by James Hunter
I passed Cutter his meal, then took a huge bite, savoring the tender meat and the smoky flavor you only get when cooking over an open flame. I chewed loudly, letting a bit of grease dribble down my chin as a buff appeared in the corner of my eye, informing me that the [Mutton Skewer] was restoring 75 HP over 60 seconds. Huh, lamb. That was a nice change of pace. Sweet relief flooded through my body, easing sore muscles, and temporarily banishing the fatigue settling over me, even though my HP was currently maxed out.
We ambled by a pair of houses sitting across from each other, both with their wooden shutters thrown wide, revealing a deadly new weapon of Chinese origin, which Vlad and Xiu had designed together. Hwach’a. Each contraption consisted of a simple two-wheeled cart that looked a bit like a giant mobile crossbow. Instead of one arrow, however, these beasts could fire two-hundred specialty arrows, called singijeon, in one fell swoop. And each projectile was tipped with a black onyx arrowhead liberally covered in deadly Murk Elf poison. At the butt end of each arrow, near the fletching, was a small pouch filled with explosive powder.
When the gunner fired the weapon, the pouches would burst, and all the arrows would scream through the air at once, propelled like a rocket toward anything unlucky enough to be in the way. Even better, because of the ingenious design on the launching “pads,” the weapons could be reloaded in under thirty seconds. We had eighteen hwach’a stashed around the village, ready to rain death and destruction on a whole lot of unlucky Imperials. Though I had places to be, I couldn’t help but pull up the item description in my interface:
<<<>>>
Hwach’a
Weapon Type: Siege/Engineered; Alchemic
Class: Rare, Group Operated
Base Damage: 100 / per projectile (singijeons)
Capacity: 200 singijeon
Primary Effects:
+25 Fire Damage/per singijeon
+ 10 pts Burn Damage/sec/per singijeon; duration, 10 seconds.
<<<>>>
I dismissed the screen with a thought. Epic. And the hwach’a were only the beginning. We also had Arcane Shadow Cannons—which looked like the illegitimate child of a Civil War-era cannon and a Tesla Death Ray—mobile ballistae, and hulking catapults on the west side of the village. We’d employed powerful illusionists to disguise the catapults as harmless haystacks, loitering on the edges of the farms. It was unlikely that Imperial Accipiter Scouts would cruise by, but if they did, all they’d see were a bunch of crops, waiting to be carted off to town.
I grinned and moved on, leaving behind the houses and slipping through the main gates—creaky, wooden things that wouldn’t keep out much more than a stiff breeze. Just like the village proper, the lush, grassy valley to the east of Ravenkirk was also busy with activity. Though it was dark, torches burned at even intervals, shedding enough light for my Night-Eye to pick out the important details. Off in the distance, players from every race were digging broad trenches, four feet deep and four feet wide, and filling them with dry hay soaked in a mixture of oil and alchemic reagents.
Vlad assured everyone the odd concoction would ignite in a blaze to rival a volcano.
Hiding the trenches was a bit more difficult, but we’d devised a way to do that as well.
Once a section of the ditch was finished, engineers and carpenters came in and built wooden platforms to cover the pits. And then, to conceal those from overhead scouts, Arbormancers—folks who had the uncanny ability to control plant matter—grew swaying grass right over the top of the wooden platforms. By the time the Arbormancers were done, the altered portions were indistinguishable from the rest of the vast, rolling landscape. I knew everyone was worried about whatever tricks Osmark brought to the table, but we had some nasty surprises of our own.
I spotted Anton not far off. He was standing near a portable field table covered in maps, blueprints, schematics, and ledgers. And he wasn’t alone. Next to him was none other than Chief Kolle and a tall, broad-shouldered Accipiter with glossy brown wings, a chiseled jawline, a thick mustache, and a military-style flat top.
General Caldwell. The leader of our Accipiter Reconnaissance unit.
He was a former three-star Army general, and despite not being a Murk Elf, he was also our chief liaison and strategist with the other clans. Typically, the Murk Elves were guarded around outsiders, but for whatever reason, the rest of the Dark Conclave Chieftains seemed to accept the down-to-earth general as one of their own. But then, everyone seemed to accept Caldwell as one of their own. There wasn’t a Charisma stat in-game, but if there had been, Caldwell surely would’ve had it maxed out.
The three of them were hunched over the table, talking softly as they stared at a parchment map of Eldgard, heavily marked with troop formations and dotted lines, indicating attack and retreat routes.
“How goes everything?” I asked, slipping up to the table with Cutter in tow.
Anton glanced up at me, and I almost took a step back.
He looked tired—no, more than tired, haggard. His hair disheveled, his stately robes ruffled, his eyes bloodshot. It looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks or had a decent meal in two, which was crazy since it’d only been six hours since the last time I’d seen him. The stress was getting to him in the worst way, and I felt a pang of worry. Unlike Caldwell, Anton wasn’t a military man, used to this kind of pressure and soul-crushing responsibility. “Thank God, Jack,” Anton said, reaching up and running a hand through his lanky hair. “Things aren’t going well at all. It’s a disaster.”
“What are you talking about?” I replied, brow furrowed, genuinely confused. “Everything looks like it’s on track. The residents are gone. The traps are going in. I saw Vlad and the crafters making more weapons.”
“Yeah, we are on schedule,” Anton offered, sounding frazzled, “but the Imperial Legion isn’t.”
“They’re already a day ahead of schedule,” General Caldwell barked, his voice gruff, deep, and no-nonsense. “I’ve had scouts monitoring their progress, and they’re making impossibly good time.” He paused, lips forming into a tight line of disapproval. “If they keep moving at this rate, I estimate they’ll be here two days sooner than we originally anticipated.”
“How in the bloody hell are they managing that, then?” Cutter asked, wedging himself between Anton and Chief Kolle so he could stare at the map. “I’m not a military mastermind, obviously—just a ridiculously handsome thief—but cutting off two days from a five-day journey seems like a helluva feat. They using portals, then?”
“No,” Chief Kolle replied, his fingers restlessly tapping on the table. “It would seem they’re using some of the faction-based Battle-Craft skills to drive the troops past the point of exhaustion, and they’ve employed steam-powered gadgetry to move the siege weapons at an unheard-of rate. These new machines allow them to move more quickly than battle-mounts and maintain such a pace over a longer period of time.”
“Osmark must’ve kept this tech under wraps until now, sir, because no one has ever seen anything quite like it,” Caldwell begrudgingly admitted with a shrug.
“I have,” Chief Kolle said, leaning on the table, his eyes half-focused. “Once. Many years ago as a young warrior, I stumbled across a set of ancient ruins in the bitter, snow-capped peaks east of the mighty Svartalfar capital of Stone Reach. A place guarded by monstrosities of steam and steel, known as the Brand-Forged. These Brand-Forged creatures were the creations of an ancient race of beings, dead so long their names are forgotten to history. But their mechanical creations remain in a handful of rare dungeons scattered across the face of Eldgard. Perhaps Osmark and the Imperials have discovered such long-buried secrets.”
“Well thanks a load for the history lesson,” Cutter said, “but that’s not a whole lot of help, is it? So, they have a secret weapon, but what do you lot think we ought to do about it, eh?”
Everyone was quiet, the mood suddenly somber and tense. “And what would you have us do, then, Master Thief?” the chief replied, glancing at Cutter.
“Is it just a matter of manpower?” I hedged, leaning in to glance at the map. “Because if so, I think we can get more workers up here.”
“More workers certainly wouldn’t hurt,” Anton replied, “but finding them isn’t as easy as it sounds. We’re already stretched thin, trying to man all six Murk Elf cities, plus equipping Rowanheath for a siege. And many of our Alliance members are gallivanting off all over Eldgard, completing their private quests without a care that Osmark is about to obliterate us.” He paused and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “Honestly, I just don’t know how we’re going to pull it off, Jack. This seems impossible.”
“Could we use the War Band reinforcements?” I asked, glancing at Chief Kolle.
“Doubtful,” he replied with a grimace. “They’ll be here in time for the battle, but not in time to contribute to the workload—”
The words died on his tongue as a shriek in the distance ripped through the air, followed by a single word. “Monsters!” the call picked up, carried by more and more voices relaying the message. The clamor was coming from the south, toward the Storme Marshes. “We’re under attack!” someone else screamed, the voice distant and faded, though the words were clear enough. A moment later a clarion bell rang out, clang-clang-clang, followed by the thundering whomp-whomp-whomp of heavy war drums.
Since there was no in-game comm-link for general players, the war drums did the job—though now that we could issue “Regional Faction Messages” to all Crimson Alliance members inside a given territory, we’d have to rework some of our strategies. But that was a worry for another time. Right now, we had monsters to worry about.
“Anton, you and General Caldwell get back to the inn. Figure out what in the hell is happening and get our warriors ready to fight. Cutter, Chief Kolle, let’s go get this under control.”
Without waiting for anyone to reply, I wheeled around, drew on the frigid power of Umbra, and called up Devil from the Shadowverse. Sooty smoke filled the air in a cloud as the monstrous lizard stepped through the veil between the planes in all his awesome, terrifying glory.
The Drake, though firmly on team Jack, still gave me a moment of pause whenever I summoned him. He was giant, twenty-five feet long from snout to tail-tip, with black scales covering his serpentine body. Gleaming spikes of dark bone ran along his back and down his tail, only interrupted by the custom black leather saddle riding his back—waiting for me to hop aboard. Dark wings, laced with throbbing veins of blue, stretched and strained, ready to launch the Shadow Drake into the sky. Devil regarded me for a moment, his six purple eyes narrowed.
What do we need to kill now? His voice resonated inside my skull. Frankly, he sounded happy by the prospect.
“Not sure,” I replied out loud, darting forward, then leaping into the saddle and grabbing hold of the reins, which were connected to a silver bridle. “Let’s go find out.”
Devil snorted, releasing twin plumes of smoke from his nostrils, then broke into a sinuous run, picking up speed before lurching up, his great wings beating furiously as we gained altitude.
EIGHT_
Unexpected Guests
I lay flat against Devil’s back, my eyes squinted, my heels digging into his sides as I clung to the leather reins for dear life. The ground quickly disappeared as his wings pumped and wind slapped against my face. Then, in a blink, Devil leveled out, wheeling sharply as his wings caught the current. I sat up and glanced down at Ravenkirk, stretched out below us like a darkened map, illuminated by a sea of yellow fires. Devil had gone up just enough to give me an eagle-eye view of the area, but not so far that I couldn’t see Cutter and Chief Kolle hoofing it south toward the twisted bog trees.
And they weren’t the only ones making for the forest at the edge of town.
Players from a myriad of different races and classes rushed toward the southern edge of the forest with weapons drawn and ready for battle. Some ran, but more than a few rode on hulking mounts as unique as the players themselves. There were auburn warhorses covered in plate mail. Azure Hell-cats crisscrossed with stripes and stubbed with spikes. Ferocious gray wolves with saw-bladed teeth. I spotted one shirtless Risi with an oversized battle-axe riding on the back of a crimson-furred grizzly.
Even in the dark, it was easy to see what had gotten their hackles up in the first place.
A swarm of spiders poured from the tree line like a tsunami of scuttling legs, huge mandibles, beady eyes, and bulbous abdomens. And not just the muddy-brown, Rottweiler-sized spiderkin so commonly found throughout the Storme Marshes. Nope. There were chitinous gray [Sword-Slayers] that moved like race cars and had a penchant for stabbing things with their razor-edged legs. I also spotted electric-blue [Portal-Crawlers], glossy black [Poison Darters], and hulking gray [Colossal Spiderkin], each the size of an ambulance.
I squinted, pulling on Devil’s reins. Get us closer, I sent.
Done, he replied, dropping his neck as we descended.
I hunched forward, wishing I had a pair of binoculars. This was so strange. I mean, it wasn’t unheard of for free-roaming mobs to venture from the wilds and attack outlying farms or unwary travelers. But this was an army. A decent-sized one, full of deadly high-level monsters the likes of which usually resided in the deepest sections of deadly dungeons. I’d seen creatures like these before when I’d invaded the lair of Lowyth the Spider Queen, but never just out in the open, roaming around. Was there some new spider tribe that had moved into the neighborhood?
I didn’t know.
A second later, the trees bulged and bowed outward, the ground quivering as an enormous spider—far bigger than even the Colossal Spiderkin—emerged from the Marshes. Gigantic spindly legs, covered in bristly red hairs the color of a nosebleed, crept into view, followed by an arachnoid head the size of a vintage VW bug with a host of gleaming black eyes and glistening fangs longer than my forearm. Her thorax came last: a fat, bulbous, ebony black thing tattooed with elaborate neon-red markings, which emitted an uneasy light.
Holy crap. That wasn’t just some random roving boss—that was Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver in the flesh. I’d only seen her in person a handful of times, but it was impossible to forget her awful appearance, especially since she’d been the first creature in V.G.O. to kill me. I’d entered her domain with the purpose of striking a truce using the Faction Recruitment Ability, and it had worked, but she’d required a blood sacrifice to seal the deal. My blood, to be precise. I still occasionally woke up in a cold sweat with visions of her giant poisonous fangs descending toward me.
But it made no sense—we were close allies with the Spider Queen.
I couldn’t imagine what she was doing here of all places, so far from her lair, but I had to stop the Alliance members before they engaged in a battle with terrible consequences. We couldn’t afford to lose troops or engineers—and we would—but even more importantly, we couldn’t afford to lose Lowyth as an ally. She was an integral part of our Storme Marsh security defense, and she’d even permanently given some of our faction members awesome Spiderkin mounts.
I flailed at Devil’s reins, spurring him on faster as my mind raced, grasping for a solution. What we needed was a barrier to keep the two forces apart long enough for me to get the word out.
Devil, I sent through the telepathic link, I want a literal wall of flame burned through that field. Something that’ll keep everyone apart.
Should I worry about casualties? came the cold reply, his voice primal and raspy inside my head.
Avoid taking out the spiders at all costs if possible.
That’s no fun, he sent. No casualties, no blood. No blood, no food. I hunger. But despite his complaints, the Drake arched his neck up, then dipped it down as he dove again, his wings folding up against his sides. I crouched in the sad
dle, gritting my teeth as the gale force wind beat mercilessly against me. I pressed my eyes shut and pulled up the faction messaging link, frantically searching for the new Regional Messaging feature we’d just unlocked through the Stratagem ability.
There.
With a thought, a new screen appeared, this one a scrolling list of all the current Crimson Alliance officers and every region territory and Keep in our control. Wow. From what I understood about the Stratagem feature, regional commanders could only send group PMs to the folks in their region, but as the faction commander, I could contact any region or all regions at will. An incredible ability, though it would take a little while to figure out how to best use it to our advantage. That was a thought for later, though.
I hastily scanned the list until Ravenkirk appeared on the display screen. With a click, a blank PM box appeared before me:
<<<>>>
Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk
Alert!
To all Crimson Alliance Members in Ravenkirk, the invaders are friendlies—it’s the Spider Queen and some sort of entourage. Do not engage. Do not engage. Fall back and allow me to de-escalate this situation.
—Faction Commander, Grim Jack
<<<>>>
I sent the message with a flick of my wrist, then closed my interface before I got inundated with a flurry of responses. The menu disappeared just in time for me to see the ground rushing up like an oncoming car. I winced, jaw tightening as I braced for impact, but then Devil pulled up from the dive, his maw stretching wide as a column of violet flame exploded out. Even from Devil’s back, I could feel the singeing heat of the inferno he was unleashing. The shadow fire bit into the tall grass and in seconds flames five feet high shot up, licking at the sky.
And as Devil flew, he spewed more and more shadow fire, carving a nice neat dividing line between the army of scuttling arachnoids and the incoming Crimson Alliance defenders. The Spider Queen—always far smarter than most of the travelers in the game—caught on in an instant. She halted and unleashed a droning, inarticulate buzz that sounded like a thousand crickets all chirping at once. Immediately, the spiderkin stopped dead in their tracks, their dull black eyes taking in the flames and the onrushing fighters with implacable calm.