Viridian Gate Online_Imperial Legion_A litRPG Adventure

by James Hunter

  Osmark wasn’t dumb. Once he had a chance to look at a map and get his bearings, he’d no doubt come up with something brilliant. So, our job was to hit them as hard as possible before Osmark could come up with a proper counterassault. I sent off the next message in line.

  <<<>>>

  Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk

  Alert!

  Frontline Ranged Attackers, Air Scouts, Heavy Catapults. You’re up. Anton, Skirmish Bells, now.

  —Faction Commander, Grim Jack

  <<<>>>

  Seconds later my troops responded as a brazen bell chimed from the town, clang, clang, clang. The Regional Message ability was amazing, but unfortunately, it only worked for direct Alliance members, which excluded both Jo-Dan’s undead forces and the small army of spiderkin waiting in the wings. But the bells worked wonders for them. In seconds, a wave of archers and battle casters poured out from the houses of Ravenkirk, sprinting toward the outer wall, which had been subtly modified over the past few days.

  The wall wouldn’t do much to stop siege weapons, but a slim platform installed halfway up allowed the archers to fire from the wall while maintaining cover. Line commanders on the feeble wall barked out orders, and in moments, the sharp twang of bowstrings filled the air as a rain of deadly arrows and conjured spells peppered the frontline Imperials. Meanwhile, the deep thud of our catapults sounded as they discharged tire-sized boulders from the farmer’s fields behind Ravenkirk.

  The engineers working those rigs were masters of precision; the stones easily cleared the town and plunged into the heart of the Legion, smashing bodies and decimating supply wagons with terrible power.

  And while the arrows, spells, and boulders flew, our forces moved in from both above and the flanks. Alliance aerial troops swooped down into the masses, firing arrows and casting spells from overhead or lobbing potent alchemic grenades. Their job was to sow chaos among any group of Imperials that looked like they had their heads on straight. Another handful of specialized Scouts—led by General Caldwell—targeted the siege engines with firebombs and the corrosive acid orbs Vlad had cooked up last night.

  Death from above.

  And on the sides?

  Clusters of high-level players—such as Cutter, Amara, and Forge—poured in, harrying the Imperials from every angle. And they weren’t alone. The monsters came, too. Lots of monsters.

  The spiderkin flooded from the trees to the south: a wall of hairy bodies and spindly legs eating up the distance, before crashing into Imperials with piercing fangs and razor-sharp limbs. And Jo-Dan’s undead troops screamed into view from the north, skeletons and zombies at the forefront, ready to absorb the initial wave of damage, while the Blood Golems and Revenant Knights came next. The Ravaging Devourer came last, crashing through the trees like a rockslide.

  The Imperials screamed and backpedaled from the hulking monstrosity, firing off a barrage of attacks that bounced harmlessly off the creature’s patchwork flesh. The Devourer plowed into a squad of Imperial spellcasters like a bowling ball, scattering pins every which way—except those pins were bodies. He lifted a priest in brown robes from the ground in one oversized hand, then proceeded to use the priest’s entire body as a club to beat the crud out of the rest of his teammates. It was horrifying to watch, but also oddly satisfying.

  Our five-pronged attack—coupled with the guttering fire-trenches—was doing wonders, but the Imperials were finally bringing order to their ranks, one platoon at a time.

  Officers and sergeants screamed.

  Mages, warlocks, and priests cast healing spells, protection auras, and impressive energy barriers to divert and deflect the incoming attacks.

  Fighters brandished swords and spears as they rushed to engage the encroaching mobs.

  Rigid ranks formed up behind formidable interlocking shield walls—their lines driven forward in tight precision by the beat of heavy war drums.

  And, despite our intense aerial bombardment, several of the Imperial siege catapults unfurled, sprawling across the battlefield as enemy engineers returned fire. Their target wasn’t the city itself, but rather our catapults on the far side of the village. They were desperate to stop the deadly pummeling.

  A group of Imperial archers and casters broke free, the ranks parting for them as they scurried to the frontline in a mad dash, raising bows or hands to return fire at the Alliance members manning the wall.

  Despite the relatively fast response, we’d done a tremendous amount of initial damage, and even better, the Legion was pressing in toward the city. Soon, very soon, we’d initiate phase two, a tactical retreat into the town, where the bulk of the deadly hand-to-hand fighting would happen. Not yet though. For now, we needed the Imperials to press hard, and gain ground—to get the taste of victory in their mouths—to make them think we were running scared.

  The thought disappeared as Devil growled inside my head. Visitors.

  The Shadow Drake banked hard left, the Void Apes circling us in a tight arc, which is when I saw Imperial Accipiter taking to the air along with every Imperial on a flying mount. Our airborne troops had done a lot of damage, but now it looked like the free ride was over. Fireballs, spits of ice, deadly arrows, and razor-pointed spears filled the air as the Accipiter fought. General Caldwell streaked by not far off, a short sword of glowing bronze in one hand and a swirling glob of concentrated air in his other.

  Aside from being a military general, a brilliant tactician, and an all-around badass, Caldwell was an Aeromancer with the power to shape and manipulate wind.

  A trio of Imperials swooped toward him, unleashing a flurry of arrows. Caldwell didn’t care though—he didn’t even blink. The shimmering ball of air in his left hand rocketed out with a mind of its own; gale force winds swatted the arrows off course, before smacking into the enemy fliers. The general’s air attack didn’t do any direct damage to their HP, but that wasn’t the purpose. Instead, the furious gust battered their feathers, knocking them head over heels, sending them twirling toward the ground in a blazing fast death-spiral.

  Two of the Imperials fought and turned every which way, desperate to right themselves, but unable to do so. Each screamed in panic before smashing into the earth at bone-breaking speed, their shouts dying in an instant. The third Imperial—a copper-skinned man with flowing black hair—managed to regain control before impact, but not before Caldwell closed the distance and sheared one of his wings clean off at the shoulder with his gleaming blade. The blow looked painful, of course, but only cut the man’s HP by a quarter.

  Despite that, though, it was a killing blow.

  Unable to keep himself aloft, the Imperial plummeted like a rock, arms and legs windmilling uselessly. Even better, the man slammed into a line of Imperial spearmen below who were fighting off a squad of undead. The Accipiter’s body broke the Imperial shield wall, opening up a gap that the undead rushed into like a pack of hungry … well, zombies. In moments, the spearmen were all down, screaming as the undead ripped them apart with blunt, tearing teeth and cleaving claws.

  Caldwell didn’t dwell on the deaths, though. No, he was already darting toward a new enemy—the heavily tattooed monk from the ambush in the forest. The one who’d nearly wiped the floor with me before having his head bit off by Devil. Jay Taylor, Osmark’s self-proclaimed right-hand man. He was riding on an enormous tiger made from living flame with giant eagle wings, dealing out an ungodly amount of damage to a small group of Alliance Scouts. His mount spewed giant columns of fire while he unleashed deadly spell after deadly spell.

  Incoming, Devil sent, banking left.

  I snapped back into the moment and immediately spotted a trio of Accipiter streaking toward me in a tight arrowhead formation, compact recurve bows clutched in their hands as they nocked barb-tipped arrows. I grinned, unconcerned with the attack. Three Accipiter with bows is the best the Imperials can throw at me? It was actually a little insulting. I glanced right at Caldwell, who seemed to have his hands full with the ta
ttooed monk. He was holding his own, deflecting every incoming spell with bursts of concentrated air, but seemed unable to launch an assault of his own.

  I’d deal with the Accipiter, then head over there to lend a hand. That monk had some payback coming his way.

  Nikko, I want you and the boys to dive-bomb those Accipiter, I sent.

  And then, manling? came Nikko’s terse reply inside my skull.

  Then keep my back clear while I handle the monk on the tiger.

  Instead of replying, she merely nodded, then let out a high-pitched screech before disappearing in a puff of smoke.

  Mighty Joe and Kong followed suit; an eyeblink later all three reappeared, slamming into the incoming Accipiter from behind. The apes wrapped their powerful simian arms around the Imperials, pinning their wings down, preventing them from flying. The Accipiter struggled fruitlessly, unable to break free, then dropped from the air. They streaked toward the ground, bucking and flailing the whole time, but Nikko and the boys simply held tight, refusing to allow the fliers to use their wings.

  Down, down, down they went screaming, panicking, hurtling toward a train of supply wagons.

  The apes, by contrast, fell stoically, unconcerned by the fast approaching ground.

  A maneuver like that would’ve been a suicide mission for any but Nikko and her crew—for them, though, it was just another day at the office. Five feet from the ground, each of the apes triggered Shadow Stride and disappeared as the Accipiter careened into the earth, dead on impact. I dug my heels in and wheeled Devil around as the apes materialized around us, ready to find Jay the monk and put the hurtin’ on him.

  I scanned the air, looking for my target, but paused my search as a thunderous roar exploded in the air from the east.

  I spun Devil again, and what I saw rising from the ground gave me genuine pause: a giant [Clockwork Dragon], twice the size of Devil. Its substantial mechanical wings beat furiously at the air, aided by steam-powered jets set into its belly. On its back was Osmark.

  TWENTY-EIGHT_

  Round Two

  New plan, I sent to my crew of minions. Devil, you and I are gonna take on Osmark. Nikko, you, Kong, and Mighty Joe head over and help out General Caldwell against that crazy monk. I’ll call if I need you, but once you take that creep out, I want you to start picking off any enemy air units you can find. Now let’s move. I hunched forward, flapping at the reins as Devil shot toward the terrible mechanical monstrosity. In the corner of my eye, I saw the three chimps streak away, beelining for the monk and his fiery mount.

  I put them from mind as Osmark came closer and I finally got a solid look at his ride. Begrudgingly, I had to admit the creature was a fantastic piece of work, and Osmark hadn’t been lying when he told me I’d never seen anything like it. I hadn’t. Ever. The thing’s hide was gleaming steel riddled with bronze rivets and covered in twirling copper cogs, brass tubing, and steam ports. The Clockwork Dragon was built along the same lines as Devil—powerful body, barrel chest, sleek neck, crushing jaws—just bigger in every way.

  It was like comparing a professional bodybuilder to an agile gymnast: both were athletes but built for different purposes.

  Its wings were powerful things, built from a combination of steel and thick fabric, but one look told me there was no way that thing should be able to fly—not on wing power alone. But the exhaust ports lining its belly, spewing out white steam, seemed to help out quite a bit. The creature had long limbs tipped with deadly claws, but what concerned me the most was the pair of mechanical turrets affixed to its shoulders. It had a circular Gatling gun perched on the left, and a rocket launcher on the right.

  Osmark sat in a custom saddle, strapped in by a leather five-point harness studded with brass buckles and more rivets. And instead of a set of reins to control his mount, he had an odd collection of gear shifts, pedals, gauges, crank wheels, and a bizarre joystick. The creature’s eyes glowed with fiery power, but they were also devoid of life. That monster was a machine, pure and simple—one that Osmark controlled entirely, which made a certain kind of sense. Osmark seemed like the type of person that needed to control everything around him.

  He’d never entrust himself to a mount that could think or reason—to a creature not fully and entirely under his control. And that was his weakness.

  One I could exploit.

  Osmark had mopped the floor with me during our one-on-one brawl, but this was a whole different ballgame. I was a good fighter on the ground, but in the air, I was next to unstoppable—heck, I’d defeated a legendary dragon in a massive aerial battle. And a big part of that success was due to Devil. Devil was alive, ruthless, and efficient, and even if I couldn’t control him as completely as Osmark could his steam-powered monstrosity, that was okay. I didn’t want to control him because I trusted Devil to do his job better than I ever could.

  “Ready for round two, Jack?” Osmark called out, his voice amplified by a ventilator secured over his lower jaw. “I must admit, you surprised me once again, but in the end, your cleverness will not be enough to save you.” I couldn’t see his mouth, but I could almost hear the grin in his voice as he yanked back on a steel switch and mashed his finger against a trigger. The machine gun roared to life, twirling like mad, spewing an endless sea of fire and lead.

  I flicked the reins, but Devil was already moving. His left wing shot out, catching an updraft, which sent us into a blazing-fast corkscrew; bullets whizzed by just inches from my head. Once, twice, three times we flipped, the Drake dropping low, tucking his wings into his sides as we spiraled toward the ground. The roar of the chain gun followed us as we flew, streaks of red light whipping past us as the ground rose to meet us.

  Then—an instant before touchdown—Devil thrust his wings wide, pulling out of the reckless dive ten feet from certain peril. Osmark was up above us, laboriously maneuvering his clockwork mount to try and track our movements. By the time he got a fix on us, Devil was already changing course, banking hard right, wheeling in a tight circle, then thrusting his wings down, shooting us up like a rocket bound for the moon. Stinging wind slapped against my face, and my cloak streamed out behind me as we rose.

  In seconds, we were ten feet below the steam dragon’s steel belly.

  The propulsion jets situated in the creature’s stomach jettisoned columns of white steam, which was uncomfortably warm but ultimately did no damage. Hold tight, Devil sent. We can drag this thing from the sky. The Shadow Drake pumped his wings one final time, then flipped in an instant, leaving me dangling upside down by my stirrups. He lashed out with his deadly black talons, slashing into the metal with an ear-splitting shriek, and suddenly we were clinging to the bottom of the steamwork creature.

  On top of that, we were falling.

  Not fast, but Osmark’s contraption seemed incapable of holding itself aloft with Devil’s substantial weight pulling it down—especially since the Drake’s body was blocking its steam ports. And while the Clockwork Dragon pumped its wings to keep us all flying, Devil attacked with his formidable jaws, biting at exposed tubing, ripping cogs free, and shredding armored plating like tissue paper. There wasn’t much for me to do except dangle there like a lump while Devil handled business.

  At least until an odd steampunk drone—equal parts mini helicopter and assault rifle—dropped down from the right and opened fire, spraying out bullets in a wide arc.

  The drone caught me completely off guard, and before I could process what I was seeing, a stream of bullets ripped into my side, draining my HP slowly. The weapon wasn’t nearly as powerful as the larger machine gun version up top, but agony still raced through my body like wildfire. Worse, the blasted machine peppered Devil’s scaly hide as well. The Drake threw back his head in a bellowing roar of rage and pain, dropping away from the bottom of the Clockwork Dragon.

  We free fell for a moment, my head dropping straight toward the ground until Devil managed to flip around, wings flashing out, righting us from the mad descent. We
leveled out thirty feet from the field, but unfortunately, we were no longer alone. Three of those little machine gun drones were whirling toward us from above. I’ll handle them, you just get us above that thing, I sent, fishing free one of the acid grenades Vlad had so painstakingly crafted for me. Time to find out if they worked.

  Devil glanced back at me, a sneer on his lips as he shot a look at his side, now riddled with bullet holes and leaking viscous blood. Are you sure you can handle them?

  They got a drop on us—now let’s turn the tables on Osmark.

  Devil looked away with a snort but followed the plan. The drones closed in on us as we cruised upward toward Osmark, but this time I was ready. The first one launched a hail of bullets at me, but I thrust my left hand forward, conjuring Dark Shield. The bullets slammed against the magical barrier with a shower of brilliant light, but failed to penetrate. In moments, the spinning machine barrel fell still, which is when I struck. I dropped the shield and fast-balled the glass orb into the annoying drone.

  The grenade hit head-on, the glass crunching against the gun barrel; the alchemic bomb exploded with a pop and a sizzle, spewing sludgy green goo across the metal.

  The effects were instantaneous and devastating.

  The green acid bit into the steel like a hungry pit bull going to town on a steak. Ragged holes quickly appeared wherever the acid touched, and in moments, plumes of choking black smoke drifted up while the drone dropped from the sky. Out of commission. I pumped a fist in celebration—I was going to kiss Vlad the next time I saw him, the brilliant madman. I fished another orb from my pouch, hurling it at another drone as Devil banked hard right, then shot straight up, streaking past Osmark’s mount.

  The grenade erupted against the drone’s whirling propellers as it tried to adjust course and follow after us. The corrosive acid drenched the machine and ate through the rotating blades like piranhas. Whatever engine powered the mini-monstrosity guttered and died with a wheeze; the drone sputtered and keeled over, promptly dropping from view. Two down, one to go—though it was currently out of sight. I glanced down and saw Osmark below us, furiously spinning crank wheels and pulling on odd levers.