The Long Road to Karn (Realm of Arkon, Book 5)

by Akella, G.

  "Are you mad?" the champion sighed in shock. "I'll be spooning with it every night! I do wonder why my men didn't notice it—some kind of magic?"

  "That's what bothers me most of all," the mage's frown deepened as he moved toward the exit. "Let's get everyone out of these ruins—there's nothing here for us."

  "Sure," Lars nodded after him. Then, running his palm over the silvery blade lovingly, he whispered softly. "I shall call you 'Silver Tear'..."

  "I'm fine!" pushing away the hand holding a flask that was pouring copious amounts of cold water onto my face, I jerked upward to a sitting position. Hart! The deeper the rabbit hole went... Passing out upon merely touching the hilt of the sword minutes into my acquaintance with the army of knights and mages was hardly the way I wanted this to go. Not that I gave a damn what they thought of me, but still—I couldn't help feeling a little awkward. The hilt was no longer sticking to my palm, and the heat was gone, too, replaced with a sandpapery metallic coolness. Fantasy writers of yore had the propensity to infuse their heroes' weapons with a life of their own. The thought popped into my mind almost immediately after regaining my senses, but, for better or worse, I felt nothing of the sort. In this world, blood was more than just red-colored fluid running through your veins and belonging to one of four types. Its significance being far deeper in a realm of magic, it wasn't unreasonable to presume that, having drunk a full measure of its creator's blood, the sword might indeed be something akin to a living creature. But it wasn't, and Hart be praised for that. All those descriptions about the hero's weapon being an extension of their arm were nice and all, but I was content to simply know—to feel—that the sword was mine, and that it wasn't going to make a habit out of knocking me unconsciousness at every touch. I focused my vision on the weapon, and whistled to myself.

  Ruination.

  Sword: one-handed. Great Sword.

  Bound item.

  Durability: 16,788/20,000.

  Epic scalable.

  No minimum level.

  Damage: 1601-1921.

  +210 to strength,

  +105 to vigor.

  +210 to constitution,

  +5.25% to critical hit chance with a physical attack.

  +105% to damage dealt to Great Essences.

  ???????????????????????????????????????????????

  ???????????????????????????????????????????????

  Weight: 10 lbs.

  Well, well... Quite an intriguing name for a weapon! More importantly, after the sudden upgrade, new, previously hidden parameters appeared to have manifested on the sword. That reminded me—what was happening with gift of the God of Deceit?

  Ring of Distorted Reality.

  Accessory; ring.

  Durability: 3987/4520.

  Bound item.

  ?????????????????

  Minimum level: 100.

  Infinite invisibility (invisibility potions are not limited by time).

  Camouflage (when activated, no other player can see your character's level, class, specialization, skills and stats).

  ?????????????????

  ?????????????????

  Weight: .01 lbs.

  A gold ring of unknown craftsmanship.

  The lines with question marks were now fewer, but nothing new had appeared. Oh well, I couldn't damn well gripe about a ring right after scoring an epic scalable weapon! Getting up on my feet, I shifted my shoulders and took a seat on a nearby crate, the army of knights and mages following my every move. The consequences of my vision were still manifest in a splitting headache and aching bones—I felt as if I'd just been flattened by a steamroller, or maybe a couple of hippos. Wiping the sweat off my brow, I drank from my flask and looked around at the faces surrounding me. Why were they still staring at me in silence? Had I done something weird while unconscious? Oh, and what was it that had flickered in the log when I came to? Obeying my mental command, the lines appeared before me at once.

  You've accessed the quest: Prince of Shallat.

  ????????????????

  ??????????????????????????????????????????????????????

  Attention! To complete this quest you will need at least ??? thousand allies.

  Mother... I exhaled, dumbfounded. Had anyone bothered to ask me if I even wanted to accept this quest? And what was the deal with all the bloody question marks? Where was I supposed to start? And I won't even mention the unknown number of thousands of allies required to complete it!

  "What was that, demon?" Saverus' patience broke first. "Are you well?"

  "The sword," I replied wearily.

  "Monsieur Altus said something happened to the sword," said Kan Shyom, motioning at the blade. "Captain, um, could it be that—"

  "It's all right," I didn't let him finish. "We're on good terms now."

  "Glad to hear. Tell me, then—how do you see our role in the morning battle?"

  "A moment."

  Pulling up another crate, I unfolded a clean sheet of parchment on it and quickly sketched the northern section of the citadel, marking down the key spots.

  "There," I fingered the sketch. "When everything begins, wait three hundred heartbeats and start moving along the donjon's northern wall, past the point where your portal to Karn stood, and toward the ladder leading to the top of the pyramid. Your task is to engage the death knights stationed right there. Pull them up top and fight them, and don't climb back down until they're dead. I'll order my troops to stay at least fifty yards away from the donjon, but you should take care not to aggro our targets."

  "How do you know the details of our battle, demon?" asked Raena, who had been staying silent up until now.

  "I saw everything through Monsieur Altus' eyes," I said. "The only thing I don't know is how Champion Lars died, since he was at the top of the pyramid when it happened."

  "But—"

  "Come, Ann-Tarie, haven't you already realized that you're speaking to a dreamer?" Saverus chuckled. "And not one I would classify as a proper demon, either. In some ways he's every bit as human as the rest of us."

  "Dreamers are a tall tale for children, and gullible ones at that!" parried the sorceress.

  "Whatever you heard from Monsieur Linos at his History of Arkon lecture in Rovendum might not be the ultimate truth you think it is. Do you consider Merdoc's prophecy of the demons' breakthrough a tall tale?"

  "Merdoc is a seer, and—"

  "Excuse me," I rose from the crate, interrupting the argument. "But if your instructions are clear, I'm going to take my leave now. My people are waiting for me..."

  "Your demons," Raena corrected me at once.

  "Fine, my demons," I smiled indulgently, waving farewell to the army of knights and mages. "See you after the battle. Oh, and don't worry about removing the wall," I winked to Saverus who was about to throw up his hands, and Jumped through the stone barrier blocking my way.

  A spotted yellow moon had crept its way onto the night sky. Reflecting in the chalice of the ruined fountain, moonlight flooded the structures that had outlived their masters, illuminating the somber faces of statues standing tall along the donjon's perimeter. It probably made for an eerie, unsettling sight. For anyone else but me, that is. Four thousand walking, rotting corpses? A giant arachnid boss? Big freaking deal... I grunted, diving into the shade of a two-story pentagonal building to let a patrol pass through to the western section of the citadel. Then, taking a left, I rounded four dilapidated structures and came out to the breach in the north fortress wall.

  "I'm here, it's all right," I reported in the command channel midway to the legion's location, bristling with stakes. Coming out of invis, I waved in the direction of the citadel and gave the order: "Begin fire!"

  The silence hanging over the valley was immediately shattered by the screeching of gates. Roughly a minute later stone rods smashed into crossbars with a terrible din, as a dozen scorching-hot boulders cut through the darkness between the legion and the fortress. Six projectiles smashed into the wall, causing no apparent damage; three more s
truck the donjon; and only one, having slipped in through the breach, hit at the very midst of the defenders, splashing incandescent stone fragments and sweeping away several dozens skeletons standing in tight formation.

  "Strike!" Reece bellowed in the general channel. "Where is my bonus beer, Salta?"

  I chuckled—no sooner would I use some expression or idiom around my guys than it would be almost instantly deployed in their everyday speech. Reece especially soaked everything up like a sponge, champing at the bit to hear me tell him about his renowned namesake. Or was d'Artagnan a last name? Who knew with those Frenchies!

  "Would you like it wrapped up to go?" the archeress inquired sarcastically.

  "Naw," Reece shook his head. "You can wrap things for James all you want—all I want is beer..."

  "Pipe down, you two," Elnar grumbled, peering intently into the dark bulk of the citadel. "Mages! Where is my light?!"

  "Nowhere close!" the answer came at once from the catapults. "We'd only make things worse by sticking a light source between us and the citadel."

  "Beyond the wall, a little to the left, about forty yards from the donjon there are ruins of three wooden structures. If you aim there, something will catch fire," feeding an apple to Gloom in response to him nuzzling my side, I indicated the trajectory to Elnar.

  "Mages! Did you see where to aim?!" yelled James. "Get to it! In five minutes flat I want to see every zit on those skeletal bastards' faces!"

  Historically speaking, ninety percent of catapults of antiquity were scorpios. Thanks to game developers and film studios over the past half century, however, most people today were of a different opinion. To be sure, before the appearance of trebuchets there were stone fougasses and similar ballistic devices of every variety, but none had become as ubiquitous as scorpios. All this had been dutifully explained to us by a military history expert at a company training, and it had made perfect sense. If you take a wooden rod—even one wrapped with some kind of thick fabric—and smash it against a crossbar, how many strikes would it last before breaking? Fifty? One hundred? Replacing them would become a major PITA! It was different in a world where wear-and-tear wasn't much of a factor—hell, even rotting bones in metal armor were just as functional now as centuries ago.

  Not five minutes had passed before something in the citadel's courtyard caught fire, and it became clear that there wouldn't be a counterattack coming from Craedia. The AI leading the fortress garrison must have decided its forces weren't powerful enough to assault a fortified camp, opting to take its armored skeletons behind the cover of fortress walls. Well, shit, I thought with a sigh, gazing at the blaze growing steadily inside the fortress. Attacking a stronghold on a hill with archers stationed atop thirty-five-foot walls wasn't my idea of a good time. Nor would the trick we'd deployed in Feator work here—the enemy's range from their elevated position was considerably greater than that of my troops... Well, I had five hours to devise a new strategy.

  "How did it go?" Vaessa's voice interrupted my ruminations.

  "Pretty great," I grunted, boasting my new sword to her just like a teenage boy would. The weapon was actually too long to fit into my scabbard, leaving me no choice but to carry it in my inventory for now. On the other hand, the blade was the perfect length for my demonic form, as if forged precisely for my hand... Or whatever the process was that had created it.

  "Is that the sword containing Erisjat's soul?" walking over alongside the necromancer's daughter, Gorm inspected the weapon in my hands, shaking his head in astonishment.

  "The very one," I nodded. "I've arranged everything with the knights—they will follow our plan."

  "Excellent. Then I'll order to stop the bombardment. The undead are all holed up behind castle walls, and we won't take them down in a week's time," Gorm sighed, gesturing at the fortifications. "Let the troops get some rest before the battle."

  "Agreed. As for the battle itself, I have a few ideas. Let me sort them out in my head first, then we'll discuss and decide on a proper plan."

  So what actually happened in that last vision? I thought, leaning back wearily against the sleeping boar while gazing at the camp drifting off to sleep. Having attended all the compulsory lectures and seminars on Arkon lore upon getting hired, for the life of me I couldn't remember anything even remotely resembling the events from the vision. If memory served me right, Lemuria was an expansion in the very early stages of development—still about five years away from release, with a small team of writers still fleshing out the main storyline. As for the titans, those were completely out of the blue. Caressing the hilt of the sword lying across my lap, I drew a sigh. I'd gotten used to quests falling on my head, but this particular quest took things to a whole new level. What was my objective? To kill the Ancients? That wasn't even funny—challenging them would be as asinine as a fly challenging a dragon. Or David challenging Goliath on steroids, where not even an epic scalable sling would be of any help. Really now, what could I possibly do to a monster who could make ground melt within a hundred-yard radius? One Jump would cover forty yards, then another six seconds to get within melee range—and then what? Considering what it had taken the winged warrior to break the titan's defense, my comparatively puny damage output wouldn't even leave a scratch.

  Then again, it was probably idiotic of me to even worry about the Ancients now. With the realm being over four thousand years old, I had simply been given a glimpse into its history, while the titans themselves were probably sound asleep in some end-game dungeon. But in that case, how was I supposed to complete the quest? By finding this Phallet's lair and shaking him awake? That might not be so hard—the foxes probably still remembered the ruins where Lars had found this sword. The part about needing thousands of allies was certainly daunting, but maybe that was a system error or a simple typo on account of it being an unfinished quest? How could one explain all of those question marks otherwise? Anyway, the important takeaway here was that I had finally scored a kickass sword! And this business with Phallet and the titans was so distant a prospect that I mustn't concern myself with it now—not when I had far more pressing matters to attend to.

  Chapter 3

  The morning sun peeked out from behind the white clouds, illuminating the gray bulk of Craedia before bouncing off the armor of getare lined up before the stronghold, creating a veritable light show of scintilating colors. Everybody was on foot. Horses were great for a ram attack, but not for climbing upslope. And though in my vision Ahriman's getare had ridden into the fortress on crocs, the enemy we were set to encounter inside the citadel wasn't the pitiful handful of humans that had awaited the Overlord. Nor did I have his Throne Attendants, capable of breaching the fortress wall with a single joint attack. As such, our strategy had to be somewhat amended.

  "The kid is maturing," Vaessa said next to me, her tone carrying a trace of sadness. She nodded to our right, where Elnar, standing before the troops, was making emphatic gestures toward Craedia while speaking with Elias and Gorm.

  "Maturing and changing is what men do," I grunted.

  It was true that James had undergone a visible transformation—the impetuous young man I'd met in Farot had become a stern and exacting military leader. And little wonder, too, what with the satrap and his senior officer deliberately abstaining from assuming command over my incomplete legion, and me wanting nothing to do with the role, in the past several weeks alone my colonel's leadership bar had crept right up to legate.

  "Not all men," the necromancer's daughter shook her head. "Take yourself, for instance. Your demonic constituent may be changing, but your essence remains the same..."

  "The same in what sense?" I inquired at once.

  "I'll tell you later," the young woman gave an enigmatic smile, and motioned toward the command. "Look, it's starting..."

  Gorm and Elias had apparently clarified whatever questions were bothering them. Giving Elnar a smack on the shoulder, the satrap followed the gray-haired commander toward his troops on the right flank—the Xan
tarians would storm the citadel through the second breach. Shifting from foot to foot, James yelled something to Iam, then turned and looked at me, the tension palpable in his eyes. I gave him a reassuring wink and gave my valiant half-legion one final look-over. Standing in the center, directly opposite the left breach, were the tanks and some of the melee dps, along with their healers. To their right and left, hiding behind full-height wooden shields, were two groups of mages. And in the very back were Salta's archers with the rest of the melee fighters, clutching long ladders. Today it would be the mages who would decide the severity of our troops' losses in the looming assault on the citadel. The trick I had planned likely wouldn't work against real players or advanced NPCs, but, thankfully, Craedia was being defended by regular mobs, which should make mine a feasible strategy. The plan hinged on a very particular detail: that ice, fire and stone showers—area-of-effect spells woven by mages of their respective schools—were supposed to strike the ground from a height of roughly twenty-thirty yards at a fifty-sixty degree angle. Thus, by hugging the fortress wall and deploying these abilities, the casters should end up outside the effective area while opening a proverbial can of whoopass on anyone caught in it. The castle garrison's governing AI had driven all the skeletal archers and liches to the walls, and, Hart be praised, they had no rocks, hot sand or boiling tar. My plan called for the tanks to block the breach without actually entering the castle while Vaessa, the mages and myself cleared a section of the wall right above them, then replace the fallen enemy with our own ranged and melee fighters. And I'd have to play it by ear from there, for as the renowned French commander had allegedly said, "No plan survives contact with the enemy." Presently the mages had only two problems: making it to the walls without casualties, and the enemy archers manning the walls. And if the first problem could be solved with the help of a wall of shields borrowed from the half-legion, the second one was entirely on me and Aritor; it was for this purpose that the main tank was covering the right flank, his own group of mages just behind him. How did your average person imagine your standard fortress or castle? Simple: four walls with battlements rising from them. And few people ever give thought to the inanity of such design. Battlements or towers should be erected further out in front so that the defenders could exploit their higher-ground advantage to take out the enemy storming the walls with crossfire. Unfortunately, the person designing Craedia was apparently no slouch in military history, as evidenced by the towers' proper position in front of the citadel... Wait, why unfortunately? This was going to be my castle! And the better its defenses, the more monsters would break their bloody teeth against its walls afterwards. As for now, my off-tank and I would cover the mages against the skeletal archers in the towers by drawing and keeping their aggro—this was the reason we were positioned on the edges.