Viridian Gate Online_Imperial Legion_A litRPG Adventure

by James Hunter

  Effect 2: Increase Base Damage by 15%.

  <<<>>>

  But now I had 2 Proficiency Points and full access to Night Cyclone. I didn’t even have to think twice before dropping both points into the new ability.

  <<<>>>

  Skill: Night Cyclone

  Summon a Shadow Spirit, which manifests as a cyclone of pure darkness from the deepest recesses of the Shadowverse. The Night Cyclone causes significant shadow damage to any opponent in its direct path (4 yards), while simultaneously releasing a series of charged shadow bolts, which count as lightning damage to any enemy they hit. Because Night Cyclone is a sentient spirit—though incapable of taking directions or communicating—this spell only affects foes within the area.

  Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate

  Cost: 1,100 Spirit

  Range: Line of Sight; Damage Range 2 yards from cyclone’s center

  Cast Time: Instant

  Cooldown: 10 minutes

  Effect 1: Shadow Damage for 350% of Spell Power on contact.

  Effect 2: Releases (5) concentrated Shadow Bolts that deal Lightning Damage at 100% Spell Power.

  <<<>>>

  I grinned, ecstatically happy with the new ability and eager to try it out.

  “Jack, you home?” Cutter said, snapping his fingers in front of my face, trying to get my attention.

  “Yeah, sorry,” I replied, closing out of the skill tree. “I just leveled up—finally hit the big four-zero.”

  “Well, good for bloody you,” he said, crossing his arms and canting his head. “Now how’s about you tell us what you want to do with all this useless metal, eh? It’s heavier than brass bollocks. No way we can transport it with carts—not that the carts would help anyway since we can’t get ’em through the portals.”

  I rolled my eyes, mind whirling as I thought about the unusual supplies. But a message pinged in my ear, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Well?” Cutter asked.

  “Sorry”—I held up a finger—“I just got a message.” I pulled up my interface again, scrolling over to my inbox. “It’s from Abby, and marked urgent.” I opened the message with a thought.

  <<<>>>

  Personal Message:

  Jack,

  Sorry to bother you, I know you’re out raiding. But I need you, Cutter, and Amara back in Rowanheath, ASAP. We’ve just got some new intel and well … it’s bad. It could change everything. Please hurry.

  —Abby

  <<<>>>

  “Everything alright, mate?” Cutter asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

  “No,” I replied, closing the message and exiting the menu. “Abby needs you, me, and Amara back in Rowanheath. Now. Right now. Not sure why, but something big is coming down the pipeline. Go find Amara and get back here as fast as you can. I want to be gone in five.”

  Cutter’s eyebrows seemed to rise into his hairline, but he merely nodded, pushed away from the cart, and headed down the road, moving at a good clip.

  “Forge,” I said, rounding on the former Marine and Texas native. “I’m leaving you in charge of this operation.” I fished a pair of parchment scrolls from my inventory. I pressed the first scroll, tied with red satin ribbon, into his hands. “This one will get you and the Bog Raiders back to Yunnam. And this one”—I passed him another with a blue ribbon—“will get you to Rowanheath. I want one wagon’s worth of this stuff shipped back to Yunnam for Vlad to examine. Maybe he can tell us what Osmark is up to.” I paused, fingers drumming on my trousers. “And, worst case scenario, even if he can’t, we can salvage this and use it for siege weapons. Vlad’s always complaining we don’t have enough resources.”

  “No problem, Hoss. But what about the rest of it?” he asked, vaguely waving at the other carts.

  I paused, jaw tight, and surveyed the wagons and the destruction. “We can’t afford for this stuff to get to Tomestide. Burn it. All of it. Make sure the wagons aren’t salvageable, and I want these parts melted down to slag. Torch the NPC bodies, too—I don’t want to see their heads on stakes. And let me know if Balmar and the rest of his crew give you any trouble. I can come back down here if you need me, though I’d prefer not to.”

  “No worries, Jack,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder with a calloused hand. “I don’t much care for them Wolf’s Fang fellas as is. They put another foot wrong, and I’ll slap the holy-living crap outta the whole lot of ’em. Put the fear of the Lord into ’em right and proper.” He shot a wink at me. “I’ll round Chakan and his crew up, we’ll hand carry the stuff to Yunnam, then regroup back in Rowanheath for a debrief.”

  I saw Cutter rushing toward me, Amara loping along beside him. “Sounds great—and thanks for taking the lead on this, Forge. As soon as I find out what’s going on, I’ll message you.”

  I slipped past him, recalling my Void Terror pets to the Shadowverse as I pulled a gleaming pearl the size of a tennis ball from a pouch at my belt. It was strangely warm in my hand and vibrated with anxious energy like an overcharged battery on the verge of exploding. Although it looked like a common gemstone, it was actually something much more valuable: a port-stone. A reusable portal scroll, with one fixed location that could be changed by the owner at will. The little stone was worth its weight in gold ten times over.

  Still, I steeled myself for the experience as I activated the stone—traveling with the port-stone was instantaneous and convenient, but incredibly unpleasant.

  A shimmering, opalescent doorway, seven feet by four, appeared in the air, showing off a sweeping view of Rowanheath. “Let’s go,” I muttered, watching as Amara and Cutter slipped through before me. I pressed my eyes shut and stepped after them. A wave of vertigo hit me like a sucker punch, and the breath caught in my chest as power—cold as arctic ice—washed over me like a sudden rain. The chill filled my body, invaded my lungs, and stabbed at my clenched eyes as nausea racked my belly.

  The portal shut behind me the second I was through, and for a long beat, I just stood there reeling on unsteady feet, hoping I didn’t fall over and make a total fool out of myself. After a few seconds, the sensation passed entirely and I opened my eyes, savoring the view before me. We were on the courtyard of the Rowanheath Keep, which overlooked the sprawling city of Rowanheath below.

  The Keep itself wasn’t much to look at—not like the Darkshard Stronghold back in Yunnam—though it was certainly domineering. The Rowanheath Keep was carved into the treacherous mountain peaks walling off the city on two sides. The place was all hard lines, gray stone, high walls, and foreboding turrets. The Rowanheath Keep, Stonemount, hadn’t been designed for beauty, it’d been designed to withstand a siege—though I’d managed to take it against all the odds using a bit of trickery and some quick thinking.

  Rowanheath, though, was beautiful in its way.

  I inched up to the retaining wall edging the courtyard and stared down. The city itself was a giant mass of twisting cobblestone streets and dirty alleys, flanked by drunkenly leaning buildings in a myriad of different styles, reflecting the amazingly diverse denizens. Some shops and homes were built from smooth stone or rough wood, but many were constructed of white plaster. Hawkers lined the streets, crying their wares at passersbys, and colorful markets dotted walkways and side streets.

  But despite the apparently carefree vendors, it was evident that things were not business as usual down below. At least, not entirely.

  No, citizens and travelers scurried about, putting up shutters or purchasing supplies for the inevitable siege to come, while guards sporting the bright red cloaks of the Crimson Alliance patrolled the streets. The changes were most noticeable along the enormous fortified defensive wall, encircling the front of the city like a giant horseshoe. Men and women drilled in tight formations inside the wall while heavily armed guards patrolled the top.

  Engineers and Weaponeers tinkered on massive custom-built siege weapons, designed by Vlad, our Russian Alchemic Weaponeer. There were wood and steel ballistae, which resembled giant crossbows, to
wering mangonel---s, and hulking catapults. Stone griffins with slick, streamlined bodies, broad chests, and massive wings sat perched on the lip of the outer wall.

  This was a city preparing for war.

  Finally, I wheeled about, putting the city to my back. As much as I wanted to stand there and relax, people needed me. On the plus side, there’d almost definitely be coffee in the Control Room, and boy could I use a cup of piping hot joe. “Come on,” I said to Cutter and Amara, both loitering nearby, talking in hushed whispers. “Let’s go figure out what nasty trick Osmark’s pulled this time.”

  FOUR_

  Imperial Trickery

  “They’re almost two weeks closer than they should be,” Abby said flatly, bringing up a floating holo display of Eldgard. She looked bleak, dark bags under her eyes, suggesting she needed more sleep. A lot more sleep. She turned, folded her hands behind her back, and paced, her crimson dress, edged in gold, swishing as she moved. “Every intelligence report we have suggests they were coming south from Tomestide, through the Shining Plains, over the narrow divide via the Crossing, before staging in Hvaleyr.” She waved at the display and a route populated.

  It was a route I’d seen often.

  I leaned back in my padded leather chair, interlaced my fingers, and stared at the image, projected by a giant emerald affixed to the center of the dark-wood conference table in Rowanheath’s Command Room. I picked up my porcelain cup and took a long sip of my steaming Western Brew, which was nutty, bold, and as delicious as any coffee I’d ever had back IRL. Even better since it came with a hefty set of buffs—restoring HP, increasing Health Regen rate, not to mention boosting Intelligence, Strength, and Vitality for a short while. And whenever I got really glum, I just reminded myself of the message that came with the buff:

  Remember, with enough good coffee, all things are possible.

  “We even had surveillance, indicating that was the case. Our Accipiter scouts—under the leadership of General Caldwell—saw convoys, troop columns, and siege equipment following that route.” She reached up, pinched the bridge of her nose, then flopped back in her seat, clearly frazzled and exhausted.

  “How, then, are they a week closer than they should be?” Amara said, her voice brimming with suspicion as she carefully regarded the tip of a wickedly sharp dagger. “Perhaps there are traitors in our midst?”

  A tense and uneasy silence invaded the room as her accusation hung in the air like a thundercloud.

  “Peace, daughter,” Chief Kolle offered from my right. “There is a reasonable explanation, though far from a comfortable one. Otto, if you’d please explain?”

  A gruff Risi warrior, clad in black-coated plate mail covered in intricate Celtic knots, stood and dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Of course.” Otto Staldain was Abby’s starting NPC companion—a character spawned by the Overminds to accompany Abby when she’d first entered the game. Otto was taciturn, occasionally disagreeable, and all business. But thankfully, he was very good at his business.

  Not only was he a Battle Warden and an incredibly skilled warrior, he was also an emissary of Òrdugh an Garda Anam—the Order of the Soulbound—which was a Risi rebel front operating in West Viridia. A tough group of folks who’d managed to get us more intel than we had any right to.

  “Our information wasn’t incorrect,” he said without preamble, “but Osmark is much smarter than we’re giving him credit for. He deceived us. He knew about our surveillance patrols and Accipiter Scouts—and he used that knowledge to Imperial advantage. In recent hours, it’s come to light that the troop movements we’ve observed over the past weeks were the same troops, caravans, and siege equipment.” He paused, lips turning down into a displeased frown as he shook his head.

  “These caravans,” he continued after a moment, “would make the trip to Hvaleyr, break down their wagons and weapons, then take portals back to Tomestide, where they’d begin the process all over again. In this way, Osmark was able to create an optical illusion of sorts, convincing us he was moving all of his forces to Hvaleyr. But while our scouts were watching the route south of Tomestide, he was covertly shuffling the bulk of his men and equipment through portals cast by the Mystica Ordo to the Imperial city of Harrowick.”

  “But how?” Cutter asked, slouching forward, elbows resting on the table. “Jack said their siege engines were big beefy bastards. No portal is big enough to haul that type of gear through. It’s not possible.”

  “Unfortunately,” Otto replied with a sniff, annoyed at the interruption, “Osmark took a page out of our book. During our invasion of Rowanheath, we had Vlad create specialty siege weapons that could be rapidly disassembled, carted through portals, then reassembled on the battlefield. True, our rigs were small, but somehow Osmark has managed to scale up that technology. Everything was transported in pieces to Harrowick, which is a major Imperial city with the capabilities and resources to hide movement like that. It is what thieves call sleight of hand, I believe.”

  “Even if this is true,” Amara grunted, “Harrowick is still almost a two-week trek, and with siege engines, it would be closer to two and a half.”

  “An astute observation,” the Risi replied stoically. “But Osmark’s deception was not finished there.” He thrust a hand out, and the map hovering above the table zoomed in until Harrowick and a wide lake, the Conwil Deeps, took up most of the space. “From Harrowick, the Imperials loaded troops and weapons onto a fleet of ships routinely used for transporting goods across the Deeps. And then they sailed to a point near the southern edge of the Tanglewood. That puts the Legion about two days out from the neutral supply town of Veris and about eight days from Rowanheath.”

  He took a long, slow scan of the members present: me, Abby, Cutter, Anton Black—our logistics officer—Chief Kolle, and Li Xiu, the best damned Wall Commander in Rowanheath. “This is grave news,” Otto said, a glimmer of what might’ve been fear in his muddy eyes. “It’s possible the Legion is heading for the Storme Marshes, but it’s highly unlikely. Though there are some small roads and paths into the heart of the jungle, venturing in would be suicide—especially with their siege engines.”

  “Which means the wáng bā dàn Imperials are coming here first,” Xiu finished, his words lightly coated with a faint Chinese accent, his golden Dawn Elf face hard as a block of stone. “Our crews have been working around the clock, but with only eight days …” He trailed off, then shook his head, his hands curling into fists as though he wanted nothing more than to beat Osmark into a bloody pulp. “We won’t be ready. We’ll hold them for four or five days, but we don’t have the manpower to withstand a siege.”

  “Nor the resources,” Anton pitched in, pulling out several ledgers with painstakingly detailed notes about supply chains, food rations, and equipment reserves. Before the asteroid had obliterated Earth, Anton had been a tax accountant from Bradford, in the UK. There were few people better with numbers or logistics, and he’d taken to his role as the Chief Merchant of the Crimson Alliance with gusto. “Even with our ability to use the black market, things will get tight quickly, I’m afraid.”

  I took another long sip of my coffee, trying to keep calm and levelheaded. “So what do you want us to do?” I asked, looking at each of the members in turn. “Abandon Rowanheath?” I set the cup down before it began to quiver in my hand. “If the Imperials get Rowanheath, they’ll be able to fortify and build their troops up, and eventually they’ll bulldoze through the Storme Marshes. We can’t lose this.” I swept a hand around the Control Center. “We can’t. There has to be a different way. We have to have some options here.”

  “Well,” Abby said, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “Worst-case scenario, we could always use the Horn of the Ancients. I mean, that’s not ideal but it’s a nice ace to have up our sleeve.”

  The Jade Lord, Nangkri, had awarded me the horn after setting the Sky Maiden free; it was a relic that would allow me to summon the Jade Lord and the Dokkalfar heroes of legend from the grave to fight on my beh
alf for one hour. But I could only use it for that purpose once, and there was no telling how effective those ancient heroes would be—not against an entire army. Abby was right, it was a nice ace to have up my sleeve, but depending on something untested like that as our main strategy was a terrible idea.

  “No,” I finally said with a shake of my head. “We can’t rely on that. If we need it, we’ll use it, but we need a real plan. What else do we have?”

  Everyone was quiet for a moment, then Amara rudely gut checked Cutter with her elbow and arched an eyebrow at him.

  His face screwed up in annoyance, but at last, he sighed. “Might be, I could recruit the thieves to help with the resupply. My relationship with the Guild has been a bit strained since I killed Gentleman Georgie …” He trailed off, his eyes hazy and far away for a moment.

  Cutter was usually an easy-going guy with few cares beyond booze, gambling, and loot, but Georgie was a sensitive topic. He’d been something of a father figure to Cutter. A mentor. “Well, they want me to step up and take more of a leadership role in the organization. To step into Georgie’s shoes. But that’s not my bag, if you catch my meaning. Still, they owe me. And between them and the smugglers, I can get us what we need to hold out against the Imperials for a good long while.”

  I paused, turning that piece of information over in my head. So feasibly we could handle the supplies, but would that be enough? “I appreciate it, Cutter,” I finally said, rubbing absently at my chin, “but even if we take care of the supply issue, it won’t matter if we can’t hold the walls for more than a week.”

  “We can pull up extra troops from the other Dokkalfar clans,” Chief Kolle offered with a shrug. “The other chieftains may balk at the notion of defending a Wode city, but if you give the order, Grim Jack, they’ll come. They won’t have any choice since you are blessed by Nangkri himself.”

  “This is true,” Amara offered. “The Lisu might hesitate and dither, but I think even they would come without much fight—Chakan, son of Sakal, is quite in awe of you, I think.”