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

by James Hunter

  Gritting my teeth, I scanned my list of spells and activated the next big hitter in the lineup—this one from the Shadowmancer Playbook as well. Night Cyclone. I wasn’t sure what a runic amplifier would do to a spell like that, but I was eager to find out. As I hit the button, I felt Umbral magic swell in the air around me, a cloud of frigid shadow energy caressing my skin and clawing at my soul, igniting the handprint burned into my arm so long ago by a dying Maa-Tál shaman.

  Above the Necropolis wall, a series of portals ripped the air open, one right after another like dominos falling into place. Each jagged tear revealed the nightmare plane of purple skies and yellow hardpan, constantly being torn apart by raging Umbra tornados. There were so many portals it was hard to count, and each one unleashed its own cyclone on the unprepared Vogs. The Blood Mages packed together like frightened children while the shamans redoubled their efforts, throwing their power into the feeble magical shields standing guard over their lives.

  As thirty plus Night Cyclones descended en masse, those shields held up about as well as a kite in a thunderstorm. The howling winds raged at the defenses, battering them with blunt fists of air and jagged blasts of lightning until they shattered under the sheer elemental pressure. And once the barriers were gone, the shamans and mages never stood a chance. They were glass cannons protected by light robes and had all the constitution and strength of newbs stumbling into a starter zone for the first time. Vortexes snapped necks, twisted off limbs, and casually—almost cruelly—hurled them down, down, down to their deaths.

  Around me, the howling winds seemed to merge with the chanting of Zendu and the other Lorekeepers, transforming their ghostly, otherworldly song into something primal. Feral. A force of nature given voice to air its grievances for a short time.

  Seconds crawled by, and when I couldn’t resist any longer, I shifted view back down into the war room. Zendu looked terrible. The blood had congealed, and the red light wreathing the other Lorekeepers pulsed in time to the beating of an unseen heart, siphoning off the little remaining Health from the casters until they looked like desiccated, withered corpses.

  The chant was at a fever pitch now, the words a rolling bass that resonated deep in my chest, the hairs on my arms standing at stiff attention. There was power here all right, and the Reality Editor felt it, too, buzzing to fitful life around my neck as though awakening after a long nap. Zendu threw his head back, bleating out a final undulating cry as he pulled his hands free from the circle, raised a glass-edged dagger, and drove it directly into his chest, hilt deep. Blue arcs of potent energy swept out from the tip of the blade, slamming into each member of the circle until crackling blue sparks danced and leapt in the red miasma surrounding the group of elders.

  “Remember!” Zendu cried, his body convulsing as the last drip of his HP vanished.

  The word exploded from his throat with the force of a bomb blast, and the red mist responded in kind, swelling outward in a concentric ring, blowing through me like a molten sandstorm. I squinted against the painful light, which washed out every color before finally fading away. Cutter and Vlad looked as shaken as I felt, and the pair of guards from the Malleus Libertas were all out cold—alive, from the look of their HP bars, but far from in pristine health. As for the Lorekeepers, they were slumped forward, smoke rising from their fried corpses.

  Holy crap... Zendu had done it.

  For better or worse, he’d finished the grisly ritual.

  As I looked at his ruined body, I briefly wondered whether the price he’d paid was worth it. That wasn’t for me to say, I reminded myself. Zendu and the others had decided it was worth it, and that was all that mattered.

  The real question now was not whether it had been worth it, but whether or not it had worked.

  The Raiders

  THE WAR ROOM VANISHED, and once again I was a bird soaring high above the battlefield, the world laid out before me with unnerving clarity. Across the wall, for as far as I could see, the Vogthar troops and their magic-slinging shamans squealed and howled in a mix of pain and terror. The scripts running along their arms and snaking over bare shoulders fizzled and faded, leaving behind unmarred flesh, whole and healthy. Their HP didn’t drop—not as an effect of the ritual, at any rate—but still the Vogthar crumpled.

  They fell to their knees, clutching at their heads and clawing at their matte-black eyes. That, or they dropped to the deck and curled into the fetal position, knees tucked tight against bony chests.

  Zendu and the others hadn’t cursed them, they’d healed them, temporarily washing away the corrosive, mind-numbing scripts that kept the terrible memories at bay and supplied the Vogs with dark purpose. But they couldn’t cope without Thanatos’ numbing power coursing through their veins. They were addicts enduring a withdrawal for the first time in more than five hundred years.

  The larger monstrosities that called Morsheim home still fought like banshees, but they were nothing against our battle rigs—not without the Vogthar shamans to work their magic and spam their deadly spells.

  Miles away, Abby was back on the offensive, charbroiling a towering Cyclops with one enormous mech arm, then casually swatting a Vog Drake from the air with her shield. Siege weapons fired in waves, mercilessly blasting the walls and peppering the few remaining overgrown monstrosities with Shadow Bolts from Arcane Shadow Cannons.

  Osmark and the crew of the Imperial Blade were also doing much better than the last time I’d seen them. The tech billionaire had freed himself from the Ragna Wolves scampering about his rig, and the Crystal Crab that had been so diligently trying to cripple the base was dead on the ground. Its body was crushed almost beyond recognition, twisted legs jutting up like enormous clawed fingers.

  With the Vogs temporarily down, we had an unprecedented window of opportunity to gain a foothold inside the Necropolis, but that window wouldn’t be open long. Thanatos was probably already mobilizing the Darklings tucked safely away inside the inner city of Skálaholt. We had five, maybe ten minutes, tops, before the traitorous players who’d turned their backs on humanity would be on us like a biblical plague of locust. Hopefully by the time that happened, we’d be fighting from a position of power. If we could control both the walls and a few strategic sections inside the outer Necropolis, the Darklings would never be able to rout us.

  After all, we’d have the high ground—and everyone knew the strategic advantage of the high ground.

  A brilliant flash of blue light tore across the sky, followed in short succession by a second streak of blue, a thin line of gold, and two crisscrossing lances of crimson fire. The preplanned launch signals.

  It was now or never.

  “Prepare the grappling cannons,” I thundered over the siege tower’s PA system. “Raid teams, prepare to engage! Vogthar are down, but we won’t have long, so make it count.”

  Protective panels flipped out across the face of the tower, revealing the formidable cannons I’d seen in the Siege Yard over a week ago. Cutter fired at will. Huge hooks, the size of ship anchors, sang through the air with an odd warble, smashing into stone, then biting down into the icy walls as the thigh-thick chains ratcheted tight. Nimble Rogues, deadly Infiltrators, and elite teams of Sicarii were the first across, bounding along the chains and vaulting over the walls, disappearing into the piles of corpses and comatose Vogs as they dropped into Stealth.

  They would capture towers, hold stairwells, and slip into back alleyways, waiting for a chance to assassinate Darkling commanders and party leaders, sowing chaos with reckless abandon.

  Rangers, archers, and siege operators followed hard on their heels. The nimble archers cleared bodies and lined up in orderly formations, propping up quivers as they trained their weapons on the Necropolis interior. At the same time, the invading siege operators frantically worked to repair the remaining Vog siege equipment—fixing damaged lines, patching cogs, and refitting firing mechanisms so the massive weapons could be employed against the wave of Darklings that were no doubt already on t
heir way.

  Grappling chains set, hooked ladders bridged the gap next, latching onto the walls, and heavy-plated Dark Templars and sword-wielding Inquisitors clambered over the gap, their armor clanking like pots and pans as they moved. They were too slow and unwieldly to safely cross the chains, but these ladders were perfect for them. In less than a minute, two hundred DPS tanks were on the ramparts and ready to roll. With the Templars safely over, engineers quickly lashed the ladders together and laid out flat steel plates, forming makeshift bridges as big as a single-lane road.

  The mounted troops—lifted to the higher decks via the tower’s internal service elevators—trudged across, the creatures snorting and pawing at the ramp as they lumbered onto the battlements. Below, on level one, steel-slatted doors rolled up, making way for the spider riders and their hairy mounts. The spiderkin didn’t need any help getting across; they leapt with uncanny grace, landed lightly with their riders, then scurried up at disturbing speeds and disappeared over the side of the wall, bound for locations deeper in the Necropolis proper.

  Along the upper decks of the tower, revolving platforms clicked into place.

  In seconds, the Arcane Shadow Cannons and heavy-duty ballistae vanished as long-necked catapults rotated into view. These were modified with oversized buckets, since the payload they were launching wasn’t ammunition, but Travelers and Citizens. Wood groaned, ropes snapped, and the catapults rocked, swinging up in an arc and hurling Double-V shock troops high into the air. The Double-V were all Risi—the meanest of the mean, toughest of the tough—their armor studded with spikes, their faces streaked with the blood of the fallen.

  They all wore leather satchels attached to their backs, and heavy-duty harnesses crisscrossed their chests and wrapped around their thighs. As the Double-V crested and began a rapid descent, each tugged at a leather strap, releasing a bloom of fabric that billowed out like a mushroom top. V.G.O. had never seen parachutes—the idea hadn’t even been a glimmer until Army and Marine Corps parachute riggers showed up on our doorsteps with blueprints in hand. Finding the right kind of fabric had been tricky, but once again, spider silk had proved invaluable. From there, the renowned seamstresses of New Viridia had done the rest of the heavy lifting.

  The catapults snapped again and again, hurling hundreds of fighters over the wall, all floating to the ground like dandelion puffs in the summer wind. Invasive weeds, ready to take over Thanatos’ pristine garden. Likewise, Imperial Janissaries air-dropped in all over the Necropolis, tasked with taking bridges, securing choke points, and making the Darklings fight for every inch of ground. Most of the Accipiters maintained their elevation, establishing holding patterns above the city—though giving the green dome over Skálaholt a wide berth—while the mounted aerial units descended into the warren of city streets, quickly disappearing below the roofline.

  That was it. The last of the troops offloaded—and just in time.

  Straight ahead, the first wave of Darklings poured out from the green dome insulating Skálaholt. The shield itself didn’t waver; the Darklings merely marched out like ghosts appearing on the horizon. Many were on foot, but most came by air. Leading them was the familiar form of an enormous Griffin with golden lion’s fur and brown eagle wings. The creature was decked out in black armor studded with dime-sized blood rubies and wore a crested helm that protected its streamlined head and curved beak. Sheets of night-forged ring-mail covered its sides and flanks, further protecting it from enemy arrow fire.

  Sitting on its back, head held high, was Carrera. Thanatos’ Champion and the living embodiment of Serth-Rog, the Daemon Prince of Morsheim.

  The last time I’d seen Carrera had been on the fields outside of Ravenkirk as the Vogthar launched their initial invasion against Eldgard. He’d changed a lot since then. Once upon a time, Carrera had looked noble. Heroic, even. Broad-shouldered. Deeply tanned skin. A swath of ebony hair accompanied by rugged good looks. Every inch what a Templar should’ve looked like. The sun had set on those days long ago. The rough features were still there, but like Morsheim itself, everything about him was twisted and wrong. His eyes burned with malignant green fire, his skin had taken on an ashy hue, and curling horns protruded from his forehead, sweeping back over his matted black hair.

  The former Colombian drug lord looked more Vog than man at this point. He also looked pissed.

  He’d emerged on the east side of the jade dome and beelined straight toward the closest available siege tower: the Phoenix.

  Abby responded by hurling spells, triggering her flamethrower arm, and unleashing every siege weapon in her arsenal. Carrera avoided them with supreme ease, guiding his mount with near mechanical precision, diving, swooping, barrel-rolling, and banking, all while gaining ground on the mech.

  With a few keystrokes, Cutter brought the Arcane Shadow Cannons and ballistae back into position, launching a barrage at the rest of the Darkling army surging toward us. Along the walls, our archers unleashed volleys of arrows at the bank of squad commanders, and siege crews trained Vogthar-captured weapons on the encroaching Darkling Horde.

  I couldn’t take my eyes from Carrera, though.

  As his Griffin drew near the Phoenix, the drug lord vaulted into a crouch on his leather saddle and leapt into the air. For a moment, I thought he had a cloak wrapped around his shoulders, but then that cloak snapped open, revealing leathery bat wings not so different from the Abami’s, which pulled him higher into the air while his Griffin peeled away and to the right. Naturally, Devil was waiting, slamming into the feathered creature like a freight train of scale and fury, teeth snapping, claws slashing.

  Carrera’s mount had unceremoniously dispatched Devil during the battle for Rowanheath, so it was no real surprise that Devil wanted a rematch.

  The two massive beasts tangled and circled, wings beating frantically, but Carrera paid them no mind.

  The Champion of Thanatos coasted toward the Phoenix, pulling an enormous sword from a sheath on his back, green eyes trained on the siege tower. Light enveloped the drug lord, a wall of green exploding outward in a ring. The concussive force of the blast knocked Abby’s rig back a handful of paces and sent a tremor running up through the ground. I shielded my eyes from the blaze, which was as bright as a falling star. When the searing halo finally faded, Carrera as I’d known him was gone, and in his place was a nightmare creature, fifty feet tall.

  During our tussle at Ravenkirk, Carrera had shown off some of his Avatar abilities, but apparently he’d leveled up since then. A lot. His was sickly pale, jagged streaks of dark corruption running just beneath the surface of his skin. No different than the veins I’d seen riddling Jo-Dan’s arm. His horns had grown and now burned with toxic green flame that matched his unnatural eyes. His legs were gone, his lower body replaced by an army of burning tentacles as large as tree trunks, and the leathery wings were now large enough to block out the hazy sun above.

  He smashed into Abby’s rig like a linebacker. The tower was still nearly three times Carrera’s size, but that didn’t seem to bother the enraged Champion in the least. Metal legs creaked from the increased strain, and the tower began to pitch over, falling in what felt like slow motion, Carrera riding the enormous mech to the ground. The Phoenix landed like a bomb blast, the earth shaking, a huge fissure snaking across the plains as a cloud of dust, snow, and stony debris swirled up, enveloping Carrera and the rig, leaving only murky shadows, barely visible through the haze.

  “Vlad, Cutter!” I yelled over the comms, still watching the dust cloud through the vantage of the Seer Stone. “The Phoenix is down! Free up the lines and get this thing ready to move.”

  “Cannot, Jack!” Vlad replied. “The chains and ladders are designed to lock us into place and anchor the tower. Will take ten minutes at least to free grappling hooks and cut tower loose.”

  “Can’t you do it any faster?”

  “Nyet,” he replied, voice grim. “Not without sustaining significant damage and risking many lives.”

 
I watched, hopeless, as the debris cloud began to settle and I got a better picture of the situation. Abby’s siege tower lay flat against the ground, its mechanical legs bent and battered beyond repair, many of them torn clean off. Carrera straddled the tower, tentacles wrapped around it, preventing it from moving while he hacked at the rig with a gleaming black Malware sword the size of a telephone pole. The Phoenix was leaking fluid across the barren earth. None of the siege equipment appeared to be online, but at least the shield arm was still in operation, narrowly turning Carrera’s blade with a thunderous clang before it could carve open the tower like a tin can.

  There was no way that would last for long, though.

  I had to do something, and I had to do it now or there was a good chance I was going to lose Abby—and I wasn’t going to let that happen. I couldn’t protect her from every danger out there in the big, wide world, but I could save her from this one. Maybe. I pulled up my character interface and checked my available Experience points: 78,962 points of 126,880.

  It was going to be close, but I definitely had a chance if I acted quickly enough.

  “Cutter,” I said, pulling the green helmet from my head and standing. “You’re calling the shots from here on out.”

  “Don’t worry about us, Jack,” he yelled back, nimble fingers flying across his control console, triggering spells and weapons. “Vlad and I can hold down the fort. I’ll send any help we can your way. You just focus on kicking that ugly bastard’s teeth into the back of his skull, eh!”

  “Here’s hoping,” I said, turning on a heel and dashing for the exit. I shouldered open the security hatch, which let out to a narrow hallway. Following the signs and arrows carefully etched into the floor and walls, I darted through the labyrinth of passages, bowling over engineers and siege operators, then scrambling up a ladder to level eight. Seconds zipped by painfully fast. Carrera could finish off Abby any moment. Finally, I found one of the open platforms that housed a grappling cannon.