by James Hunter
I shot a questioning look at Vlad, one eyebrow cocked.
He shrugged. “French buffoon is not wrong,” he conceded begrudgingly.
“French buffoon!” Enzo shrieked, jabbing his lit cigarette at Vlad’s head. “Con comme une valise sans poignée!” the man swore. At least, I assumed he was swearing based on the dripping venom in his voice.
Vlad replied with a quirk of the lips, hands rising into the air. “Fine. Artificer transportation platform is better than wheeled platform. Happy?” he asked, the question directed at the Frenchman.
“For now, you uncouth swine,” Enzo replied, temporarily mollified.
“We employed scaled-up version of Brand-Forged Scavling for base,” Vlad said. “Will be very formidable when finished.”
“Excellent,” I said, rubbing my hands together to dispel the chill in my fingertips. “And the other thing?” I dropped my voice. “Operation Blackout?”
“Yes, is almost—”
“Jack!” rang out a familiar voice, cutting Vlad off before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say. Cutter beelined toward me, tromping through the muck with grim determination. “Gods, there you are.” He scowled. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Why didn’t you just send a PM?”
“Right,” he replied, slapping the side of his head with mock incredulity. “A PM. Bloody hell below, why didn’t I think of that?” His scowl deepened into a glower. “I sent about ten bloody PMs, you git. And since you wouldn’t answer, Abby sent me searching for you. I’ve been hiking all over this godsforsaken city looking for you, getting mud all over my bloody boots when I could’ve been drinking down in the pub.”
I pulled up my interface and groaned under my breath.
I’d silenced the messages last night to try to get a little sleep but had forgotten to turn them back on. I had a backlog of messages a hundred deep, including several from Abby. She and I still hadn’t talked after taking Idruz—in fact, we’d only seen each other in passing over the last few days. Things were more uncertain between us than they’d ever been before, and I wasn’t sure how to fix it. Ignoring her PMs certainly wasn’t the solution to get back in her good graces, though.
I sighed. It was official. I was working too hard. Doing too much. Things were starting to slip through the cracks, and at a time when nothing could afford to slip through the cracks.
“We have a pub?” I asked, feeling a little dazed. If things were slipping this bad, maybe I really did need a drink.
“That’s your problem right there, Jack. No bloody priorities. Yes, of course we have a pub. It was the first thing the Thieves Guild set up after securing the city. It would be downright criminal not to have at least one establishment dedicated to drinking and gambling. We thieves would never allow it. There’d be a strike.”
“Sorry,” I replied, shaking my head. “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” Even if it meant I wouldn’t get any sleep. I didn’t agree with Osmark about everything, but he was right about one thing: People believed in me. They needed to know I was rock solid. They needed a leader now more than ever, and I couldn’t fall asleep behind the wheel. Especially not when we were so close to crossing the finish line.
Cutter’s face softened. “I was just ribbing you, Jack,” he said, slinging his arm companionably around my shoulders. “We all know just how many hours you’re putting in. Don’t beat yourself up too much, friend. Especially not when I can just ask Amara to do it for you. She’ll be more than happy to pummel you bloody if it’ll make you feel better.”
I snorted. “Thanks, man. Means a lot.” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as he guided me through the yard. I was just so tired these days. “So, what new emergency do I need to deal with this time, huh?”
“Phft. No new emergency. I only like to deliver good news,” he said with a smirk. “You know that. I’m all about drinking, gambling, looting, and celebrating. And good news is, I’ve got an answer to our Vogthar situation. Well.” He seesawed his head. “Maybe not an answer but at least a bloody lead. I put out feelers to everyone—the pickpocket crews, the Sicarii of the Assassin’s Cut, the Ministry of Whispers. Everyone who owed me a favor. Honestly, I was starting to think there was nothing to find, if you take my meaning. That lot can usually turn up dirt on anyone, anywhere, about anything, and they can usually do it in the time it takes to drink a pint. One of my informants with the Whisperers finally bloody found something. Come on.”
The world brightened a little at Cutter’s words. It felt like ages since I’d had a piece of genuinely good news, so this was a welcome change of pace.
We left the crafters’ FOB behind and headed over to the Vogthar encampment inside Idruz’s walls, passing a group of hard-eyed Imperials standing watch. They looked like men spoiling for a kill, but thankfully I also caught a glimpse of leather and the glint of sunlight off a steel-tipped arrow. Murk Elf Rangers on the lookout, just like Amara had promised. Nothing would escape their notice, though I did worry about an incident spilling over into general hostilities. Things were tense right now. It seemed like the whole army was fraying on the edges—a steel cable stretched to the point of snapping.
The initial invasion had gone more or less according to plan, but we’d hit several sizeable snags since then.
Osmark and Otto had both managed to capture their respective cities of Oxrus and Einnheimr. But it had been a near thing in Oxrus. A hidden army of Darkling Travelers—nearly a thousand strong, and led by Carrera himself—had been lying in wait, hunkered down in shady basements and secreted away in flophouses, waiting for night to fall and our defenders to get sloppy. A ferocious counterassault four days ago had cost Osmark and the Legion more than two thousand fighters, many of whom would never respawn since the Darklings had come loaded to the gills with Malware blades.
It seemed like everyone in the Legion had lost at least one friend in the raid, and their resentment toward the Vogs grew more fervent every day. It also didn’t help that the progress against the Necropolis had ground to a complete halt.
The Necropolis itself was bursting at the seams with Vogthar—more than we ever could have imagined—and the walls of the outer city were, for all practical purposes, impenetrable. We’d launched a handful of strategic preemptive skirmishes, all of which had ended in unmitigated disaster. Siege engines in flames. Men and women dead by the hundred. And not even a scratch on those walls to show for all our effort. Right now, we were putting all of our eggs into the Vlad and Enzo siege tower basket, but even that was slow going, and we had no guarantee it would pan out. Worse, the fact that the green, magical dome protecting Skálaholt was untouched probably didn’t inspire much confidence in our troops.
At this point, even a relatively minor dustup between Murk Elves and Imperials could turn into a full-blown civil war, which would kill our momentum and hand Thanatos our heads on a platter.
I muttered a silent prayer that Cutter was right and that we really did have some sort of lead. We desperately needed a win, no matter how small, and most importantly of all, we needed to figure out what we were going to do with our Vog prisoners. The quicker we could find a fix for the POWs, the better it would be for everyone.
Leads and Lorekeepers
WE WOUND OUR WAY THROUGH the claustrophobic streets and the press of Vogthar bodies. The POWs hadn’t tried anything since the city fell, but there was still something deeply unnerving about being surrounded by so many of the inhuman creatures. Cutter ushered me back through the merchant area with its muted-color silk awnings and dull wooden stands, down a narrow alley, and to a squat two-story house that looked no different from any of the others we’d passed by so far. Plain gray stone, boxy frame, simple wooden door, and square windows.
Just like the exterior, the interior of the first floor was unimpressive. Based on the spattering of wooden shelving units, which housed a variety of common-place herbs and potions, the place was a hole-in-the-wall apothecary. A rough-hewn countertop near the
rear of the store held the tools of an apprentice Alchemist: a mortar and pestle and a variety of glassware, including racks of vials, pipettes, and oddly shaped flasks. A quick survey of the space revealed a few ingredients—not common to Eldgard, but prevalent enough in Morsheim—and not a whole lot else.
Definitely a beginner’s lab.
A set of cramped stairs secreted away behind a beaded curtain at the rear of the shop deposited us in a short hallway on the second floor, dead-ending at a closed door.
Jake “Blackblade” Goodrich stood watch over the entry, leaning against the wall, one foot kicked up while he idly inspected the edge of his dagger. He looked nonchalant, but almost too nonchalant. A second man stood a little way apart from Jake, as though he didn’t trust the thief not to murder him at the first possible opportunity. Although, to be honest, the man didn’t look like he trusted anyone. Period. He was a Dawn Elf, tall and willowy, his eyes too deep set, his skin as thin as tissue paper, his body gaunt. Almost skeletal. I’d taken the liberty of shutting down every Affka den I could find in both Rowanheath and Yunnam, but I knew for every flophouse I shuttered, two more popped up.
It was like playing a game of whack-a-mole. And this guy, well, he had the look of an Affka user.
“Jake.” Cutter gave the man an approving nod. “Soro,” he said, acknowledging the elf. “I would say I’m surprised it’s you that turned up this info, but we both know I’m not.” Cutter pulled a small pouch from his pocket, coins clicking against one another as it exchanged hands. “Just make sure this stays between us for the time being, eh?”
The man with the pockmarked skin nodded, offering us a grin that revealed more than a few missing teeth. “Who would believe a lowly addict such as me, anyway?” the man replied, his voice slick and greasy just like his lank hair. “So long as the price is right, the deal is the deal. So has it been, so shall it ever be.” The man disappeared the coin pouch, sketched a curt bow toward me, then headed for the stairs, cackling madly under his breath.
“Don’t mind Soro,” Cutter said with a shrug when he noticed my questioning glance. “He’s the best agent I have in the Ministry of Whispers, but he’s a deeply, deeply unsettling man. Still, in the ten years I’ve known him, his info has always been pristine. Damn well better be, for the price I paid,” he muttered, stealing a long look at his empty palm.
Jake opened the door for us and shepherded us into what would’ve passed for a studio flat back in San Diego. The room was strange, though. Off.
So far, the Vog houses we’d seen had largely been devoid of life. Hollowed-out husks, everything in them was utilitarian, not unlike the Vogthar themselves. But not this place. There were chairs and tables, all built from the twisted trees that dotted Morsheim’s snow-swept plains, and a wide four-poster bed with a purple canopy. In the corner sat a hulking wardrobe carved with elaborate swirls so that it looked like vines and leaves were crawling up its face. Covering the floor was an enormous rug, embroidered with interlocking geometric patterns. Art hung on almost every inch of available wall space. Pictures of flowers and sunrises, of Vogthar children smiling and warriors preparing for battle.
Abby was already waiting inside, camped out at the table, sipping a cup of steaming coffee, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the only other occupant, who was just as odd as the rest of the room.
Although he was clearly a Vogthar—his gray skin wrinkled, his limbs thin, his horns matte black, curved and ribbed like a springbok’s—he sat hunched on the floor, legs folded, shoulders stooped, a porcelain mug, yellowed with age, gripped in one gaunt hand. He wore flowing gray robes instead of the typical Vog leather armor; wrapped around his neck and wrists were what looked like earthen Buddhist prayer beads. He turned eyes the color of fresh-cut grass on me and did something no other Vogthar had ever done before: he offered me a thin, friendly smile.
As the door creaked shut behind us, Abby started.
“Jack!” she said, face screwing up in a broad, relieved smile. “You okay?” she asked, motioning for me to take a seat beside her. “I sent over a bunch of messages, but you didn’t reply. I was starting to worry...”
I could see in her face that it was true. I’d expected to find anger smoldering behind her eyes and her jaw clenched as she prepared to rip me a new one. There was none of that. Only genuine concern transformed into sweet relief that I was safe.
“I’m sorry, Abs. Snoozed my notices,” I offered weakly, taking a seat beside her.
She just nodded and grabbed my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Just glad you’re okay,” she whispered, leaning into me. It was a huge relief to know she was still in my corner, even with all of the awkwardness of the past few weeks hanging over our heads.
“So, what’s the deal with this guy?” I asked, dropping my voice.
“Honestly? I have no clue. I can’t make heads or tails of this guy,” she murmured softly. “He’s weird, Jack. He can talk. And not that grunting bullshit some of them do either. Like really talk. He reminds me a little of Chief Kolle, actually.” She hunched forward and squinted, trying to bore a hole in the shaman with her gaze. “He’s also been really polite,” she said after a beat. “Abnormally so. He insisted we wait until you got here. Said it would be rude to start without you.”
“Which is true,” the old Vog piped in, his voice dry and raspy like a pile of leaves in the fall. “May I welcome you properly to Idruz, Jade Lord,” he intoned, pressing his palms flat together and bowing deeply at the waist until his nose almost touched the floor. “I am Zendu, Lorekeeper of the Lost Heaven Caste, and you, of course, are Grim Jack Shadowstrider.” He appraised me with hooded eyes. “Your name has been on the tongue of my Lord Thanatos often as of late. I think, perhaps, I am starting to see why. You are dangerous—your sacking of Idruz shows as much. But you also spared my people. Deadly skill tempered with mercy is a powerful combination. A fact my lord knows only too well.”
“Thank you for your hospitality,” I replied, trying to imbue the words with as much formality as I could muster. “Your house is...” I looked around, searching for an appropriate word. “Lovely.”
“Come now, Grim Jack. There is no need to mask your shock or hide behind courtesy,” Zendu said, shaking his head, prayer beads clicking wildly. “Ask the question on your mind and I will answer true.”
Abby prodded me in the ribs with her elbow, do it.
“Fair enough,” I said, taking a deep breath. “What...” I faltered, not wanting to sound rude. After thinking about it for a second, though, I realized there was no polite way to say what needed saying. “What are you?” I asked bluntly.
The shaman frowned, rocking slightly as he considered my question.
“I am a Vogthar,” he finally said, “just as my brothers and sisters are. Just as my parents were before me. But I am a direct descendent of the living Thar who fled to Morsheim so long ago. I’ve been entrusted by my caste to guard the old ways—chosen to remember who we were before we were Vog.” He raised his arms, pushing back the sleeves of his flowing robes, showcasing his forearms. Like some of the women and children I’d seen crammed down in the alleys and streets below, his skin was devoid of the glowing green tattoos that marked most of his kind. “I have no scripts, as it is with all Lorekeepers.”
“Wait up,” Abby said, raising her hands. “What do you mean you remember who you were before you were Vog?”
“You Travelers are new to Eldgard,” he said slowly, “so the old lore is unfamiliar to most of you, but we were not always as you see now. This”—he gestured at his emaciated body, then lightly ran a finger along one of his horns—“is the long-term effects of dwelling in Morsheim. I cannot fault you too harshly, though, since even the Citizens of Eldgard recall no more than bits and pieces of the true history.” His green eyes turned surprisingly introspective as he fiddled with the beads wrapped around his wrists. “Even our own people have lost the way, save for us Lorekeepers. It’s the scripts that do it,” he said, almost as though answerin
g some unspoken question. “Thanatos’ gifting, we call them.
“Our kind lord blessed us with the marks to take away the pain.” Zendu traced a nail along the unmarred skin of his forearms, drawing out a series of flowing patterns. “It was a kindness, you know,” he continued, staring at us, imploring us to understand. “But our master has lost the way, I fear. Eventually, it wasn’t just the pain he took. It was everything. The scripts hollowed my people out, and now... Now, they are no more than shells, mindlessly following the meta code that anchors us to this world. Except for the children and a few other natural-born Vogs, who do not know the pain of the Great Purge.”
A small smile flickered across his face.
“And, of course, we few Lorekeepers,” he conceded with a bob of his narrow shoulders. “It is our burden to hold the memories, to bear the pain and the weight of every recollection. But there is no way for me to make you understand the nature of this. Not without seeing the history for yourselves, and if we are to help you, it is imperative that you see the history.” He stood with a groan, conjuring a malachite cane from thin air and leaning heavily upon it as though standing were a tremendous burden. “It is time for you to know the truth.”
“I’m sorry. Did you just say you want to help us?” I asked incredulously, my eyebrows threatening to climb off my face from surprise. “Why would you betray Thanatos?”
The withered Vog’s brows knit. “Betray?” He shook his head. “No. We love Thanatos, but as I said, he has lost his way. He is broken, and you... You, I think, are the one who may be able to fix him.” He shuffled forward on arthritic feet. “We are trapped here, but if you can fix our lord, it might restore our people to at least a shadow of their former glory. Give them their minds and hearts back. To do this is no easy thing, though. You must understand why Thanatos must be fixed, and then you must prove yourself equal to the task and worthy of the legacy.”