Steel Wolves of Craedia (Realm of Arkon, Book 3)

by Akella,G.

  "Fall back to solid ground! Mages, lay down traps! Archers, kite! Don't let them get too close!" I barked more commands, turning back toward the river.

  My century ended up fulfilling way more than their desired quota. As it turned out, in the first minute and a half of the battle our mages and archers had slaughtered nearly a hundred enemy melee fighters—that was why the getare squad had ended up face to face with the three mini bosses. The undead were down to less than two hundred soldiers. It's pretty damn great that the laws of physics apply in this world, I thought with gratitude, remembering the skeletons getting tossed aside like empty tin cans. We weren't completely without losses, however—three of our new getare recruits had gotten careless and were knocked off into the depths. There was nothing anyone else could have done. To be sure, one death per one hundred kills was a ratio any general would kill for, pardon the pun, but I still couldn't help but feel a boundless sense of sadness looking at their icons—once vibrant red, turned lifeless gray.

  "Thank you, dar," said the getare I had snatched from the saddle. The voice belonged to a woman. Coming back to her senses, the soldier opened her visor. It was Tilly, the same guard from yesterday who had ran to report to James about our arrival. "I've been dreaming of getting a ride on your razorback the moment I laid eyes on him," she smiled, blushing.

  In her combat form, the young woman's face somewhat resembled a fox's muzzle. Damnit, when am I going to get used to the fact that in this world women are equal to men in every way? I thought, helping her down to the ground.

  "Off you go, soldier. The fort is only a mile through the woods. You'll only be a burden without a horse. Wait for us in Farot—I'll give you a ride on the razorback some other time."

  "Aye aye. Thank you, dar," the girl nodded. "But I'll hold you to that," she added with a smile, turned and ran toward the woods.

  "You make it look easy," Reece grunted, riding up to my left. "Fire, then earth!" he yelled at one of his mages as the latter was laying traps on the ground. "I'm even a little jealous," he sighed ostentatiously. "No pretty girls have been asking me for a ride..."

  "You expect me to believe that?" I smirked back at him. "Now listen, I know you like showing off those curls of yours, but that helm on your head has a purpose. Fix it before something sharp and heavy smashes into your face, and you're stuck relying on your personality."

  "Nobody appreciates my delicate nature, yearning for universal harmony." The mage pushed his helm to the bridge of his nose, then looked at me. "Well, do I look like a hero of lore from a ballad? You know, the kind sung by minstrels in Xantarrian inns?"

  "I don't know what they sing in Xantarra, but thanks for the mental image. How did you even think of it?"

  "I didn't. A human woman came to me in a dream. Tall, fair-haired and beautiful," he looked up to the sky dreamily. "She was the one who said it."

  "Did she by any chance have this sign on her cheek?" I drew a broken line in the air.

  "How... But you weren't there, dar!" the mage gave me an astounded look.

  "Right, but I was somewhere else," I chuckled. "Your dream woman is Countess Ulissa de Cevraze."

  "Countess..." said the mage despondently. "Then I won't be getting any even in a dream..."

  "Don't worry," I snorted. "I see plenty of countesses in your future," I winked to the mage, and shouted a command in the raid channel. "Everyone back on land! Commence phase two!"

  Spanning a few square miles, the area just south of the fort was remarkably flat, and wild with grass and stubby vegetation. That made it ideal for taking full advantage of one's mobility and firing range. I was in no hurry to lead the undead to the fort—there were just too many unknowns about this Reaper fellow. And tanking a boss ten levels higher than me without knowing his abilities was even less enticing a prospect.

  For three hours now we had been kiting this swarm of mobs across the open plain and over magic traps strewn along the ground. Continually evading a head-on collision, our century ran circles around the undead like a pack of wolves around a herd of buffalos. The once mighty half-legion of walking corpses from Suonu was down to a measly three-four dozen, and the Reaper's health bar was hovering around ten percent. Salta—bless her keen eyes—had noticed right away that before hurling his hook Magroom always stopped and threw up his left shoulder. It had become much easier to dodge the terrible weapon, and our mounted archers could bombard the boss from a relatively safe distance.

  The way my clanmates fought, you would think they'd seen these battles a hundred times. I didn't know how to explain it, except perhaps that the troops' performance was impacted by their commanders' leadership level, which grew alongside combat experience. It had been forty minutes since Elnar dashingly led two getare squads in a mounted tip-and-run attack that took out the last surviving liches, making our final victory simply a matter of a time.

  "How about we wrap this up, dar?" reining in his horse beside me, Elnar removed his helm and wiped his brow with fabric that was soiled in sweat and blood. "That big louse is almost down, and I bet we won't even notice the rest of them," he gestured at the ragged remains of skeletal warriors.

  Indeed, the boss had barely over nine million hit points left. Maybe the tifling was right? Considering that Gloom's Charge was now maxed at level three, I alone stood to inflict over three million damage galloping at top speed. Even if half of it got through the Reaper's armor...

  "Patience, James," I objected. "We've already lost three—no need to tempt fate any further. By the way," I pointed at the rag in his hand. "Is that your handkerchief?"

  "I wiped my horse with it earlier," Elnar chuckled, but the smile was gone from his face in an instant. "Move aside!!!" he bawled and gunned forward, feverishly whipping his horse.

  I turned sharply and froze for a moment. The Reaper's carcass, having magically appeared in the midst of a getare squad, was blazing with a dark magic flame. The beast was swinging his immense mallet frenziedly, landing terrible blows left and right. Two of my fighters' icons had already turned gray, and seven more were lying motionless on the ground, their horses thrashing in death throes nearby.

  What the hell?! This isn't a dungeon, these bosses aren't supposed to berserk... the thought flashed through my mind, and then something inside me snapped. On pure autopilot I set the razorback to a gallop and popped Charge.

  "Surat!" Hurd's cry drowned out all the turmoil in the raid channel.

  I saw the tank taunt the boss to draw aggro. The monster turned instantly, knocked Hurd out of the saddle with the first blow, and proceeded to literally trample him into the the ground, which was quickly turning black from the magic gushing from the monster.

  The tank's horse, having been knocked aside, attempted to get back up, but at least two its feet were broken, and the animal toppled over helplessly with a pitiable whinny. I recognized James' voice roar something in the raid channel. The archers were now within twenty yards of the boss, firing away with no regard for their own safety. The wind was whistling in my ears, but I didn't care about any of that. Only one thing occupied my mind—wasting that bag of filth that had just killed my people! The people that had been with me from the start! An inhuman rage surged from deep inside my being. The world before me grew dark, and an impossible lightness took hold of me.

  "Iam, Elnar—tank the warriors!" I bellowed into the channel, not recognizing my own voice while dismissing a whole string of system messages. "Archers, keep back! Finish off the remaining skeletons!"

  Time slowed sharply. The tip of my lance was aimed right at the hideous simian mug. As though sensing danger, the beast tossed aside Hurd's broken corpse, spun around in my direction and threw forward his left paw. The hook smashed into my angled shield and glanced aside. With a bloodcurdling roar, Magroom grabbed his mallet with both hands and raised it overhead.

  "Die, you bitch!" the lance bore into the Reaper's throat. Crit!!!

  Gloom smashed into the boss at full speed, knocking him to the ground. There were
cries in the raid channel, but I could only hear snippets of words. Hopping off the razorback, I advanced on the boss unhurriedly. His eyes fixed on me, the Reaper tried to get up, propping himself up on the mallet. I lashed my tail at his wrist, breaking it. The limb went limp with a sickening crunch, and a powerful kick to the chest knocked the bastard back down.

  "You've killed my people, bastard," I spoke slowly, looking into his fading eyes. "Tell whoever sent you that I will come for their heads soon enough." With those words and a swift swing of the sword, the gruesome monster's head was severed right off. Picking up my lance, the head still skewered on its tip, I turned and headed back.

  There was a bottomless pit in my heart. Hurd, Surat, Osk... And two more demons I hadn't personally met. And everything had been going so well! After managing to eradicate over five thousand undead with a party of fifteen while sustaining zero casualties, we lost eight in a battle against only five hundred. I put down a horse thrashing on the ground nearby, ending its suffering, and turned to the razorback.

  "I must be a crummy commander, eh, Gloom?" I sighed. "Would it have killed me to attack that bastard sooner?"

  As if sensing the meaning of my words, Gloom came over and poked his muzzle in my belly, leaving his withers exposed and clearly in need of scratching. The boar seemed to shrink in size somehow. Or was my mind playing tricks on me again?

  Your reputation has increased. James dar Elnar, the captain of the Steel Wolves clan, relates to you with respect.

  The morale of your party has risen by 10 points. Your party's current morale is +23 (a 23% increase to your party members' physical and magic damage).

  And that was that. The sounds of this world came crashing down on me, all at once. Soldiers were dismounting, their heads hanging low. Reece was among them. Leaning over Hurd's body, the mage put a hand on his chest. I felt many eyes upon me, most of them a blend of shock and awe. And only Salta, standing a bit to the side, was staring off into nothingness with palpable anguish. And no wonder—Hurd and Surat were from the same village as her and Reece. And I... I couldn't save them...

  "Dar... Forgive me for my lack of faith, Dark One, I didn't know..." Elnar's voice brought me out of my stupor. He was kneeling before me, his head bent. "It is a great honor to serve under the command of an elder."

  What in Hart's name was going on? I tossed aside the lance with the Reaper's head skewered on it, and stared at my blackened hands. Though referring to them as "hands" would be quite a stretch: bone spikes jutted out at my wrists and elbows, and the sharp inch-long nails on my fingertips seemed to be a natural extension of my armor, which was now of an altogether different color. I pulled off my helm and ran my hands over my face. No, not my face anymore! I felt a massive lower jaw, protruding fangs, tapered ears and... horns! Enormous outcroppings of bone curved backwards, each about fifteen inches long. How did I even get the helm off with these? Judging by the demons surrounding me, my height had increased to a little over seven feet. The black tail—itself around four-five feet long, with a tip like the edge of a harpoon—felt like another limb. Moreover, I knew that it could swell and harden at the moment of impact—how else could I have broken the Reaper's wrist from that distance? But how... The system messages I had dismissed when rushing the Reaper! I scrolled up in the chat log...

  You've learned a skill: Demonic Combat Form. Duration: 15 minutes. Cooldown: 60 minutes. When in Demonic Combat Form, a new slot is added to your action bar with an active skill called Infernal Rage. Furthermore, your armor class, physical and mental damage are increased by 10%.

  Infernal Rage.

  Instant cast.

  Cooldown: 5 minutes.

  Requires Demonic Combat Form.

  The demon falls into a frenzy, with every physical and mental attack dealt inflicting critical damage.

  Upon activating Infernal Rage, the demon is rid of all stun, fear and immobilization effects, and becomes invulnerable to them for the duration of the spell.

  Attention! Over the course of your life in the Realm of Arkon you have accumulated 137,012 hidden rage points.

  Your Demonic Combat Form has been transformed to Demonic Rage Form I.

  Demonic Rage Form I. Unique skill. Duration: 30 minutes. Cooldown: 60 minutes. When in Demonic Rage Form I, two new slots are added to your action bar with active skills called Infernal Rage and Aura of Horror. Furthermore, your armor class, physical and mental damage are increased by 20%.

  Note that this combat form is not final, and may undergo additional transformations in the future.

  Aura of Horror.

  Instant cast.

  Cooldown: 5 minutes.

  Requires Demonic Rage Form I.

  The blood of a true Lord starts to boil in you, and a Fright effect is applied to all hostile sentient creatures without mental protection within a 50 yard radius, causing them to flee in terror. The duration of the effect is determined by the creatures' mental resistance. With a resistance of zero, the effect lasts 30 seconds.

  Your reputation has increased. The sentient creatures of the Netherworld plane are now unfriendly to you.

  My god, what had I become! Yellow eyes, vertical pupils! And this was probably permanent. What would Alyona say? I was no longer human... Yet my clanmates' eyes shone with delight and trepidation. How the hell was this a cause for celebration?

  "I didn't know myself," I answered Elnar, still kneeling, and lashed the tip of my tail at my bootleg. My voice had changed along with the body, taking on lower, menacing undertones. I looked at the fighters around me. "Grab the loot and the bodies. Elnar, I want the bodies of our fallen fished out of the water. We're going back to Farot."

  I spent the entire road to Farot trying to untangle the mess that was my thoughts. I had forgotten all about my lacking combat form, so this was very much out of the blue. And what a form it was! Now, this wasn't revolutionary or anything—I remembered the community once buzzing about some druid receiving an advanced form of a cave bear after completing a special quest. The bear form he would shift into was nearly fifty percent larger than the standard version, and the image of his scowling muzzle was on the front page of every gaming site for at least a month. Such things happened from time to time, and didn't transcend the boundaries of game balance.

  But why me? I hadn't completed any special quests, had I? And those hidden rage points... In this world even rage was part of some formula! My real self was a pretty chill individual, all in all—could this be a side effect of my bungled character creation? Or maybe it was all predestined from the very beginning, and the manifestation of my rage was part of a natural progression? I had no answers. But I wasn't despondent either—even in combat form my body remained humanoid, horns and tail notwithstanding. I hadn't grown any hooves, at least, praise Hart. The spikes on my wrists and elbows retracted under the skin with a simple mental command. The process of shifting wasn't painful at all, and the deep-black color looked pretty brutal. In the end, this made me stronger, and thus boosted my chances of finding my sister and punishing Cheney. And besides, I wasn't much bothered by my appearance. While in combat form I still thought and felt like myself, and still looked like myself after shifting back. I should remember to talk to Elnar about him calling me an "elder." I remembered the legend: in this plane elder demons were those whose veins contained a greater portion of the true blood that was used by Velial when creating Arkon during his retreat. But what was it doing in my veins? I wasn't there when it happened, that much was certain. And how did these elders differ externally from the rest? So many questions... I hoped that the answers would come in time.

  What did hurt was losing the guys I'd fought with side by side for over a month. It hurt like hell, in fact. I gazed wistfully at Reece, who was riding in somber silence, Hurd's corpse slung over in the saddle before him.

  The mage hadn't allowed anyone near his friend's body. "He dragged me out of Uriatta. I will carry him as far as the Flame, if I have to," he'd said quietly, gently placing the body
in front of the saddle. The mage was staring off in the distance—eyes unblinking, jaw set, swaying slightly to the rhythm of his moving horse. Wherever his mind was, it wasn't anywhere near here.

  But I couldn't afford to navel-gaze. Casualties in war were unavoidable, and I hadn't done anything wrong as a commander. No boss was supposed to berserk in that situation, especially three hours into the fight. Some other factor must have been in play, and I doubted I would ever know what it was. Perhaps the beast was aided by a patron deity? No matter! I would fulfill my promise. After the necessary convalescing, I would take my people to Suonu and seek out whoever it was that had been sending these armies here. And drown the bastard in their own bloody tears. Or, if not blood, whatever filth flowed in their veins. Was the plan ludicrous? Perhaps. But the way Elnar and the others were looking at me, I wasn't going to have any problems with recruitment. And another thing—I could now turn up anywhere in the Netherworld and feel relatively safe. Not that I was champing at the bit to go there—and besides, the entrance to that plane was sealed, as far as I knew—but it was a comforting thought just the same.

  Could I have predicted a mere six months ago that today I would be leading a near century back to a fort we'd just defended from an army of undead, riding atop an enormous boar? I chuckled, fixing the scabbard at my waist. At least there was a purpose to it all! The way was now clear for the refugees to reach Xantarra without incident, including little Dara and Hert who had treated me to steamed milk back in Ballan. My biggest worry now was the state of my head archeress—whenever my eyes caught hers, I was taken aback by the anguish and listlessness that had settled in them. Is it the deaths of her friends that's got her so distraught? I wasn't so sure. I should have a talk with her when we get back to Farot. No need to waste time guessing.