by J. A. Hunter
“Thank the gods above and below that’s over,” Cutter said with a grin, instantly looking more alert and interested now that the meeting was over. “How in the bloody hell can anyone make a war sound so bloody boring, eh? That’s what I want to know. But that’s all behind us. What’s the plan now? Hopefully it involves drinking, eating, maybe a spot of gambling. We never did have a proper celebration for taking Glome Corrie.” He looked me dead in the face and rested a hand on my shoulder. “We need to celebrate the small things, Jack. And the big things too.”
“I’d love to,” I said, shrugging off his hand, “but I’ve got myself an appointment over at the Crafter’s Hall.”
“Gods, are you still doing that?” He rolled his eyes. “You’re the bloody Jade Lord, you don’t need a craft or a profession. You kill monsters and capture cities. That’s enough in my book, friend. Give over already.”
Amara and Abby shared confused looks, then Abby gave me a sidelong glance. Keeping secrets, Jack?
I blushed furiously and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
“It is fine,” Amara said, killing the conversation before it could hit peak awkward. “We are busy anyway. Jake is preparing to initiate a few new recruits into the Bastards, and he wants us there.” She latched onto Cutter’s elbow with steely fingers and gave a gentle tug. “Come along, Spymaster.”
Cutter grumbled but followed, offering us a quick wave as they descended the stairs and vanished around the first turn.
“Crafter’s Hall?” Abby asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Something you want to tell me?”
“It’s nothing,” I replied, scrunching my nose and waving her question away with one hand.
“Jack...”
I sighed. Thanks, Cutter. “Fine. Look, I’ve sorta taken on an apprenticeship. Kind of.”
“You thinking about swinging a different kind of hammer for once?” She eyed the warhammer sitting at my hip, a slight smile playing across her lips. She was an excellent blacksmith thanks to her skill with flame—controlling heat and the temperature of the fire was a critical ability, apparently—while I was... lacking. There were few people who could take me in a fair fight—especially since I didn’t believe in fighting fair, not if I could find a cheat instead—but on the crafting side of things I was worse than the lowliest lowbie. I’d spent so much time questing that I didn’t even have a proper profession.
Something everyone and their brother seemed to have.
I’d unlocked Mining, true, but aside from swinging a pickaxe a little faster and minutely increasing the chance to spawn certain rare stones, that wasn’t a terribly practical skill. At least not for me.
I sniffed and shrugged. “What if I am? I’ve been learning a thing or two about Runic Ward work. I’m getting pretty good.”
She guffawed, snorted, and rolled her eyes. “Runic Ward work? That so?”
“You sound skeptical.” I made for the stairs.
“Obviously,” she said, following behind me. “That’s a subspecialty profession. In order to unlock one of those, you need to practice, Jack, and you don’t have two spare minutes to rub together. You haven’t even slept in the same city for more than two days running. The only profession you’re likely to unlock in the near future is either Professional Meeting Attendee or Dragon Slayer.”
“Which is why I need to get over to the Crafter’s Hall.”
She caught up to me and slipped her hand into mine, our fingers entwining. “And you told Cutter, but not me?” This accusation was quiet, more earnest, her playful tone gone.
“I didn’t tell him,” I finally admitted. “I was trying to keep anyone from finding out. It’s kind of embarrassing. But he’s our Spymaster. He found out in about two seconds and started making fun of me. ‘The great Jade Lord,’” I said, trying to effect Cutter’s Cockney accent, “‘bent over a table with an apron on, scratching runes into metal and taking orders from some grouchy old woman.’” I shrugged. “After that, I thought it was probably best to just keep it to myself.”
She gave my hand a squeeze. “Don’t listen to him. I’m proud of you for trying something new. Come on, I’ll walk you over. I could use some hours at the forge anyway, then maybe we can grab lunch together. Sound like a plan?”
“Totally,” I said, squeezing her hand in return, letting the simple gesture say what I couldn’t.
Instead of trekking down the gajillion steps that led to the bottom of the tower, we ported directly down to the Keep’s looming entryway. Faction leaders inside the Keep could teleport anywhere inside the building in an eyeblink, but outside of the Keep proper, we had to hoof it just like everyone else. Behind us, Darkshard rose up into the sky like a behemoth of rounded edges, flowing curves, elegant spires, and artfully carved stonework depicting fantastical beasts and epic battles.
It always vaguely reminded me of some grand Buddhist temple from a bygone era.
Abby and I headed down the steps—worn smooth by age, elements, and the passing of countless feet—and into the colossal courtyard nestled inside the inner walls. Those walls stood tall and proud, the stones gleaming and clean, and their many towers, manned by keen-eyed Rangers, were defiant. They practically begged for an invader to try to attack, though they wouldn’t have much luck, not with the formidable array of Arcane Shadow Cannons facing outward.
Once upon a time—and not so long ago, really—Darkshard had been in absolute ruins, but things had changed a lot since then. Darkshard itself was now a small, thriving city in its own right, housing a couple thousand people. And those people were everywhere. Walking, talking, working, most moving with purposeful strides in these early morning hours. The grounds themselves were well kept, the vines, trees, and jungle flowers trimmed back and beaten into beautiful submission by an army of professional gardeners and plant-based Druids.
We were headed over to Yunnam proper, so we cut through a row of stone buildings and made for the port pad located in the outer courtyard. Those buildings had been leather shanty tents not so long ago, but not anymore. Nope. Darkshard no longer resembled a run-down refugee city, but something sleek and beautiful and amazing. We skirted around the outside of the main barracks: a boxy, three-story building with terraces jutting from each floor. The place looked pretty empty, but that was expected at nine thirty in the morning.
Most of the Alliance members were out training, crafting, running missions, or—if they were night crew—catching a few winks of shut-eye while they could.
The port pad lay on the other side of the barracks.
We’d upgraded that since the founding, allowing parties of people to travel all at once, an absolute must considering the overflow of humanity. Now it was a raised stone platform, ten by ten feet, with an elaborate golden circle inlaid into the surface. A Dawn Elf acolyte, wearing brown Cleric robes and a near-permanent scowl, sat on a wooden stool eyeing the metal circle and the roped-off waiting line, currently devoid of people. He looked bored out of his mind, which probably wasn’t far from the truth. The port pads, necessary and convenient for Darkshard residents, still required a magic user to oversee them.
A dull duty, but someone had to do it.
Abby and I made our way up the steps, and the acolyte rose, eyes distant and hazy. I’m not sure he even recognized us, which was a rarity these days. Probably lost in some daydream about slaying dragons. That or drinking a tankard of ale when his shift ended.
The pad engaged with a blinding flash, and in a wink Abby and I were on an identical metal ring down in the center of Yunnam, not far from the chief’s towering, moss-covered tree.
The Murk Elf city had also grown dramatically over the past few months, nearly quadrupling in size thanks to the steady influx of Alliance members. And it wasn’t just the number of people, but the city itself that had undergone drastic changes. There were still lots of spindly Dokkalfar homes, raised up on their dark wooden struts, giving the homes a strangely arachnoid appearance. But there were also plenty of Wode, Risi, and even Daw
n Elf buildings thrown into the mix. Traditional structures of brick and stone, showing off gracefully arched ceramic roofs.
We wandered past one towering building of particular interest.
It was a stately structure with walls of gleaming white marble topped by a blue-capped dome in the Imperial style. The Yunnam School of Excellence.
A lush, grassy lawn extended from the building’s front, and a playground of wood and steel had been set up—built by Vlad and some of the other crafters in the city. Children ran and squealed, some little more than toddlers, others in their early to mid-teens. Many were NPCs, but others were Travelers. Kids who’d successfully made the transition. I grinned as a Murk Elf girl slapped a Risi boy of twelve or thirteen on the back of the head, only to sprint away, laughing wildly as the Risi boy glared after her.
The play yard was presided over by the watchful eyes of several fiercely protective Dread Hounds—each two hundred pounds of black fur, yellowed fangs, and hellfire eyes—and Mrs. Claire, a short Dawn Elf woman with golden skin and corn silk hair pulled back in a sharp ponytail. She was a Warlock by trade and responsible for the Dread Hounds. She wore a gray dress and subconsciously rested a single hand on her distended belly. My heart beat a little faster when I saw her. She was a player, but unique. The first Traveler in V.G.O. to get pregnant.
No one was sure what would happen with her or what the baby would be like, but she was still a sign of hope. Maybe this place really could be a home. And the kids, likewise, were a beacon of joy. Not only had they survived Asteria and the transition, but they were growing. No one—not even Osmark—had been sure what was going to happen with them, but they seemed to be changing. Maturing. Though admittedly they were maturing at a rather disturbing rate, which was still some cause for concern.
Abby hooked her elbow through mine as we headed into the sprawling marketplace chock-full of vendors from every race, hawking their wares—meat pies, blades, skill training, ingredients, and just about everything else—from beneath colorful awnings propped up on wooden struts. My mind wandered as we walked. We’d never really talked about starting a family, since it hadn’t seemed possible, but now? Well, Claire changed things. We’d wait to see how things turned out with the pregnancy before really talking about it, but it was a conversation we’d have to have eventually.
We wandered past a squat Svartalfar man with an impressive beard slow roasting skewers of sizzling meat over a bed of coals. The aroma of char, grease, and meat tickled the inside of my nostrils, and my stomach let out a furious roar of protest. I want this, and I want it now.
Abby just grinned, slipped her arm from mine, then fished out a handful of silver. True, a meal like this would cost a few coppers at most, but it was good to let the people in the Alliance know that we were more than happy to be generous with what we had. The Dwarf handed over the spits with a nod and a few mumbled words of gratitude. We ate our midmorning snack as we weaved through the marketplace, keeping our hoods up so we wouldn’t be stopped by a gaggle of Alliance members.
After a time, we found ourselves outside a rectangular, two-story structure with a high stone foundation on the far side of Yunnam. There was a variety of outdoor work spaces, a large stable—mostly used for shipping—and a pair of circular towers that flanked the main building. But the real magic happened inside, carefully guided by Vlad’s steady hand. At last we’d come to the Crafter’s Hall.
Scrivener
WE MADE FOR THE SET of dirt-covered wooden steps leading up to the heavy double doors, which glimmered with wards. I hadn’t seen the wards in action yet—honestly, I hoped I never would, since the city would have to be under siege for that—but Vlad assured me the runes and sigils, when activated, would alchemically transform the wood into nearly indestructible stone. I shouldered my way into the main hall, Abby following behind me. Heat and noise washed over me in a wave, making it nearly impossible to talk. The scent of smoke and sweat hung heavy in the air, punctuated by the occasional whiff of sulfur, just like rotten eggs.
The workshop was a flurry of activity, just like it always was, no matter the time of day.
The clang of steel on steel echoed through the hall, mingling with the roar of furnaces and the chatter of crafters busy at work. Masters barked orders at their apprentices, and apprentices, in turn, muttered under their breath as they scurried around in their leather aprons. I surveyed the room, searching for any friendly faces. Forge spent a fair amount of time in here when he wasn’t out on patrol or training with the Malleus Libertas, and Vlad practically lived here. The guy was a workacholic and slept in his lab more often than in the officer quarters assigned to him in the Darkshard Keep.
There were plenty of folks milling about, but no sign of those two.
“Okay, I’m gonna get my smithy on,” Abby said, gesturing toward the wing housing the forge and foundry—all red brick and black swamp rock, outfitted with everything a potential smith could ever want or need. There were metal-topped workstations, great steel-ribbed barrels brimming with water, bulky stone grinding wheels, pitted iron anvils, and tools of every shape and size hanging from the walls: steel tongs, heavy hammers, grooved swages, vises, rasps, and files in all styles and flavors.
“I’ll shoot you a message in”—she seesawed her head for a moment—“let’s say two hours, then we can head over to Frank’s and grab a pie.”
“Yeah, sounds good,” I called out, cupping my mouth to be heard over the blare of falling hammers.
She gave me a brilliant smile, then turned and beelined for an open anvil near the smelter.
I made my way farther back into the Crafter’s Hall. The inside of the building was as hot as an oven on the surface of the sun, and before I knew it, great trails of sweat rolled down my forehead and back. Reluctantly, I threw my hood back, revealing both my face and the crown of the Jade Lord, which sat on my head like a road flare, altering everyone in a twenty-mile radius of exactly who I was. Frantic apprentices and masters alike all shied away from me, nearly tripping over themselves to clear a path as they offered me cordial nods and overly polite greetings.
I sighed and smiled back, trying not to do anything to terrify them. Such was the life of a faction leader. And not just any faction leader, but a living legend.
At the far end of the main hall and off to the left sat a spiral staircase, which led to one of the four main towers: each a specialty area, kept separate from the rest of the hall. Alchemy and Potions in one, Experimental Engineering in another, Glasswork and Jewelcraft in a third. Each tower was sequestered behind runic scripts carefully worked into the floorboards, walls, struts, and stairs. And with good reason.
Many of the spells and weapons the Alchemists and Engineers tinkered with day and night were volatile at best. And some of the their most powerful experiments could level the building and kill everyone inside. Instantly, I thought back to the time Vlad had nearly killed the both of us with his Alchemic grenades. Plumes of gray gas washing through his lab, choking the life from the air itself. Thankfully, the runic scripts kept the deadlier items sealed away safely behind magical barriers. If there was an accident, it would only wipe out a single wing, leaving everyone else relatively unscathed.
The stairs I took led to the fourth tower—the Enchanter’s Workshop.
I trudged my way up, going round and round, scanning the runes worked into each stone step, trying to decipher their meaning. I didn’t rate as a Runic Crafter Apprentice yet, but even I could recognize a handful of the containment wards. Here, an angry slash, bisected by a jagged line and an oblong circle: a protection against fire-based attacks and damage. There, what looked like a spiral with a set of horns sprouting from the top and a pair of angular dots flanking the right side. Urandu—a binding construct to temporarily stop summoned creatures from passing.
There were over two hundred runic sigils, which could be combined in a number of different ways to achieve an almost unlimited number of different results—though many of those results were ca
tegorically terrible. Everything from accidentally setting the scribe on fire to unleashing a vortex that damaged only friendly party members.
A descending master Enchanter, his arms overflowing with blueprints, scrolls, and blank parchment, nearly slammed into me on his way down. He was a lanky Murk Elf with stringy white hair and a narrow, pinched face. He opened his mouth, ready to tear into me like a drill instructor, when his gaze lighted on my face then flickered to the crown at my brow. His eyes bulged alarmingly, and he swallowed whatever he’d been about to say, quickly pressing his back up against the wall as though he might be able to disappear if he just stopped moving.
That was dumb, of course, because I wasn’t a T. rex, but I just kept going, pretending to ignore him. He seemed deeply relieved.
The winding staircase let out into an octagonal room, the walls polished gray stone, the floors cherrywood, every single floorboard covered in runic script.
Two- dozen people occupied the room. Enchanters and Scriveners—all apprentices and journeymen from the insignia markings on their aprons—but they purposely avoided looking at me as though I might have the plague.
Over in the corner was the woman I’d come to find, and she, at least, wouldn’t ignore me. The Arcane Scrivener sat at a workstation in the corner, her back bent, furiously carving something on her wood-topped table.
“Well, don’t just stand there all day, youngin’. You’re already leaps and bounds behind the rest of the ’prentices,” she barked out over one shoulder, not bothering to so much as look up from her work.
Betty Howard was a dour Wode with silver-blond hair pulled back into a tight bun and a too-serious face. Her silken robes—black and boring, though finely made—draped her whipcord body like a sheet. She looked maybe fifty, but was closer to ninety, or at least she had been before making the transition into V.G.O. She could’ve chosen the body of a twenty-five-year-old, but no. Not Betty Howard. Excessive, she called it. Besides, she had no joint pain here, her arthritis was gone, and she felt twenty-five no matter how she looked. Her words.