Viridian Gate Online- Doom Forge

by J. A. Hunter

  “So why is the book so important?” Abby asked.

  “Eitri was a demigod of the Forge, but not just any demigod,” Carl offered. “He was Khalkeús’s scion. His son, by way of a Dokkalfar mortal named Boonsri. He’s the one that forged the original alliance with the Nangkri dynasty five hundred years ago. The book I accidently burned is one part biography, one part journal. Or at least that’s what everyone thinks. No one knows for sure, ’cause the book had a lock on it that no one could open. The Arch Cleric, though, well, he thought it had clues to the...” He trailed off.

  “Clues to what, friend?” Cutter said, pulling free one of his daggers, casually cleaning his nails with the tip of the blade. He could be awfully intimidating when he wanted to be.

  “Clues to the location of the Doom Forge hidden in the pages,” Carl finished after a long beat.

  Forge grunted and threw up his hands in obvious frustration. “Damnit, Carl!”

  “Hold on,” the Cleric said, lifting his hands as though to ward off an impending blow. “Look, okay. It’s not all bad. I’m exiled, but my ban isn’t permanent. The Arch Cleric gave me a quest to earn my way back in. There’s a Dwarven ruin about three hours or so due east of here. Bad place. Super dangerous. But inside is supposed to be another copy of the book. If I get it, I’ll be welcomed back to the temple with open arms.”

  “A blighted dungeon raid?” Cutter said. “Gods, Jack, we don’t have time for that. That Death-Head clock is kicking away. We’ll be bloody running errands for this sod”—he jerked the tip of his dagger toward Carl—“wasting bucketloads of time in the arse-end of nowhere, and there’s no guarantee this book is even there. I don’t like it. Gotta be a quicker way.”

  “Hey look, guys,” Carl said, “if you want to find the Doom Forge this is the only way I can think of. There’s an even money chance that whatever clue you’re looking for is in that book, so unless we do it, you’re probably gonna be out of luck even if you get to the temple and get one of the Elder Clerics to talk—which you won’t. Those sanctimonious assholes don’t even trust me with the ‘full secrets of the order.’” He air quoted. “And I’m a junior acolyte. Or I was anyway. They’ll never trust you, no matter who you are.

  “But this should be a cakewalk. I mean, I haven’t been able to get the book because, well, look at me.” He waved a hand at his rumpled robes. “I’m not exactly the adventuring sort. Not really chosen one material, if you will. But you guys are the Crimson Alliance. It’ll be easy. We raid the ruins. Get the book. And then I’m back in at the temple. You help me, I help you. Chances are what you need is in the book I need, but even if it’s not, I can help you guys find whatever you’re looking for in the main library after I get back into the good graces of the order.”

  “This does sound like something Sophia would totally do,” Abby said, her face pensive, thoughtful. “She’s the one who pointed us here. Interfering takes a toll on her. I just can’t believe she’d drop Carl in our lap if there was another way. An easier way.”

  “I’m sorry,” Carl interrupted. “Sophia? Who’s that?”

  “No one you need to worry about right now,” I said, waving away his question. Then to Abby, “Yeah, you’re right. This is exactly the kind of curve ball she likes tossing our way.” I paused, drumming my fingers restlessly on the edge of the mattress. “This feels right. You said this place is three hours to the east?” I asked, pinning Carl in place with a look.

  “Yep. Three hours. Though fair warning, it’s rough country up that way.”

  I pulled up my interface and glanced at the time. Just after 8 PM. Everyone was tired, hungry, gross, and still recovering from our battle against Peng. As much as I was loath to kill time, we were safe, warm, and had proper beds. No telling when we’d get a chance like this again. “Alright. Everyone, get cleaned up. Let’s grab a bite to eat, then hunker down for some shut-eye. I want to be on the road before first light.”

  Dwarven Ruins

  CARL HADN’T BEEN JOKING about rough country; everything that lay to the east of Cliffburgh was rugged, wild, and downright treacherous. There was a road that led west and another that shot due north from Cliffburgh all the way to Stone Reach. But this land was unsettled. Untouched by human hands as far as I could see. Just rolling hills covered in deep powder, densely packed tree cover, and jagged rocks poking up like giant teeth. Fast-moving rivers cut through the hills and valleys, following the contours of the land, creating a number of deep ravines that looked nearly impassable on foot.

  Thankfully, we weren’t on foot.

  Beside me, Cutter piloted the Hellreaver, carving our way through the freezing, star-riddled sky. He muttered darkly the whole time. About “how bloody early it was” and “how bloody cold it was” and how much he “wanted to drop kick that blighter Carl in the face for dragging us out here.” I wrapped my cloak around me just a tad more tightly, a small protection against the vicious cold and murderous winds. Cutter wasn’t wrong—not completely. It was early, and it was bitterly cold. I couldn’t really blame Carl, though. He was just another average guy, not so different from me, pulled into something much bigger than himself.

  We’d set out at early, well before the sun had even thought about rising for the day. It was 5:30 AM—the first hints of light breaking along the eastern horizon dead ahead—when I spotted the tips of golden spires jutting up from a rocky canyon filled with frost-kissed evergreens and deep drifts of white snow. It was a fortress, somewhere firmly between a picturesque Disney castle and Doctor Frankenstein’s gloomy lab.

  There were sweeping parapets lined with stylized merlons that looked like crouching gargoyles. Angular bastions custom built for archers or siege weapons. Circular towers, impossibly tall, clawed at the sky, capped by pointed spires and minarets of gold and bronze. Faint early morning light glinted off those towers and played across elaborate stained-glass windows inset high into the Keep. Lacy bridges glimmered like cut diamonds, connecting each of the windswept spires. Near the back, butting up against the canyon wall, smokestacks poked up like soldiers in formation. Huge things, though the fires that fueled them were long dead.

  I whistled. I’d done a fair amount of dungeon diving since coming into V.G.O., and even I had to admit the ruins looked damn impressive.

  “Any activity down there?” I called to Forge, who stood near the bow of the airship, a familiar looking bronze spyglass pressed up against his eye.

  “I reckon there might be some forest critters patrolling in the trees. Big-ass wolves, maybe—”

  “Those would be Dread Wargs,” Carl offered from nearby. The guy looked better than he had the night before. A shower, clean robes, and a decent night’s sleep had done wonders for him. “They’re pack hunters, but I doubt they’ll give us much trouble. Mostly cannon fodder for newbs and lowbies.”

  “Right,” Forge continued. “Dread Wargs. Not much else, though. Place looks pretty quiet. Deserted almost. Got my hairs standing at attention, though. Something off about this place, you ask me.”

  “You and every Dwarf in Cliffburgh,” Carl grumbled, cinching his cloak tighter around his shoulders. “They all think this place is cursed. Part of the reason I haven’t had much luck clearing it. No one wants to risk coming here. They say there are monsters in the shadows. Ghosts from the long dead.”

  That was exactly the kind of thing I liked to hear right before jumping feetfirst into a dungeon dive.

  “I’m starting to like this place more and more, Jack,” Cutter offered from behind the wheel. “Really feel like we made the right choice here.”

  “Yeah. And why’s that?”

  He shrugged. “Big castle. Superstitious natives. Sounds to me like a place with something bloody good just waiting for a proper plundering. And if there’s anything I love more than booze and gambling, it’s a good plundering. I still bloody well intend to retire in a bathtub full of gold marks before this is all over and done with. Can’t do that without loot.” Cutter cranked the wheel hard to
port. “Make ready to land!” he barked without looking back.

  His Goblin crew broke into motion. A trio of the creatures skittered into the ratlines, tugging at a set of ropes. A great wooden jibboom popped from the side, unfurling a canvas fin that billowed out, catching a stiff breeze. “Half speed,” Cutter yelled absently, toggling a lever on the right. One of the Goblins frantically shoveling coal into the rear furnace ceased his work. Others scampered across the deck, chirping and growling at each other while securing sails and checking the cannons.

  I watched them work, a bemused smile on my face.

  They were such weird critters—all green skin, potbellies, and gangly spider-like limbs. They were short, each one no taller than a Dwarf, with twisted faces, hooked noses, and needle-sharp teeth. They wore sleek leathers, outfitted with pirate cutlasses and cog-studded flintlock pistols. None wore boots, though they didn’t seem to mind the cold in the least. They spoke only crude English, and they bickered constantly with each other. They were fiercely loyal to Cutter and the Hellreaver, though, and that was all that really mattered.

  Cutter landed the Hellreaver a few minutes later, touching down on a clear patch of ground a short walk from the front of the ruins.

  I shook my head and pulled my gaze away from the Goblins as Abby, Amara, and Ari climbed up from the ship’s cargo hold, which was exponentially warmer than being topside. I was a little envious, but then I’d been the one who told them to go catch an extra bit of sleep on the ride over. No reason for all of us to suffer.

  “Holy crap. It’s colder than a Yeti’s asshole out here,” Abby said, shivering like a leaf in the wind as she surveyed the snowy wonderland. “I honestly never thought I’d miss the god-awful humidity of the Storme Marshes, but I take back every nasty thing I’ve ever said about Yunnam. The cold is a thousand times worse than the heat.” She lifted her hands, a chant on her lips. A halo of fire burst to life, fingers of flame twirling and dancing around her in a slow procession. Relief washed over her face. “So much better.”

  After a few quick words between Cutter and his Goblin crew, we deboarded the airship, finding ourselves in knee-deep snow.

  “Nope,” Abby said resolutely. “No one has the time or patience for this.” She waddled forward until she was at the front of the group, leaving a pair of deep furrows in the snow behind her. She stowed her staff, stuck both hands straight out, and unleashed an unending javelin of flame, melting the snowpack in front of us. She killed the spell for just a moment, glancing at us over one shoulder and cocking an eyebrow. “Well, don’t just stand there. Let’s go take care of this dungeon and find our book.” She turned her industrial flamethrower hands back up to full blast and carved us a path.

  Forge tromped behind her, axe out, Ari perched on his shoulder with her weapons at the ready. Carl came next, followed by me and Cutter, while Amara brought up the rear, making sure no one got the drop on us. The walk in was a bit longer than I expected—the ruins were deceptively big, and farther away than they first appeared—but relatively uneventful. We spotted the local pack of Dread Wargs lingering near the tree line, watching us with glowing amber eyes, their lips pulled back to reveal cruel fangs custom built for rending flesh and piercing armor. But Abby’s flamethrower impersonation seemed to convince them that we were predators, not prey.

  “So what’s the deal with this place anyway?” Forge asked as we made the trek. “This don’t look like no dungeon I’ve ever seen.”

  “I don’t think it is,” Carl said, his voice slightly muffed by the scarf he had wrapped snuggly around his throat and mouth. “Not in the traditional sense of the word, anyway. More like some kind of abandoned keep.”

  “Well, if it ain’t a dungeon, then who built it? And why the hell would they go to all that trouble, then just leave it here?” Forge asked. “Don’t make no sense.”

  “According to my order, this place was built by Eitri Spark-Sprayer. The guy spent a bunch of time down south with the Murk Elves, but when he wasn’t kicking around in the swamps, he was here. Working in his lab. Or something like that. Never did pay the closest attention.”

  “Any idea why he spent so much time in the Storme Marshes?” I asked, trying to put the pieces of this strange puzzle together. And I was sure there was a puzzle here. Some connection I wasn’t seeing yet. There were just too many overlaps between this demigod Eitri and my predecessor, the Jade Lord, to be a coincidence.

  “Eh. No clue,” Carl replied with a noncommittal shrug. “His mom was a Murky, so it coulda been a family thing, I guess. But he spent the later years of his life here, at least until the other Aspects murdered him.”

  “Aspects?” I asked, feet slapping on the muddy ground. “You keep using that word. I’m not sure I understand.”

  “It’s just Cleric lingo. Not likely to hear it unless you hang out in the temple district. You’ve heard of the Overminds, right?”

  I nodded, doing my very best to suppress my smile. “Yeah. I’ve heard a thing or two about them.”

  “Okay. Cool. Well the Overminds represent sort of these big cosmic forces, but they all have various Aspects. Sorta like local deities that represent different parts of each Overmind. Every order worships a different Aspect of each Overmind. Khalkeús is a Dwarven Divine, and an Aspect of Aediculus the Architect. Heimdallr is one of Kronos’s Aspects. Bragi is a deity of the Bards and an Aspect of Gaia. There’s a shitload of ’em. Now, I’m not really much of a theologian, mind you, but from what I understand, these Aspects, they have a certain degree of autonomy. Can kinda do their own thing, though they’re ultimately pieces of the greater unthinking Overminds they represent.”

  Unthinking. Right. I didn’t bother to correct him, but inside it took every ounce of willpower not to laugh hysterically in his face. “Following so far,” I said. “But why would these other Aspects murder one of their own?”

  “Well that’s the thing. Eitri Spark-Sprayer wasn’t one of their own, you know? Dude was a demigod, fathered by the Aspect Khalkeús. Eitri didn’t have the full power of an Aspect, but he had a whole lot more than most mortals. The more important part, though, was that he didn’t have their restrictions either. Story goes, the other Aspects were super pissed that this guy could just run around and do whatever the hell he wanted. So, they elected these mortal Champions, imbued them with a portion of their power, then set them loose to hunt down Eitri. Ended up killing him.”

  Carl fell silent as Abby burned away the last patch of snow. A wide set of white marble stairs rose up before us, ending at a set of looming double doors, thick enough to withstand an assault from a cruise missile. Each door was made from a single piece of dark mahogany, except that was impossible because there was no tree anywhere in the world big enough to produce a door like that. Running across the front was an enormous carving of a tree, meticulously depicted in solid gold. A gnarled trunk ran down the dividing line between the doors, its twisting boughs reaching toward the archway overhead.

  “Yggdrasil,” Carl muttered, working to hide his awe, and failing. “Huh. How ’bout that.” He craned his head back, bearded mouth hanging open. “This is a whole lot more impressive than I thought it’d be.”

  “So, uh, how do we open it, hoss?” Forge asked, eyeing the entry for some sign of door handles. There weren’t any, of course, but even if there were, no one would be strong enough to budge those monstrosities. It would take a war elephant—maybe a couple of them—equipped with breaching chains to pull those bad boys open.

  “Knock maybe?” Carl suggested. Probably the most unhelpful advice of the century.

  Still, it was worth a shot. I broke away from the pack and headed up the huge steps, which seemed to be designed for someone with legs much longer than mine. The second my foot touched the landing, the golden branches of Yggdrasil began to writhe, pulling and twisting as the doors swung outward without a sound. They crept to a stop just as silently, hanging wide open in invitation.

  Well, I guess that answered that.

>   Connections

  OUR FOOTSTEPS CLATTERED and echoed off the high ceilings as we made our way down one of the many marble hallways in the Keep. Cutter led the way, on high alert for any sign of traps or other nasty surprises. So far nothing, but that didn’t make me feel any better. There was no way a place like this was just unguarded. If a horde of shambling zombies had flooded out en masse... well, that would’ve sucked, but at least it would’ve made sense. But so far there was no sign of mobs. Not so much as an overgrown sewer rat, which just didn’t make any sense.

  But then, nothing about this place made a lick of sense.

  The sprawling Keep was dusty, and clearly it’d been ages since anyone had stepped foot here, but aside from that, everything was immaculate. Bronze sconces decorated the walls, and each one flared to vibrant life as we approached. Instead of burning with preternatural fire, however, each sconce held a crystal orb, which thrummed with warm orange light. Magical lightbulbs. Breathtaking paintings and elaborate tapestries hung from the walls; small alcoves and nooks held cast bronze statues or marble busts perched on fluted marble pillars. It was like walking through a museum after it had closed for the night.

  The art itself dropped more than a few clues about the owner of the house, who I could only assume was Eitri Spark-Sprayer. Several portraits featured a bear of a man, with shoulders as broad as any Dwarf’s, his skin a glimmering silver instead of the typical gray of most Murk Elves. He had a mass of platinum-blond hair that cascaded down past his shoulders and a beard to match, which reached almost to his belt. That beard would be the envy of any Svartalfar, I had no doubt. In many of the paintings he held an enormous blunt hammer, meant more for the forge than for the battlefield—though I wouldn’t want to get smacked with the thing.

  Interestingly, the tapestries were a mix of scenes.

  Some depicted wintery mountain vistas while others showcased the Storme Marshes with their twisted trees, murky bogs, and stilted houses, perched high above the ground like huge water striders. One painting, prominently displayed over a fireplace in a huge banquet hall on the second level, showed the silver-skinned giant with a broad smile on his bearded face, one arm wrapped around the shoulders of a much shorter man—though short was relative. The other man I recognized at once from my brief time in the Twilight lands: Nangkri, the Jade Lord.