’re running an errand for me deep in the heart of the forest—handling a bit of trouble.”
I cocked an eyebrow at him as I tore off another chunk of meat with my teeth.
He waved my unspoken question away with one hand. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Grim Jack.” He paused, a sly barely there smile gracing his lips. “Something of a team-building exercise, meant to bring them closer together. It will be good, I think, but they’ll be indisposed for a time.”
“Besides,” Anton said, his voice coated with a light British accent, “having Cutter around would only make things more difficult. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice enough bloke—in a disgusting, drunk, belligerent sort of way—but he’s not one with the patience or aptitude for politics or business. Best if we handle this alone.”
I snorted and rolled my eyes at the joke, which was funny precisely because it wasn’t a joke at all.
“Fine,” I conceded. “Otto?” I asked, my mind flashing to the taciturn Risi. He may have been a bit rough around the edges, but he was also great with military advice and overall strategy. He had a knack for it, earned from a lifetime of skirmishes, raids, and war.
“Nope. He’s in Rowanheath for the next few days,” Abby replied. “He’s training the new recruits, getting them ready for wall duty. Which just leaves us.” She swept an arm out in a small circle.
“Okay,” I said, glancing at Abby, Anton, and Chief Kolle in turn, “but where should we start? I mean this is big. Osmark isn’t just some pushover—he’s the Emperor of Viridia with twenty-four other factions backing him.” I stole another bite.
“Well, before we talk about Osmark and the Imperials,” Abby replied, voice positively brimming with excitement, “we’ve got some faction business to take care of.” She paused, glanced at me, then tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to look at the Faction Menu, have you, Jack?”
I shook my head, mouth too full to speak.
“Well, then I’ve got some good news for you. The Crimson Alliance just leveled—that last battle finally put us over the top.” She practically squeed, her hands shaking in erratic delight.
“We’re level two now, Jackie-boy,” Anton said as a shit-eating grin stretched across his pinched face. He reached over and gave me a light punch on the shoulder. “Level two. Can you believe it?”
I just sat there for a moment, letting the news settle over me. Honestly, I was shocked—a part of me didn’t believe it. In fact, I’d been starting to think we were never going to level up as a faction. Brewald—the chief guardian of Darkshard, and the physical manifestation of the Keep—had warned us how difficult leveling up a faction was, but I hadn’t really paid him any mind. Not until later. It turned out, Brewald hadn’t exaggerated. Moving from level one to level two required a whopping ten million EXP.
Capturing Rowanheath had earned us half that number. If not for that, we’d be grinding away for another few months, no doubt.
I choked down my bite and followed it with a gulp of mead as I thought. “Wow, that’s huge,” I finally said.
“Yep, yep, yep,” Abby replied with a grin and a nod. “Which means we’ve got five points to divvy up. The question is, what do we do with them? Maybe, in light of the constant siege, we should more seriously consider investing a few points in the Battle-Craft skill set? I mean, our members could use an increase in morale or some extra movement bonuses. Anything would help, really.”
“Our girl has a point, Jackie-boy,” Anton added. “I salute you guys for taking a gamble and investing into Merchant-Craft and State-Craft, but maybe it’s time to reevaluate our strategy. Before all of this”—he swept a hand around the room—“before VGO and the asteroid, I did a significant amount of work with small businesses. Mostly taxes, but I also helped them analyze return on investment so they could figure out if what they were doing was worthwhile. Maybe we should consider doing the same?”
I glanced at the chief, waiting for him to impart some nugget of wisdom. He was an NPC, but he was also brilliant, and he always seemed to have an answer. He was a natural leader with years of experience making hard decisions, compared to my weeks in the driver’s seat. Surprisingly, he said nothing. But his steely gaze seemed to say, go with your gut, Jack. And my gut? My gut said we needed to resist the urge to go with the quick, easy, conventional solution.
The Battle-Craft options looked good on paper—practical abilities with obvious, tangible benefits—but I couldn’t get the devastating image of Vlad’s javelins out of my head: fire raining down, charred bodies littering the ground, the twisted remains of burnt-out war machines. That’s what innovation looked like, and all the added movement bonuses and extra elemental resistances in the world wouldn’t save our faction members against something like Vlad’s javelins. No, what we needed was better defenses. Better armor. Better crafting. Better infrastructure. And, most of all, better weapons.
More weapons like the javelins, though I hesitated to say so. I knew that was the way to go, but I felt uneasy about it deep down in my soul. We’d left the world behind a handful of weeks ago, watched the entire planet die, and already we were working out ways to produce new weapons of mass destruction. True, Vlad’s designs were a long way off from nuclear warheads, but how long before that was an option on the table? It might’ve been the most efficient solution, but was it a good thing? The right thing?
I didn’t have an answer for that.
I took another gulp of mead, swishing the delicious brew around in my mouth before swallowing and shaking my head. “I stand by what we did before, and I still
think that’s the right course to take. Think about it, we never would’ve captured Rowanheath without the aid of the mercs and our alliance with the Spider Queen, and neither of those would’ve been possible without our State-Craft skills. And right now”—I drummed my fingers on the table, tat-tat-tat—“our access to the Black Market is the only thing keeping trade open inside of Rowanheath. Those skills have already paid huge dividends. We’d be dead without them.”
“Yeah, but it’s not like investing in Battle-Craft is going to strip us of those skills, Jackie-Boy,” Anton said, rubbing a hand along his chin. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m an actual Merchant, so personally I’m all for acquiring more Trade- and State-Craft skills, but I just want to make sure that’s really what’s best for the faction. I want to make sure that’s going to keep us alive, because that’s what this is really about. Surviving.”
“There’s something on your mind, Jack,” Abby said, reading my face like a book. “There’s something you’re not telling us. I can see it in your eyes.”
“We tried Vlad’s new javelins,” I finally offered, giving them a rundown on what had happened during the last battle. “That’s the future,” I finished. “With weapons like that …” I frowned, sighed. “Well, maybe we can win a war against the Empire. Yes, we could go wide and invest haphazardly in a bunch of different skill trees, buffet style, but in my experience, the most powerful skills are the ones that come later on. I think we need to specialize in the Merchant-Craft skill tree with a secondary focus on State-Craft. And I think we should just leave Battle-Craft alone. I could be wrong, but I think that’s where our future lies. With new technology and better crafting.”