by J. A. Hunter
We’d made it ten feet in when the floor revolted beneath my feet, bucking wildly like an angry bull. Dead ahead, the burning magma began to churn and roil, an enormous bubble forming in the center of the pool, swelling up and up and up as something took form, which is when a terrible thought hit me like a baseball bat to the skull.
What if the door hadn’t just been a simple door... What if that giant slab of gold had been Khalkeús? The clues had alluded to something along those lines, but they hadn’t made sense before now.
My brain finally started firing on all cylinders, things clicking into place like the pieces of a sprawling jigsaw puzzle. I recalled one of the odd lines of text Carl had read to us back in the temple. The magma leaking from the Phoenix’s beak—the fires quenched must be relit. The blood from the altar—love’s sacrifice will warm a heart grown cold. The three relics I’d shoved into the enormous gate—three keys to make transmuted flesh whole. Holy crap. It all fit. The former Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer hadn’t turned Khalkeús into the entire dungeon, they’d dismantled him bit by bit, storing pieces of his power and form into each of the different trials.
The magma from the first trial had drained down through the Phoenix and into the pool here, rekindling the forge itself, which was the main source of Khalkeús’s inhuman power. Likewise, sacrificing Abby had somehow managed to kickstart Khalkeús’s stilled heart, filling his “body” with fresh, warm blood. Morbid as hell, sure, but it fit with the evidence. And jamming the Doom-Forged relics in had given the slumbering Aspect the tool he’d needed to break free from the transmutation spell, which had kept him asleep for the past five hundred years.
The only piece of the puzzle left to solve was the Chalice of Peace from the second room—how in the hell did that fit into the picture?
Not that it really mattered at this point. With the revived godling taking shape after centuries of slumber, it was now an academic issue.
There was another boom, the burning bubble popping, and the creature stepped forth from the churning pit, glowing with the radiance of a dying star. Khalkeús was humanoid in form, but his metallic body burned so furiously hot I could barely stand to look at him. There was a thunderous stomp, rattling my teeth, and I raised one hand to shield my eyes, squinting between my fingers so I could try to catch a better glimpse.
Even that was too painful. It was like staring directly into the sun.
Another footfall, thud, and for the first time since starting on this crazy journey I felt genuine fear. After all, if Khalkeús turned mean and wanted to fight—and if gaming had taught me anything, it was that he would absolutely want to fight—what was the chance that it could kill me? And not just send me for respawn, but actually kill me? Real Death? I’d just given him the pieces of a weapon capable of killing a god, so there had to be at least some chance that he would turn that terrible power against me or one of our party members, wiping us from the game as though we’d never been.
Suddenly, I was wishing I could activate my final Avatar of Order ability and transform into the giant dragon-like creature capable of leveling city walls—that might level the playing field just a hair. Unfortunately, I’d leveled up back in Iredale Hold, so I didn’t have the experience points needed to trigger the transformation. Which meant I’d have to do this the hard way.
“Carl,” I said over one shoulder, “why don’t you get started with that ritual, yeah? Cutter, you and me are gonna buy him as much time as we can.”
“Yep, on it,” the Cleric said, pulling free a bag of ritual ingredients from his inventory with one hand and a dagger-sized, blessed crafting awl with the other.
Another colossal step, thump-boom. “Ah’ve been asleep so long,” creaked an ancient voice I recognized as Khalkeús’s, thanks to my brief trip through the pages of Eitri’s journal. There was something slightly off about it, though. His voice was deeper than I remembered. Gravelly. Biting and hard, like a man who’d lived rough for years and had all the empathy and mercy in his body stripped away.
I cracked my eyes again. The blazing glory surrounding the Aspect was fading away as his body cooled from the unforgiving heat of the Doom Forge.
Like his voice, he was the same, but he was also different.
He was massive, even bigger than I remembered from my brief glimpse through Eitri’s eyes. Eighteen or nineteen feet—easily rivaling the legionnaire statue from the second trial—his skin gold, his hair braided silver, his beard burning with living flame. He wore no shirt, but a silver belt, covered with the gems from the gate, supported a silver-plated skirt that covered his thighs. Spikes of curling obsidian protruded from his back like a great porcupine and raced along the backs of his arms. Angry fissures and gruesomely painful looking cracks ran across his chest, snaked around his biceps, and zigzagged over his legs, which were thicker than my torso.
Those wounds wept a constant stream of crimson, which dribbled down, only to evaporate in a haze of steam, which surrounded the crazed Aspect in a cloud. His eyes were hard as old flint and unforgiving, his mouth turned down in a perpetual scowl. Around his neck hung a braided silver chain, and dangling from it was an oversized crystal key about the size of one of Cutter’s daggers. It reminded me of the glass key we’d earned in the second trial, but this one was filled with a shifting kaleidoscope of light in a thousand different hues.
In his hand was a flat-faced smith’s hammer, crafted out of gleaming ebony with an enormous spike jutting from both the back and the top. Molten script ran around the head and down the shaft, moving as though it were animated by the magma from the pool. The room wobbled around me even as I slipped into tunnel vision, my gaze fixed unwaveringly on the hammer. That was it. What I’d come to find: the fabled Doom-Forged weapon. And now Khalkeús had it, and I had no illusions he would willingly hand it back over.
Not unless I made him hand it over.
“And who is it, pray tell, who has awoken me from the treachery of my own priests, hmm?” the domineering Aspect continued as he tromped forward, raising the deadly hammer, leaning it against his hubcap-sized shoulder.
I struggled to find words, but a nudge in the ribs from Cutter seemed to loosen my uncooperative lips. “The longer he talks,” Cutter whispered in my ear, “the more time Carl has to work.”
He was right. True, villain monologues were cliché and stupid, but in this case, getting the Aspect to overshare could only help us in the end. Running down the clock was the best possible play. “Name’s Grim Jack,” I said, hooking my thumbs into my belt, shooting for casual and unconcerned. “Leader of the Crimson Alliance and chief over the six named Dokkalfar clans of the Storme Marshes.” I reached up and tapped at the crown on my head, glancing toward Carl. The Cleric was stooped over, not far from us, etching something into the floor. “Also happen to bear the mantle of the Jade Lord, so there’s that.”
“Oh, is that so, little human? And why, pray tell, would one so esteemed as you visit me?”
I faltered for a moment, unsure of how to continue. “Uh. Well, I need the Doom-Forged weapon to kill a god. So, I was kinda hoping you could just give it to me?” Yep. Nailed it.
For the first time, the Aspect lost its grim glower, his mouth breaking into a thin smile, though one that didn’t hold any warmth or humor. “Ya want to kill a god, eh? Well, boy, get in line. Ah have a whole pantheon to kill.” He reached up and casually stroked his flaming beard. “Though I have some unfaithful priests to visit first.” He nearly growled the word priests. Definitely no love lost there. “Now, unless you and yer crew want to join ’em in the world to come, I’d get out of my way. You have my thanks for waking me and returning the instrument of my vengeance. Yer reward is that you get to keep breathin’. For now.” He grunted and took another step toward us and the exit at our backs.
We couldn’t let him leave the room under any circumstances, both because he could destroy the world and because Carl’s ritual had a limited range.
I drew my warhammer, which looked like
a child’s toy compared to the monstrous weapon in his hand. “Unfortunately, I can’t let you do that. I’m only after one god, Thanatos. And then, only because there are no other options. I can’t just let you go on an Overmind killing spree.”
Khalkeús stopped his trudging war march, staring at me and the weapon in my hand. “Oh, is that so now? And I suppose you and yer band of men here are up to the task of stopping me?”
“Well now, Jack isn’t exactly one to toot his own horn,” Cutter said, slapping me on a shoulder, then draping an arm around my shoulders, “but he’s defeated creatures far superior to you.”
“Oh, is that so?” Khalkeús growled, not sounding even remotely amused by the sheer insolence of a pair of mere mortals. “Do tell, I’m dying to hear more,” he finished, the sarcasm as thick as honey.
Except Cutter didn’t seem to get the clue and actually launched into storyteller mode, his voice taking on a rhythmic cadence. “Gladly.” He beamed. “Grim Jack is a legend—”
“Well, I don’t know about that—”
“Nonsense. Don’t be modest, Jack,” he said, shooting me a sideways glance. “He’s far too modest,” he said to Khalkeús. “Legend—wait for it—dary. This man, if he even is a man, has done more amazing things than most people do in a lifetime—and that’s just since breakfast, friend. The city of Rowanheath, the military stronghold of the Ever Victorious Viridian Empire? Why my boy Jack took the bloody-damned thing in a day. Launched an entire assault from the back of a spider army. He’s defeated more dungeon bosses than the next ten men have ever seen. United the whole of the Storme Marshes after single-handedly taking down Arzokh the Sky Maiden—Dragon Queen of the Frozen Wastes.”
All I could do was stand there, utterly flabbergasted. What in the hell was he doing? Khalkeús looked more pissed by the second, and when things did finally get physical, he was liable to break every bone in my body. Slowly. Was Cutter bluffing here? The thief’s fingers pressed down into my shoulder as though he could sense my unease. Trust me, that gesture said. Which is when I realized we were talking and not fighting. Sure, when we did fight, it would be awful, but he was buying us time.
Hell, Carl had already finished carving his first two symbols, both now decorated with oils and various crafting ingredients. Flowers adorned one like a burial wreath, while a rare Troll Overlord skull was propped up in the center of the second.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Vox-Malum, the Lich Priest?” Cutter continued, slick as a used-car salesman with an easy mark on the line. “He was the scourge of the Realm of Order? Bastard nearly sacked an entire realm with an army of thralls. But you’ll never hear of him again because Jack here killed him. Damn near destroyed the entire Plain of Fire in the process, but that’s nothing to Jack. If he wanted to, he could mop the floor with you without breaking a sweat.”
“As it happens,” Khalkeús grunted. “Ah have heard of Vox-Malum, former Champion of Sophia, Overmind of Order and Balance.” He squinted—his eyes blazing with fury and fire—lifted his head, and took a deep whiff, giant nostrils flaring as he inhaled. “Ya have the reek of her about ya. The scent of the goddess. Shoulda smelled it before.” He reached over and tapped his nose with the tip of a golden finger. “You’re a Champion, then.” He nodded as though he didn’t even need confirmation.
“And who else is it that you have brought with you, Champion?” He stared at Cutter long and hard, gaze flicking over the golden handle of the Gentleman’s rapier he wore at his belt, before moving on to Carl. When he looked at Carl—really looked at him—his face contorted into a thunderhead. “So, we have a hound of the gods, a Gentleman of the Guild—”
“It’s more of a union, really,” Cutter corrected absently.
“And one of my own filthy, treacherous priests,” he continued, undeterred. “Ah think Ah see the picture clearly now. Looks like Ah have a bit of house cleaning to do before Ah leave.” With a thunderous roar, he attacked, thrusting his hammer straight up into the air. The ground beneath me rumbled. Cutter slammed into my side, pushing me clear an eyeblink before a geyser of magma melted me on the spot.
Knock-Down-Drag-Out
GEYSERS ERUPTED AROUND the room—huge columns of flame so lung-searingly hot they made it nearly impossible to breathe.
I dove right, narrowly avoiding another column, while Cutter broke left, whirling through the spewing flames and choking smoke. Carl was hunkered down beneath a dome of glowing golden light, temporarily protected from the hellish blaze, though how long that spell would last for I had no idea.
“Carl, work faster!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. “Cutter, you need to figure out a way to get the weapon once the ritual is complete. I’ll keep him busy.” I surged into motion, ducking and weaving through the forest of raging magma columns.
Keeping him busy was easier said than done, since Khalkeús was just getting warmed up. I broke free from the lava field and hurled an Umbra Bolt at the Aspect, but he casually swatted the attack from the air with the back of his hand as though it were a tennis ball instead of a devastating magical attack from a level 50 player. Then, without an ounce of effort, he conjured a small army of ghostly golden weapons—swords, axes, warhammers, daggers, pole arms—which floated around him like tiny planets orbiting their own golden sun.
In that instant, he really did look like the god he was.
Khalkeús snapped his fingers, the sound as loud as a firecracker, and the summoned weapons shot forward with a will of their own.
I’d seen a handful of summoners conjure living blades before, but never anything quite like this.
The weapons fell on me with one will, a whirlwind of magical steel—hacking, chopping, and thrusting, all desperate to dismember me as gruesomely as possible. And the worst thing? The weapons worked together in the same way a pack of wolves might when taking down some larger, deadlier predator. An axe swiped at me, and as I sidestepped the attack, a dagger darted in, ready to skewer me from the side. I deflected the slash with my razor-edged gauntlet only to find a finger-thin rapier zipping in to skewer me through the gut.
I twirled out of the way, though the rapier’s tip sliced cleanly through my billowing cloak.
I hastily conjured Dark Armor, a second skin of shadow rolling over my limbs and down my body, but that wouldn’t be enough to save me long term. The weapons didn’t hit as hard as I would’ve expected, but they hit often, and despite my best efforts, I simply couldn’t be everywhere at once. The swarm of weapons pressed their sheer numerical advantage, taking small slices out of my HP. Khalkeús, meanwhile, had zeroed in on Carl, tromping toward the Cleric, who was busy scurrying around the room, avoiding the magma columns as best he could while trying to inscribe the rest of necessary sigils on the chamber floor.
There was no sign of Cutter, but that probably just meant he was stealing closer while in Stealth, hoping to get the drop on Khalkeús. How in the hell he would steal the godling’s weapon from his hand was a mystery to me, but if anyone could do it, it was the best bloody thief in all of Eldgard.
An axe chopped toward my head, bringing me back into the moment. I deflected it with a swipe of my warhammer, parried a thrusting short sword with my gauntlet, then spun and dropped just before a great sword, as long as I was tall, sliced through the space my head had been seconds before. I batted away a hook-bladed halberd with my hammer, triggering Savage Blow, which shattered the magical construct on contact, but it just wasn’t enough.
There were too many of these damned conjured weapons, and every second I spent tangling with them was another second Khalkeús got closer to Carl.
I was sorely wishing that one of my Void minions had made it, but sadly they weren’t an option, which meant I needed to think outside the box.
I backpedaled rapidly, avoiding a fresh barrage of attacks from a pair of glowing daggers, only to nearly die as a gout of magma erupted less than a foot away from me. The new geyser singed my cloak and burned through a fraction of my HP, but I scra
mbled away quickly enough to avoid any lasting damage. One of the conjured blades, however, wasn’t quite so lucky, and ended up absorbing the full force of the burning column. The dagger strobed frantically, flashing black-white-black-white, an instant before it disintegrated into a pile of ash.
And that? That gave me an idea.
Instead of battling, I promptly dropped to the ground, curling into a ball, arms wrapped around my head, knees pulled up into my stomach. To an outside observer, it might’ve looked like I’d given up on living, opting instead to assume the fetal position and wait for death, but they’d be wrong. Mostly. The host of weapons, sensing my apparent weakness, all squeezed in around me. Blades fell, spikes stabbed, razor edges slashed. My Health was dropping, but all of those weapons had made one fatal mistake: they were all in one place.
Which happened to be right where I wanted them...
With a small effort of will, I stepped into the Shadowverse, time screeching to a stop around me, and the unearthly weapons abruptly froze in mid-swing. With a groan, I stood, my head passing harmlessly through the murderous arsenal gathered around me like a swarm of mosquitos out for blood. I took a deep breath, wincing at the pain in my chest and back. Off to the right, I spotted a blur that might’ve been Cutter, but I paid him no mind. My job right now was to handle Khalkeús and buy Carl the time he needed to complete the ritual.
Period. End of story.
I made my way free of the weapon cloud, slipping around the columns of roaring flame, careful to avoid getting too near—chances were they couldn’t hurt me, not here in the Shadowverse, but there was no reason to risk it—then positioned myself not far from the hulking Aspect. Mentally, I prepared myself for the fight to come. I waited for the countdown timer to run its course, regaining as much of my Health and Spirit as I could while I had a little breathing room.