by J. A. Hunter
“Only IPA in Eldgard,” Carl muttered, “and it tastes like dirty bathwater. Trust me, you don’t want it.”
“Thanks,” Abby said. “I think I’ll just take a draft beer with my ribs. Jack, what’ll you have?”
“Whatever Carl’s drinking is fine by me.”
“Good enough,” Tammy said, rapping the counter with her knuckles. “Give me just a moment.” She shuffled off and returned in short order with our drinks. “Food’ll be right up. In the meantime, just give me a shout if y’all need anything else.”
“Cheers.” Our new friend Carl upended his mug, taking a huge pull of his drink before issuing a deep belly burp that rattled the bar top and singed my eyebrows. “Now what... what’d’ya want to know?”
“Well, can you start by just telling us a bit about the Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer?” I asked. I lifted my mug and took a sip. Wow. The bartender wasn’t lying. Sharp, crisp, but underscored with notes of honey, apple, and cinnamon. It really did taste like apple pie in a glass. Suddenly, I could understand the Smoked Pig’s popularity.
Carl shrugged. “Eh, not much to tell. When I transitioned as a Dwarf, I thought I’d end up as a smith or something. Was a welder back IRL, so that seemed like a good fit, you know? Never really wanted to do the adventure thing. Thought a crafter job would be cushy. Nine to five type gig.”
“You a gamer, then?” Abby asked.
He grimaced, shrugging one shoulder. “Eh. A casual. But I still knew enough to have some idea what this, this”—he waved a drunken hand around—“world would be like. So, there I am. Lowbie. Thinkin’ I’m gonna be a Dwarven Smith. Livin’ on easy street since everyone and their brotha’s gonna be out running around grinding boars or whatever.” He laughed morosely, then took another swig of his mead. “Nope. Turns out getting an apprenticeship as a Dwarven Smith is about as tricky as getting a Merchant apprenticeship as an Accipiter. Me? I ended up as a Cleric.
“So, I was like okay. Cleric. Whatever.” He shrugged meaty shoulders indifferently. “Not my first choice. But that’s better than tank or somethin’ else horrible. Still don’t want to be an adventurer, so I angle for a temple job in Stone Reach. Which I get. But here’s the real kicker.” He leaned in as though conferring a great secret. “Instead of gettin’ placed with one of the awesome temples, like the Ordo of Heimdallr or the Shrine of Bragi, I ended up as an Acolyte of the Hammer and Shield.
“Which is a badass name for the most boring Cleric faction in Stone Reach.” He blinked and swayed for a moment. “It’s the 13th Ranked Boar-Class Temple in Stone Reach.” He cupped his hand. “That’s the lowest rank in the lowest class. And for good reason, since it’s just a bunch of dusty, old, asshole priests guarding a bunch of dusty, old, asshole books at a temple NO ONE EVER visits. Don’t even come with any cool spells. Not really. And since I was the junior member in an order that NO ONE EVER joins, I got stuck doing everything. Cleaning the temple. Standing the worst watches. Working the worst hours.”
He smacked his lips, then took another long pull from his mug. “Sorry, what was the question again? Sorta lost my train of thought...” He fell silent, glancing back to his drink, then up to me. His eyes widened, and he nearly stumbled off his stool as he stared at something just over my right shoulder. “Screw me sideways, I think I might finally be too drunk.” He squinted and leaned forward, forehead crinkling. “Yep. Definitely hallucinating.” He swiveled toward our server, who was busy chatting with someone at the end of the bar. “Tammy? Did you spike my drink?” he blurted, though his shout was swallowed by the racket in the air.
When she didn’t answer, he turned back and stared at me. “There’s a little winged lady on your shoulder.” He teetered, burped, and shook his head. “She’s purple.”
“Jack,” came Ari voice, urgent and tinged with panic.
I glanced toward the voice but didn’t see her anywhere. “Where are you?”
“Right here, still invisible.”
“How come he can see you?” I hissed in a whisper.
“Cleric. Must have some sort of passive Pierce Illusion spell. Lots of priests have that ability. But none of that matters right now. We have trouble!”
The batwing doors slammed open with a bang. I swiveled in my seat and watched a party of Risi—each bigger than the last and all sporting heavy spiked armor—tromp into the tavern. They just kept filing in, five, ten, fifteen. Most looked like frontline soldiers. Those were Peng’s Blue Lanterns: his enforcers, thugs, and top lieutenants. At the end of the caravan of trouble were the Red Poles, Peng’s elite spellcasters. There were three of them, all women, wearing brilliant silken robes—one red silk, one green, one blue—with golden Chinese characters embroidered across the front.
The biggest threat came last.
I’d never gone toe-to-toe with Peng, but I’d seen pictures of him more than once during our morning briefings. Still, all the digital holograms in the world didn’t do the real-life version justice.
Easily seven feet tall, he stood head and shoulders above the rest of his crew and had shoulders so wide he couldn’t fit through a normal door. Seriously, the guy had to duck and twist just to make it inside the building. His armor was the best of the best. Pure golden plate mail, accented by crimson silk. Metal lotus flowers and intricately carved dragons wound their way across his chest plate. Golden bracers, painstakingly crafted to resemble bearded dragons, encircled his forearms, and his pauldrons were each sculpted into the head of a snarling Foo dog. An enormous golden-etched crossbow hung on his back, while his huge spiked club sat at his side.
Peng and Ari could probably share notes on discretion.
The music faded, and the friendly chatter died as every eye in the joint turned toward the newcomers. Slowly, trying not to draw any attention, I pulled my hood up—partially obscuring my face—then stood and positioned myself in front of Carl, hiding the man from view.
“Howdy, folks. Welcome to my fine establishment,” Chuck, the cowboy bartender and owner, said from behind the bar. “We don’t usually get such large parties of Risi comin’ through this way. Certainly ain’t none so fancy as yourselves, but y’all are welcome to stay so long as you ain’t fixin’ to cause trouble.”
Without a word, the Blue Lanterns spread out in a loose semicircle while the casters took up a position behind the main force. Peng strode forward, cocksure and radiating barely contained violence. “There will be no trouble, cowboy”—he imbued the word with the utmost scorn—“so long as we get what we’re looking for.” He paused for dramatic effect. It certainly seemed to work since it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. “I seek a former Acolyte of the Shield and Hammer. A Svartalfar. Give us this man called Carl and we will leave. Fail...” He trailed off and raised a single hand.
One of his lieutenants, a thug in black plate mail with a blue lantern painted across the chest, moved at once. He pulled free an enormous black-steel nagamaki and sliced into a nearby table. The wood groaned in protest as the blade passed through in one easy motion. Those sitting around the table scampered from their seats as though someone had just set them on fire, putting some much-needed distance between themselves and the invaders.
Something I could totally understand. Heck, I wanted to put some distance between us, and most of the folks here weren’t warriors but merchants and traders.
“Now,” Peng said, his voice gruff but not loud, “give me what I want and I will leave you and the rest of your patrons in peace.”
For a moment no one said anything, though both Chuck and our bartender, Tammy, shot furtive glances toward Carl.
“Look, partner. I don’t know who you are,” Chuck finally said, reaching under the bar and pulling out a double-headed war axe covered in golden script. Looked Dwarven made. Probably was, considering where we were. “But no one gets to come into my bar, bust up my shit, and make demands on my guests.”
“That is where you are wrong,” Peng said. “I can. Since you don’t seem to know who I am, l
et me inform you. I am Peng Jun, leader of the Peng Jun Tong. Rightful conqueror of Glome Corrie, a willing Darkling, and the right hand of Serth Rog himself. Each of my men carry Malware Blades capable of permanently killing every man and woman in this bar. We will do so without a single moment of regret or hesitation, and then we will burn this place to the ground unless I get what I want in five.” He lifted a hand, fingers spread wide. “Four...” A finger dropped. “Three...” Another.
“For Pete’s sake. There,” Tammy burst out, thrusting an accusatory finger straight toward Carl, who was busy cowering behind me. The imminent threat of death at the hands of a Darkling general had sobered him right up. “Right there, alright? He’s the drunk Dwarf. Standing behind that fella with his hood up.”
Peng’s eyes narrowed as he really saw me for the first time. “You,” he growled, drawing the enormous club from his side. “Grim Jack in the flesh.” A quiet ripple of shock worked its way through the room at the mention of my name. “I suppose this meeting was inevitable. And I’ve been looking forward to it. I owe you for taking my home. It is time, I think, for you to pay your debt, cao ne ma. Give me the Dwarf and perhaps I will consider making your end quick, instead of killing you slowly, a day at a time, for the next hundred years.”
I pulled my hood away, stowed my khopesh, then drew my warhammer. “It doesn’t need to go this way, Peng. Turn around and crawl back into whatever hole you’ve been hiding in or you’re going to regret it.”
Peng smiled. “You don’t even know the meaning of the word regret, but you will learn.”
The Blue Lanterns
CUTTER WAS THE FIRST one to land a blow, materializing like an avenging ghost directly behind the Risi enemy line the moment the words left Peng’s mouth. There was a gurgle and a gasp as he drove his twin blades, Plunder and Peril, into the skull of the Risi caster clad in red silk. The attack was quick, vicious, and absolutely deadly, dropping the lady where she stood before she could so much as utter a word. Screams erupted as the rest of Peng’s crew surged into action. The bar goers scattered in every direction, some making for the front doors—blocked by Peng and his crew—while others headed for the few shuttered windows.
Others streaked toward a set of stairs near the back that led to the second floor, no doubt hoping to leap from the higher windows.
I noticed a few angling toward the bar and a pair of batwing doors that led to a back room. The kitchen. Was it possible there was another way out? Could be.
Forge had already thrown himself into the fray, drawing aggro.
Ari was with him, and since we were now out in the open, our cover blown, she didn’t even try to hide her presence. She fluttered above the battle, casting bolts of disorienting prismatic light at the attackers, blinding, stunning, and distracting the frontline thugs just long enough to give Forge a fighting chance. He wouldn’t last long on his own, though. He might’ve been the toughest sumabitch in Bell County, but the numbers were heavily stacked against him. Meanwhile, Cutter was busy fighting for his life against the two remaining casters, dodging and ducking lances of ice and bolts of toxic green energy.
Amara was supporting him at a distance, shooting obsidian arrows at the women, interrupting their spells and forcing them to play defense.
“Abby,” I shouted, turning on the Firebrand. “Lock down those casters and do what you can to play support for Forge.” I grabbed the significantly more sober Carl and hustled him toward the batwing doors that led to the back as I pulled up my Officer Chat. “Amara,” I called through the link, “withdraw. You gotta get the Dwarf out of here. Get him as far away as you can and keep him safe. He is our number one concern at the moment.”
She fired another wave of arrows, spearing the caster in green through the shoulder, cutting an AoE spell off at the legs. She grinned in grim satisfaction, then slung her bow crossbody and bolted my way.
I practically threw Carl into her arms and waved toward the bar. “Probably a way out back there. I’ll message you when we’re clear of this mess. Go!” I shouted, already putting her from my mind. She could take care of herself, and I had zero doubt she’d get the Cleric to safety.
Cutter was looking worse for the wear—an army of shallow lacerations, one of his sleeves smoldering from an acid burn—though he was holding his own with a little backup help from Abby. Forge, on the other hand, was in bad shape. Somehow he’d managed to barricade himself between two tables, and was fighting everyone. Even Peng was getting in on the action, taking swings at Forge with his enormous club.
Forge was hooking and jabbing with the best of ’em, dodging what blows he could and returning vicious strikes in kind, but he was absolutely hemorrhaging HP. Ari was in the thick of things too, but she couldn’t do much against the press of bodies. I triggered Mass Heal—another of my Champion abilities—though I was loath to use this one, since it had one helluva price tag: it restored all my party members to 75% Health, but my Health dropped by 50%. On top of that, triggering the ability felt like getting blasted in the face with a shotgun.
My Spirit plunged by 350 points, and pain exploded throughout my body as I absorbed wounds from both Forge and Cutter. Phantom blades slashed through skin, and rusty spikes pierced muscle. I gritted my teeth and fought through the pain, staying upright only through sheer will and determination. The agony lasted for a split second, but boy did that second seem to drag on and on. My Health hit the 50% mark in an instant, the spell price paid, and I wobbled uncertainly for a second before fishing out a Health regen potion, downing it in a single gulp.
That would buy us a little time.
I triggered Umbra Bog with a flick of my wrist, miring Peng and his warriors in tendrils of implacable shadow, then darted toward the battle.
I leapt over a downed chair and raised my warhammer just in time to catch a descending nagamaki headed straight for Forge’s head. Sparks flashed as the midnight-black blade met the enchanted steel of my hammer. The Risi thug, this one nearly as tall as Peng, grunted in surprise and lashed out with a booted foot. I triggered Dark Shield, a violet barrier of Umbra energy taking shape in the air before me. The warrior’s kick landed like a wrecking ball, but the shield rebuffed him. He stumbled back a handful of paces, which was all the time I needed.
I dropped the shield and fired a violet Umbra Bolt into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Then I bolted inside his guard, dropping to a knee as I swung my hammer, slamming the spike on the tail end of my weapon into his ankle. The spike drove through his boot, embedding firmly in his Achilles’ heel. He shrieked like a two-year-old at the sudden pain. With a swift jerk, I pulled him from his feet. He hit the ground with a clang, the floor shaking beneath his weight. I ripped the spike free, twirled the hammer as I gained my feet, and brought it right down into his face—putting the sad sack out of his misery.
He dissolved in a shower of lights a moment later, sent for respawn.
I spun, narrowly catching another incoming blade on one of my spiked bracers.
The force of the blow sent a sharp jag of agony shooting up through my forearm and into my shoulder. No debuff, thankfully, which meant the bone wasn’t broken.
This new thug was thin and clad in dark leathers lined with ebony ring mail, which meant he was probably some sort of hybrid Rogue class. I jabbed my warhammer into his gut, then triggered a gout of hellish purple-black Umbra Flame straight into the Rogue’s face with my free hand. He screamed and dropped, rolling frantically to put out the unearthly flame crawling up his body, clawing mercilessly at his skin. It churned my stomach to watch, but these guys were the worst of the worst, I reminded myself. Darklings. Murderers.
I steeled myself and just kept right on dousing the poor bastard in fire.
“Look out!” Abby shouted a warning, but not in time. An ice spike as thick as my wrist sank into the outside of my thigh. Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt nearly as much as I would’ve expected. Instead, the wound throbbed with a numb chill. I noticed at once, however, that my Stamina wa
s dropping like a rock, and a combat notice flashed in the corner of my eye:
<<<>>>
Debuffs Added
Lingering Wound: You have sustained severe piercing damage; 3 HP/sec; duration, 45 seconds.
Frozen Touch: Suffer 5 points of Stamina damage/sec; -15% Attack Strength; Stamina regeneration reduced by 45%; movement speed reduced by 35%; duration, 45 seconds.
<<<>>>
I twirled, moving unbelievably slow, only to catch Peng’s club streaking toward me. Desperate, I tried to get my hands up in time to deflect the blow, but with the debuffs stacked against me, I was too slow by half. The club slammed into my chest; an army of unforgiving golden spikes pierced my armor and the flesh below. My feet left the ground and I flew backward, smashing into one of the circular tables, then tumbled facedown onto the floor, blood running down my face in a sheet. With a groan and a heave, I managed to roll onto my back.
Everything hurt.
Everything.
I pushed myself up onto my elbows then tried to gain my feet, but my body was having none of that. Peng was stomping toward me, a sadistic glint in his eye, his club resting against his Foo dog pauldron. “Out of tricks already?” he asked, smug and condescending.
“Not entirely,” I replied with a grimace. I triggered Shadow Stride... and was promptly notified that I’d failed thanks to the chunk of ice stuck in my leg.
<<<>>>
Shadow Stride failed! Frozen Touch inhibits your movement. You are unable to Shadow Stride until your movement is restored.