Viridian Gate Online: Darkling Siege (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 7)

by James Hunter

  “Way to use your head, Jackie,” he said with a lopsided smile. He sauntered over to me in no big rush, swirled his dark drink, took a long pull, then lowered the glass and slipped his free arm around my shoulders. “Been a while, kiddo. I think the last time we talked was before that scuffle with uh... what’s his face.” He screwed up his lips, the way he always did when he was thinking.

  “Khalkeús,” I supplied.

  He grinned and nodded. “Yep, that’s the guy. Some sort of big shot. I take it things turned out okay?”

  “I’m here,” I replied, shrugging one shoulder.

  “So you are.” He urged me into motion, steering me toward the rows of protruding tombstones. “I told you it was gonna be okay, didn’t I? ‘They’re in front of us, behind us, and we’re flanked on both sides. Great. Those bastards can’t get away from us now.’ The great Chesty Puller may have said those words, but you lived ’em. I’m proud of you, Jackie. You keep fighting. Keep coming. You don’t quit, and you might just win this thing yet.” He sounded like Abby.

  Around us, the fog thickened, transforming into a wall of ghostly bodies: men and women, young and old, all of them bearing the dragon and hammer of the Crimson Alliance. They weren’t as clear as my dad had been, more like haggard shades brought to a sort of miserable half-life. They all bore horrific wounds, some missing limbs, others run through with swords or trailing intestines. A few were charbroiled, just the way my father had been—though these were casualties of enemy Firebrands, I knew, and not the victims of Astraea.

  Their voices rose together in a cacophony; it was impossible to pick out any one individual, though pleading snatches drifted through the racket.

  “Why did you let me die?”

  “My husband is going to have to raise our kids by himself now. All because of you...”

  “I took a Malware blade to the throat protecting you, Jack...”

  “I died at Ravenkirk because you messed up...”

  On and on they came, crashing down on me like hailstones that ignored the flesh and pelted the soul.

  My dad, though, walked with me, pulling me in tightly against his side. A warm glow emanated from him until an umbrella of white light formed in his free hand. He held it above both of us, and though the sound of moaning wails didn’t cease entirely, they did fade into the dull roar of an actual rainstorm.

  “Don’t listen to this nonsense, Jackie,” he said, gesturing broadly with his low-ball glass, a splash of booze slopping over the rim. “Every general, every lieutenant, every platoon sergeant, and corporal to ever experience combat hears these voices. Survivor’s guilt, kiddo. That’s all it is. Survivor’s guilt.”

  “But they’re right,” I replied, my steps suddenly far heavier than they had been a moment before. “They died because of fights I started. Choices and mistakes I made.”

  My dad pulled away just a hair, giving me a sidelong glance that brimmed with disapproval. “I thought I taught you better than that. They’re here because of choices they made.”

  Frank Senior materialized from the mist directly in front of me, his body pin-cushioned with arrows, his white apron stained with patches of blood instead of splotches of red sauce.

  “I could’ve saved him,” I said flatly, nodding to the man. “If I’d gone back for another pass.”

  “And who knows who else would’ve died if you’d taken the time to help him instead of manning that Shadow Cannon,” my dad replied. “Besides, Jackie, you’re missing the most important thing of all. Frank Senior—hell, all of these people—could’ve saved themselves. Frank decided to fight when he could’ve run. He stood his ground instead of saving his own skin. He did that. Not you. People are going to make choices, and choices have consequences.

  “Sometimes, folks you care about are going to do things that are dangerous, stupid, noble, brave. And these people”—he stepped away, gesturing at the masses surrounding us—“they chose to fight even knowing what was on the line and what the price tag might be.” He swirled his glass, tilted back his head, and killed what was left of his drink in a long gulp. “They sacrificed themselves to do the right thing,” he said, wiping the back of his mouth with one hand, “and don’t you dare rob them of the honor and courage it took to make those hard choices.”

  We walked deeper into the graveyard, silent as I scanned the tombstones, all bearing names I knew well: Vlad. Cutter. Amara. Abby. Chief Kolle. Even Osmark.

  “Thing is, Jackie, control of others is only an illusion. All you can do is control you. Be your best, do your best always, but let go of this guilt—it only cheapens what they did.”

  The hailstones had stopped, the moaning voices suddenly, blessedly, gone.

  My dad dismissed the umbrella with a flick of his hand and pulled away, facing me with a half smile on his mug. “It was good to see you, kid.” He shot me a wink. “Now go out there and give ’em hell.” He moved to pull me into a hug, but when I went to put my arms around him, he fell apart, dissolving into mist just like all the other ghosts who had haunted me.

  Kiss and Make Up

  THE DREAM SHIFTED ABRUPTLY, and I found myself standing on a brightly lit balcony overlooking a small garden and a sea of lush green grass stretching off in the distance. The air was crisp, the sky clear, the sun smiling down with warm, comforting rays. Abby inched up beside me, entwining her hand with mine. I pulled her in front of me, wrapping my arms around her as I rested my chin on her shoulder. Her skin was warm, the smell of her hair a heady scent in my nose. A delighted squeal sliced through the peace and quiet, and a pair of children sprinted out onto the lawn, laughing uproariously as they chased each other round and round.

  A boy and a girl, but with the dusky complexion of Murk Elves.

  “They’re such good kids,” Abby said absently, tracing her fingers over the back of my hand. “How did we get so lucky?”

  She was right. We had gotten lucky. Twins, when few Travelers even had a single child. We had a future together. This was the happy, healthy, normal life I’d always wanted for myself, and somehow I had it. Though the details were hazy. What happened to Thanatos? I wondered briefly. Had we defeated him? I couldn’t remember, but we must have. And, honestly, I didn’t actually care what had happened. Standing there, holding Abby, watching our kids play... I’d never been happier.

  The how wasn’t so important. Not at the moment.

  A whiff of something rank drifted through the air. The scent of rot and decay. I gagged and pulled away, covering my nose with the crook of my arm. What was that smell? Where was it coming from?

  I looked to Abby—the question poised on the tip of my tongue—but found myself face-to-face with Osmark instead. I recoiled in shock. Where was Abby? How had Osmark gotten here? He also looked subtly off somehow. His skin was unnaturally pale, almost corpse white, and his brown hair was black at the tips, reminding me in no small part of Thanatos. Thinking of the Overmind seemed to further transform Osmark, his typical Artificer gear vanishing, replaced by Thanatos’ jet-black cassock. A steel scythe appeared in Osmark’s right hand, the wickedly curved blade resting casually against his shoulder.

  “Hello, Jack,” he said calmly, stepping to one side, revealing an obsidian altar with Abby sprawled out across the surface. She lay stone still, her arms pinned against her sides, her legs straight as two-by-fours; she didn’t speak or move, but a stream of endless red tears rolled down her cheeks, filling up the grooves on the sacrificial altar.

  “This is the way, Jack,” Thanatos-Osmark said, extending his left hand, which now held the sacrificial blade forever seared into my mind. “This is the only way,” he said again, pressing the hilt of the knife into my hand. “You can’t run from it. Spending a few days playing house with your little girlfriend in the woods won’t stop the inevitable. If you want to win, you have to sacrifice everything. You have to kill what you love.”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head vigorously, trying to refuse the knife. “I don’t want to do that. I alread
y crossed that line once. I won’t do it again.” Even as I spoke, my fingers closed around the hilt of the blade, accepting the weapon.

  “You say that, but we both know it’s not true. You’re more like me than you’d care to admit. You’ve already done the unthinkable.” Thanatos-Osmark paused, slowly pacing along the balcony, the cassock swishing around his ankles as he moved. “You’ve sacrificed your friends. Killed the woman you love most in pursuit of a video game quest. Made deals with reprehensible people. The Spider Queen. Abubakar Mubarak, an arms dealer. Me,” he said, glancing over one shoulder.

  “You’ll do what needs doing, I have no doubt. And that”—he waved at the blade in my hand—“is the price tag. Sometimes you have to sacrifice what you love for the good of everyone. That’s not condemnation, just reality. Stop pretending otherwise and do your duty,” he said, though now he sounded like a chorus of different voices. Osmark, Thanatos, Sophia, even Abby, all speaking as one. “Do it. Do it. Do it. Do it,” the voices chanted in unison. “It’s the only way. To save yourself. To save everyone. To win. Do it. Do it. Do it.”

  The voices drilled into my ears—a relentless drone demanding I pay attention. Demanding I act. Act now!

  I grimaced and turned toward Abby, raising the knife in my hand, regarding my reflection in the length of the blade. Maybe it was just a trick of the light or the distorted angle of the metal, but I didn’t look like myself anymore. Now the image staring back at me was the odd Osmark-Thanatos amalgamation. I took the first, heavy step toward Abby, steeling myself as I prepared to strike. To do what needed doing, just as I’d done during the trials beneath Stone Reach. Just as I had done every day since returning to Yunnam. Putting the Alliance first. Putting the mission first. Pushing her away.

  “Yes,” Osmark-Thanatos muttered in their numerous voices, urging me on. “This is the only way, Jack. Do what’s right for the good of everyone. Drive her away. It’s for the best.”

  I hesitated. Drive her away? It’s for the best. No, that didn’t sound right.

  “It’s necessary for people like us to be alone, Jack,” Thanatos-Osmark urged. “If we don’t care about anyone, then it never hurts to make the hard decisions. Isolation is the way. The key.”

  This was wrong. I didn’t want this, not even if it was the only way.

  And the truth was there was always another way. If my time in V.G.O. had taught me anything, it was that the solution that made the most sense on the surface was rarely the best answer. Kowtowing to Carrera when he threatened me had made logical sense; instead I’d found a way to take Rowanheath for the Alliance. Murdering Arzokh the Sky Maiden had been the only way—right up until I set her free and earned the blessing of the Jade Lord in so doing. Killing Khalkeús had been the only way to get the Reality Editor, but mercy had been the real key there, not violence.

  Hell, even the Vogthar were proving the point: that violence, murder, and cold sacrifice was not the only solution. And certainly not the ultimate one.

  I’d made a mistake by killing Abby—and I’d justified it because I’d seen no other option at the time. That wasn’t a mistake I would make again. I’d been pushing her away for weeks, slowly driving a wedge between us so that it would hurt her less when I went on to face Thanatos and didn’t return. I’d been miserable since Stone Reach, precisely because I’d been making the same mistake over and over and over again. Even though I hadn’t killed her, I’d sacrificed our relationship on an altar of necessity in order to fulfill my quest to stop Thanatos. True, I hadn’t plunged a knife into her throat, but I’d inflicted death by a thousand emotional wounds on her.

  And on myself, for that matter.

  But I was done with that.

  Maybe I wouldn’t survive what was to come—maybe Abby wouldn’t either—but that simply meant I needed to fix things now. To enjoy the time I did have with her, without worrying about what might or might not happen. Inadvertently, I’d turned myself into Osmark: a cold, distant, isolated man who trusted no one and kept every relationship at a safe, comfortable distance. Osmark was competent and accomplished, but no one would call him happy. The truth was, we didn’t need another Osmark. We needed a Jack.

  I faced the spirit haunting me, taunting me into action.

  Driving me into solitude and loneliness.

  “No,” I said simply. “I’ve already given you too much control over my life. I’m not going to give you any more. I’ve let people push me around—I’ve let them make me think I don’t belong, that I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’m done listening. I’ve made it this far by being me. Not by being Osmark or anyone else, but by staying true to myself.” I opened my hand and dropped the knife. “And I’m going to keep doing what I think is right, even if no one else agrees.”

  The blade clattered on the tiled floor, and the sound rippled out like a struck gong, waves of golden light blasting through the Osmark-Thanatos specter. Obliterating him like the bad nightmare he was. Banishing him back to the dark recesses of my mind...

  MORNING CAME BRIGHT and early, Abby’s fingers caressing my cheek softly, luring me from my rest.

  “Good morning,” she said with a sly grin, leaning in to give me a long, full kiss. “Jo-Dan made breakfast for us—for all the volunteers, actually. He even brought enough coffee to fill a kiddy-sized swimming pool.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language, lady,” I replied with a sleepy grin.

  We dressed quickly and indulged in a leisurely breakfast chock-full of all the goodness anyone could ever ask for: slabs of thick-cut bacon, grilled ham steaks as big as my head, fried eggs, sweetened steel-cut oatmeal with berries, and a wagonload of buttery rolls. Then we metaphorically rolled up our sleeves and dove into the work. All day, I thought about the odd dream, turning it over in my head and examining it from different angles while I dug troughs, hauled stone, and nailed boards into place.

  The only conclusion I could come to was that I’d been an idiot over the past few weeks. I’d forgotten myself—where I’d come from and who I was. I’d let the stress and pressure twist me into someone I barely recognized. Zendu was right, to remember the way back is to find the path forward. By stepping away from the war, I’d found the path again.

  The rest of the day practically flew by. With the planning done and all the manpower at our disposal, the small village sprang up as though by magic, brought into existence in the span of days instead of weeks or months. True, this place wasn’t the Greek-inspired city of Idruz, but it would work well enough for now. And the Vogthar refugees would be far safer here than back in Morsheim, under the distrustful eye of Legion guards looking for any excuse to shed Vog blood.

  The houses and shops had been designed by Dwarves and, as a result, boasted many of the architectural flairs I’d seen during my time in Cliffburgh—jutting stone chimneys, wide windows, buildings all vaguely Viking-esque in appearance. However, the spider silk additions, serpentine gables, and leather furnishings were one hundred percent Murk Elf. Then, after hearing Zendu describe Idruz, Jo-Dan drudged up some cut marble and Roman-inspired statues from the bowels of his crypt. So they wouldn’t get too homesick, Jo insisted. The result was a neat and orderly village that was equal parts Stone Reach, Storme Marshes, and fallen Roman temple.

  I’d never seen anything even remotely like it but was also inexplicably thrilled with the results. Did it really work?

  Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

  The different styles and architectural embellishments formed an eye-wrenching combination, but the fact that all of these people had come together to build something for people without a home... That kinda made it perfect.

  It was late evening on the second day by the time the village was well and truly done. Abby and I had managed to relocate the Vogthar refugees from all three of the Alliance-controlled cities—no small feat. There were just under three thousand of them all told: a relatively small number, considering the virtually endless sea of Vogthar Thanatos had been throwing against us. The few uns
cripted caretakers were skittish around us, but the younglings seemed inquisitive more than anything else. They inspected the buildings with gusto, a few even playing with the lingering Corpse Hounds or clambering about on the spiderkin.

  The brown-furred spiders tolerated the presence of the gray-skinned children with surprisingly good grace and long-suffering patience. Like a disgruntled family cat meeting a toddler for the first time.

  It was endearing to watch.

  Lowyth, they gave a wide berth, which was probably a good idea since she stalked around the little town like a sheriff on the prowl for lawbreakers, ready to mete out justice in an instant.

  On the other hand, the Vogthar took to Jo-Dan like he was practically one of their own, and before long he had a troop of older kids following him around as though he were the Pied Piper in the flesh. Mostly, they nattered on excitedly amongst themselves in their odd language, though once in a while they paused to ask Jo one question or another in broken, halting English: “Are you a Traveler? Why don’t you have a face? Can we ride the Corpse Hounds? Where is your home? Are you in love with the Spider woman?” Some of those questions were deeply personal, but coming from the mouths of children, they were far less intrusive.

  Abby and I stood on a slight rise away from the rest of Haven, looking down on the flutters of movement as the Vogthar settled into their new dwellings, spiderkin making rounds, ensuring the new inhabitants were tucked safely away from harm behind the low palisade walls.

  “We did a good thing,” Abby whispered from beside me, her voice content, her body warm as she pressed up against me, reminding me of our time together on the dream-balcony. Watching the Vog kids play below wasn’t quite the same as watching our own children, but it was close. “Though it’s probably best that we keep their presence here secret for a while,” she continued, drawing me from my thoughts. “I imagine most people would have a hard time trusting them, no matter what we tell them about the scripts and the Lorekeepers.”