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

by Akella,G.

  No changes here. I'd decided on my talent distribution through level 200 back in Nittal, and I wasn't going to change course now. I'd had four free talent points then, but Riding had ended up costing me five, and my final build had thus shifted through level 201. Level two portal creation that I'd learned at level 155 allowed me to teleport a group of up to five of people, and considering that all my mages could do the same, our entire century could thus be transported in the span of two days. Unfortunately, after learning the portal spell all my demons lost their bind points in what I thought was an odd side effect of the spell. If it hadn't been for that, Reece and I would have ported to Xantarra long ago, if only to turn in the old bones and offload all the unneeded stuff we had accumulated to the local merchants.

  Ice Blade X.

  Energy: 50 points.

  Instant cast.

  Cooldown: 2 seconds.

  Minimum level: 150.

  Required: melee range, melee weapon equipped.

  An instant attack that deals 250% damage on top of the weapon's base damage and slows the target's movement by 50% for 10 seconds.

  Also carries a 10% chance to freeze the opponent for 10 seconds.

  Tongue of Flame X.

  Energy: 50 points.

  Instant cast.

  Cooldown: 2 seconds.

  Minimum level: 150.

  Required: melee range, melee weapon equipped.

  An instant attack that deals 250% weapon damage.

  Ignores 10% of the target's physical defense.

  This was the situation with my two main attacks. In my mind, Ice Blade was altogether OP. Too bad freeze didn't take on a target that was already frozen—otherwise, with a little luck you could keep the enemy perma-stunned. As it was, considering the attack could be executed every two seconds, a target with zero resistance to Water magic could in theory be kept frozen for ten seconds every half-minute. At seventy five resistance the freeze effect would only be one quarter as long, but those two and a half seconds would make it easier to knock the enemy down and get in a few crits. A pity that most bosses were immune to it. But then any dungeon would become a cakewalk if that weren't the case.

  After raising Step through Darkness and Jump to level three, their range was now thirty yards. The mana cost wasn't particularly critical at 150, as I currently had more mana that I knew what to do with. After leveling to 200 I should probably look into area-of-effect spells—I was rather impressed with the way my mages had devastated that century of skeletal warriors. Of course, my firepower wouldn't be anywhere near as lethal, but I should still be able to lend some assistance. At any rate, there would be time to experiment and see what worked best before committing to anything definite. Until then everything was set—I'd max out Shackles and Disc, and raise Portal Creation to three.

  I was also generally satisfied with the state of my equipment. I still wore four pieces from the armor crafted by Master Kryon back in Nittal for the set bonus. The warrior god's belt was accruing stats with each level, and all the other pieces of my gear were rares. All except the weapon. Not a single rare quality blade had dropped for me in the entire past month of fighting and farming. Thankfully, my damage per second was already in the neighborhood of ten thousand, and that was without factoring in all the achievement buffs I'd amassed. Such a damage output was roughly equivalent to a typical level 200 warrior, so I wasn't particularly concerned. My Toughness had likewise grown to forty seven percent. I hadn't noticed much difference in terms of feeling less pain; that said, now that I was rolling with a crew of dedicated healers, I was barely given any chance to feel pain at all.

  As I was examining my gear, my eyes fell on the ring gifted to me by Hart. Well, this is certainly new! I thought with excitement. Though it still looked entirely ordinary, the ring was now showing one additional stat. I didn't know when the stat had manifested—truth be told, I had forgotten all about it after slipping it on my finger.

  Ring of Distorted Reality.

  Accessory; ring.

  Durability: 3987/4520.

  Bound item.

  ?????????????????.

  Minimum level: 100.

  Infinite invisibility (invisibility potions are not limited by time).

  Camouflage (when activated, no other player can see your character's level, class, specialization, skills and stats).

  ?????????????????

  ?????????????????

  ?????????????????

  Weight: .01 lbs.

  A gold ring of unknown craftsmanship.

  This was one of the abilities of a VIP account. Perhaps I could use it up above... but I would have much preferred some extra agility or a higher chance to crit. Still, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth. With a mental note of gratitude to Hart, I shifted my attention to my party, spread out along the road.

  Riding in the vanguard, to the left of the front wagon was Iam. You could see pride and smugness oozing out of the kid from a mile away, the cause of which was flapping in the wind right above his head. The red fabric of the banner bore a wolf cub, larger and more mature than before, the sharp points of his fangs protruding menacingly from under the upper lip. His muzzle—still cute not quite comical anymore—was framed on either side by branching bolts of lightning.

  Steel Wolves Banner IV.

  The banner of the Steel Wolves clan.

  All clan members and their allies within a half mile radius of the raised banner receive the following bonuses:

  +8 to morale (only for NPCs).

  +4% to maximum constitution.

  +2% to all maximum resistances.

  Warning! If the banner is lost or captured by the enemy, all clan members suffer the following debuffs for the next three months:

  -20 to morale (only for NPCs).

  -4% to maximum constitution.

  -20% to all resistances.

  A double-edged sword, no doubt. But I wasn't intending on losing the banner anyway—I would assign a special task force to guard it in shifts, if need be, or something of the sort. On the plus side, my clan had obtained yet another attribute.

  Life was a strange thing indeed. Only several months ago I was an entirely ordinary, albeit handsome and accomplished artist. Fast forward to today—I was the commander of an incomplete century of demon fighters. How's that for a change of pace?

  It was customary for Russians to have a healthy dose of disdain for office workers. Military service, in contrast, was much more glorified and romanticized. And no wonder—the movies had sold the public on the images of the flashy intrepid recruit and the seasoned mentor dispensing pearls of wisdom on life and war. How could your typical office lemming hope to compete? But had anyone bothered to consider the ethical angle? And by that I wasn't referring to actual combat operations, which the country I was born in hadn't taken any part in for the past twenty plus years. In Russian companies, for example, it was considered unwise to hire former servicemen for management positions. The realities of modern business were such that a director had to be ready to discern and apply a nonstandard solution at any moment, and a veteran was unlikely to have that ability because even a top-ranking general invariably answered to an even higher post. A director, conversely, had to be their company's king and god in one. In the military, all of your actions were subject to written rules and regulations—you only had to consult one manual or another to know what to do in any given situation. But what could a department head consult to better deal with employees who were failing to meet their sales quotas? And what was easier: to lead a company of trained soldiers into battle, or sign a lucrative annual contract with a supplier? In the modern world, the director of a large company was the equal of any military commander in terms of willpower and strength, and his unrivaled superior in terms of flexibility and guile. Now, surely there were exceptions to this rule—there were idiots and geniuses galore in any field, no doubt—but one would be a fool to dismiss office workers as useless. And in the game world the lines were blurred even further, as c
ombat and leadership skills were automatically "implanted" in your head. Of course, I doubted that a bellboy in life could become a renowned general in the game—personality and habits still mattered... But anyway, these were just my musings.

  In the meantime, our troops had passed yet another deserted village. Uncultivated fields sprawled on either side of the road as far as the eye could see. Though it was still early, the sun was already burning. Scents of tar and pine were wafting in from the nearby woods.

  Over at the third wagon, James and Salta were engaged in an animated discussion. The tifling's horse was following alongside the vehicle, casting the occasional suspicious glance at Gloom who was trotting nearby. The young woman was smiling periodically, and didn't seem at all distraught. Not even two days went by... I'd be lying if I said it didn't sting a bit. But what did you want from her, a vow of celibacy? I scolded myself. Shit or get off the pot, dude. If this was jealousy, it was a strange variation of it. On the whole I felt more relieved than spiteful. What if they were a good match? Deep inside, however, I wasn't especially envious of Elnar in light of the head archeress' rather difficult personality, the manifestation of which I'd had a front seat to since taking the farmers in. No doubt, I would be rooting for the prospective couple, but where did that leave me? My period of abstinence was nearing two months now, and suddenly I'd been hit with a bunch of additional restrictions.

  "Life takes strange turns sometimes," Reece said softly, pulling up to me. "Dar, if you wish, I can take you to a certain establishment when we get to Xantarra."

  The mage must have noticed my tension, and drawn the right conclusions.

  "I told you, my officers need not be formal with me in an informal setting." I looked for mockery in his eyes, but found none. The young man's face was contemplative, his expression distant.

  "All right," he said evenly. "There's a salon at the center of town called The Pink Bellflower. My mother used to work there, and she wasn't the only succubus in town."

  "Is that why you don't want to go into town?"

  "No, dar, I'm not the type to judge my own mother. I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for her. Besides, I don't look down on this profession like some do. For a succubus it's not even about the money—it's a physical necessity, a means of survival. What concerns me is that I don't even know my father's name."

  "Is it a secret of some kind?"

  "My mother never told me. Maybe she didn't deem it necessary. Or maybe she had her reasons to keep silent—for instance, if my father wasn't just another demon."

  "Why are you telling me this?"

  "Vaessa dar Luan, the dead magus' daughter. You're going to meet with her, yes?"

  "Yes, and?"

  "When you asked me about her back in the cave, I didn't tell you the whole story. My mother knew her. You could say they were girlfriends. Who do you think taught me alchemy?"

  "Right..." I grunted, recalling how deftly Reece was cutting up corpses with his scalpel.

  "She won't tell me—my mother probably swore her to secrecy. But I bet you could get it out of her."

  "Why do you want to know this? You've lived your entire life without your father."

  "I don't have any beef with him," the mage shook his head. "But with my mother gone, I simply want to meet the only other creature she loved besides me. You might not know this, but a succubus cannot conceive without love."

  You've accessed the quest: Father's Legacy I.

  Quest type: unique.

  Probe Vaessa dar Luan for information about Reece's father.

  Reward: experience, unknown.

  "Very well, I'll try to find out. But no promises."

  "I wouldn't expect any," the demon sighed. "Thank you. And let me know about the Bellflower. Xantarra may not be the bustling metropolis that is Nittal, but the local girls are to die for."

  The quest's script reeked of a cheesy soap opera, but who was I to refuse free XP? Besides, I didn't want to disappoint the kid, and it wouldn't cost me anything to simply ask the question of the dead magus' daughter.

  "Mounted troops ahead! About half a century of them! Probably a patrol from Xantarra," Ivar, the scouts' team leader, reported in the raid channel.

  "Get back here," I ordered. "Reece, ride ahead with me. James, try to keep up." I pressed my soles into Lucy's sides, steering her toward the head of the column.

  It wasn't long after the scouts' return that a group of riders appeared on the road, heading our way. There were maybe three-four dozen in all, with three of them riding well ahead of the rest. All were clad in chainmail and wielding spears, with composite bows slung over their shoulders. Cloaks of white and blue were flapping behind them—the colors of the satrap of Xantarra.

  As the din of their hooves beating against the ground drew close, I pulled out ahead and raised my hand high, ordering the caravan to halt. A rider from the other squad mirrored my gesture, and the troops behind him reined in their mounts, forming a kind of semicircle around him—that way, should anything happen, they wouldn't get in each others' way when firing their bows. That said, they showed no signs of aggression.

  The squad's commander looked to be in his early thirties, with a powerful chin, deep-seated green eyes and short light hair. Upon removing his helm, he held it with his left hand and fixed me with an intent look. Then his gaze shifted left, and his brows arched upward in shock.

  "James?" he exhaled. "But you stayed behind in Farot."

  "Oh, we got bored," Elnar's mouth parted in a wide grin. "You're getting old, Torgvar—you used to be able to spot me much faster."

  "What about the undead?" it was like the tifling didn't even hear the answer.

  "Where they ought to be—in the Gray Frontier." Seeing the look of total incomprehension in the other's eyes, Elnar took pity on him and explained. "The half-legion is no more. You can tell Elias there's no more fun left for him. He's up in the hills now, right?"

  "Right," Torgvar nodded mechanically. "There's no sense in waiting for them behind walls, not with five thousand refugees camped outside the gates. By the time you get them all inside and settled... Yours were the last to arrive this morning." He turned his eyes to me and nodded. "Forgive me, dar, this is just all so sudden. I am Torgvar dar Kirez, centurion of the Xantarrian cavalry."

  "Krian, commander of Steel Wolves," I introduced myself. "Will you report to Satrap Gorm about our arrival?"

  "Yes, of course. I'll send a pigeon right away—you'll be met at the gates."

  The tifling turned back to his troops and ordered them to clear the road. The riders all moved off to the sides, freeing up space. I thanked Torgvar and bid him goodbye, then ordered the caravan forward.

  The rest of the way were spent in discussions with Schen about what exactly ought to be stored in the clan treasury, and in what quantities. The former innkeeper turned out to be quite a clever fellow who knew the prices and stock of all of Xantarra's merchants by heart, so that by the end of our conversation I was eternally grateful for having picked up such a valuable asset. The only downside was the news that all the rares we'd picked up in the princedom over the past month wouldn't fetch more than fifty gold a piece. And this despite the fact that prices for similar quality items sold for ten or even twenty times as much in the upper realm—at least that was the situation before the patch.

  The truth was that I had no idea what was happening in Karn. Prices there could have likewise plummeted after the patch—the result of far fewer adventurers willing to risk feeling real pain. At any rate, I ordered Schen not to sell the rares. We had plenty of money, and enough junk allocated for sale to justify hiring a full-time accountant for a solid month.

  Oh, how good things used to be in the games of yore! Any merchant always had an infinite reserve of money, and would buy up all kinds of stuff indiscriminately. But everything had changed in recent years. Trading in the game was still easier than in the real world, no doubt, but no longer could you unload all your trash in one fell swoop. Only resources rema
ined an easy sale; for everything else there actually had to be a market. The upshot was, out of nearly a thousand uncommon quality items that were presently taking up space in the clan treasury, I would be glad if even a third of that ended up selling. The rest would be handed over to the clan's two enchanters for disenchanting—the process of destroying items of uncommon quality or higher while extracting ingredients needed for subsequent enchantments of weapons and armor. And they'd raise their skills in the process.

  Roughly three hours after meeting up with Torgvar's patrol, the caravan passed through a fortified camp sandwiched between two tall hills, where the Xantarrian forces were awaiting the undead half-legion.

  Our squad was greeted with cries of welcome. Evidently, news of the destroyed host from Suonu had already reached the soldiers, or was it that the Xantarrian and Callehzian forces enjoyed good relations? It had to be common knowledge that Elnar had stayed behind in Farot to cover the refugees' retreat, many of whom probably had family serving in the Xantarrian army.

  In my layman's view, the army was around fifteen hundred strong. Most of the units were archers and infantry—I didn't see many mages or mounted troops. The soldiers were engaging in soldierly activities: some were sparring, others were cooking, others yet were simply lounging on the ground... But it was clear that the host was retreating—the first few centuries were already crawling in the direction of the city, which itself wasn't so far away.

  "Dar Krian, Dar Elnar, the commander wishes to see you," said a young black-haired tifling, accompanied by two riders. Barely older than a child, with bright blue eyes and an open face, the youth's earnest attempts at being proper and serious were failing miserably, as his face was beaming a big joyous smile.

  "Hello, Zach," James gave a friendly smile. "How's the old man? Fuming about being torn away from his gladiolas, I bet?"