Troll Nation

by James A. Hunter

  “You’ve got it. I’m Randy, by the way.” The guy held out his hand to shake.

  Scott ignored it. “And I’m thirsty.”

  “Oh, right.” The guy, Randy, hustled off to the bar. When he came back he had two flagons of beer. He set them both in front of Scott.

  Despite the fact that this guy was both an admin and a player with a much higher level, the dude caught on quick who the real alpha dog was.

  Scott took a long pull off the first beer, then sat back in his chair.

  “So, what’re you people going to do about this dickhole?” he asked, wiping foam from his upper lip with the back of one hand.

  “I’ve been investigating him,” Randy said. “You’ve logged the most complaints against Roark the Griefer since he appeared. You’ve also had the most single-player encounters against him and the record high number of deaths at his hands. My ultimate goal is to put a stop to what he’s doing, but I can’t do that alone. You’re the one player with enough face-to-face experience with the Griefer to help me.” He faltered, the slew of words winding down. “So, uh, will you?” he finished lamely.

  Scott grinned. Maybe he wasn’t done with that fake-pirate turd after all.

  “All right,” he said. “I’m in. What’s the plan?”

  The Outcast’s Tale

  TWO HOURS LATER, ROARK respawned in the Keep throne room wearing nothing but a threadbare loincloth and the World Stone Pendant. His Initiate’s Spell Book, soulbound like the World Stone, was still in his Inventory, but everything else he’d taken into the arena with him that morning was on his corpse, probably still lying in pieces in the dirt.

  And there it would stay. It bloody hurt to lose his Slender Rapier of the Diving Falcon—it was the first weapon he’d ever looted from PwnrBwner—but walking back into the arena to retrieve it would be suicide. Even if Bad_Karma had left, everyone else in Hearthworld who wanted a piece of him would be camped out and ready to grief the Griefer. As much as he wanted his gear, he wouldn’t give them that satisfaction.

  Cursing under his breath, Roark headed for the Blacksmith Shop and Armory in the Troll Nation Marketplace.

  Once he was properly outfitted in a set of Peerless Leather Armor—dual-enchanted with a Dexterity bonus and Movement Speed—and armed with a new Peerless Slender Rapier and Peerless Kaiken Dagger, he headed for the inn. He kept adjusting the rapier at his side, though it rode perfectly on his hip. He’d smithed and enchanted the weapon himself, giving it another dose of Dexterity, then adding a Flawless Ruby, granting the weapon a seven percent chance to inflict Bleeding Wound. It was of better quality than his old Slender Rapier of the Diving Flacon had been. But it just wasn’t the same.

  He tried to shove the thought from his mind as he jogged up the inn steps and let himself inside.

  A Knight Thursr in an enormous white chef’s toque and apron waved at him from across the common room, which was filled with Trolls eating, talking, and laughing.

  “Roark is back!” Kaz said, delighted, weaving through the tables toward him, a plate of some strange meat strips in hand. “Roark will not believe the amazing new food Kaz has learned of in his absence!”

  Before Kaz could make it to him, however, a cannon blast of scales and shell hit Roark in the back of the legs, taking his knees out and slamming him to the ground. The impact knocked the breath out of him and stole away a sliver of his newly refilled Health vial. Mac trotted up his back on fat, clawed feet and nuzzled his beak against Roark’s face.

  Roark chuckled and tried to shove the Young Turtle Dragon away. “If you want me to pet you, you’ll have to get off me, Mac. I can’t bend my arms that way.”

  Obligingly the heavy beast clambered off Roark. Roark rolled onto his back and sat up. A moment later, Mac was in his lap play-biting at Roark’s face and arms while Roark wrestled with him. They scrapped, knocking over chairs and bumping against benches, Roark happy to forget for the moment that he’d just lost his favorite rapier and been decimated by a hero he was supposed to kill, all in one fell swoop.

  Until a dusky feminine voice said, “This is the sort of professionalism you can expect from the Dungeon Lord and founder of the Troll Nation.”

  Zyra was on the common room stairs with a frail-looking Nocturnus in blue-black robes.

  “Ick,” Roark said, grinning as he took in the Nocturnus’s repaired form. “The gauntlet worked, then. I wasn’t sure what might happen if someone who wasn’t native to the citadel used it.”

  Ick inclined his head a touch, his tentacle-hair sliding over his shoulders. “Many thanks for your sacrifice. My suspicion that you were more than you let on proved correct, but I had no idea you were the Griefer of rumor.”

  “Roark must see what Ick brought with him to the citadel,” the Knight Thursr said, shoving the plateful of crispy meat in Roark’s face. “Saber Boar Bacon! He is wonderful, Roark! Invaluable!”

  On the stairs, the Nocturnus tipped his head modestly. “I had the foresight to know that looting a bit during the fight would come in useful later, but I did not realize it would have quite so much impact.”

  “Roark must try a bite,” Kaz insisted. “It is... Dare Kaz say it?” The Mighty Gourmet stood up straighter and looked off into the distance heroically, the picture of integrity. “Yes. Yes, Kaz must tell the truth. This bacon, Roark, it is better than even skewers!”

  Roark had to take a strip of the boar bacon or risk having its grease smeared all over his face by the overeager Knight Thursr. The moment Roark reached for it, however, Mac took advantage of his distraction and clamped down on his forearm. The bite was friendly, but the tip of his beak punctured Roark’s armor and drew a bit of blood. Roark twisted his arm out of the Young Turtle Dragon’s mouth and shoved him off, slapping him affectionately around the shell, then scratching his scaly head to let him know they were done roughhousing. As a peace offering, he ripped the bacon in half and gave the smaller piece to Mac. Then he popped the other half in his own mouth.

  The flavor exploded like an Incendiary Blast across his palate. Salty, smoky, crispy, yet simultaneously chewy. He closed his eyes and savored its perfection. He forgot sometimes how something as simple as good food could blow away the tension and frustration of an otherwise awful day.

  When he opened his eyes again, Kaz’s nose was almost touching his, awaiting his reaction. Roark flinched back, startled.

  “What does Roark think?” Kaz asked, eyes shining with anticipation, bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. “Does he love bacon or does he adore it? Because Kaz adores it.”

  “It’s brilliant, mate,” Roark said honestly as he stood up and inched back to a comfortable distance. “You’re every bit the Gourmet from your title and then some.”

  Kaz gave an elated shiver and clapped his hands with glee. “Ick brought this wonderful food to us! Say that he can join the Troll Nation, Roark, oh please!”

  Eyebrow raised, Roark turned to Ick. “It’s up to him, Kaz, not me.”

  The Nocturnus shrugged. “It has been many years since I was part of a dungeon. But you are formidable, Roark the Griefer, and I wish to join your crusade against both the heroes and the Vault of the Radiant Shield. I can offer my skills as a Witchdoctor to your cause, as well as pledge you up the ranks of Night Magick.”

  “I explained to him that we already had an Arcane Paragon who could train people in magic,” Zyra said flatly, clearly not as impressed with the Nocturnus as Kaz was.

  “Forgiveness,” Ick said, “but I also explained to her that a Paragon is quite different from a Witchdoctor, and one cannot train in the other’s skill set. A Paragon trains in Light Magicks. Only a Witchdoctor can train in Night Magick.”

  Roark recalled the metallic auras and Health spells the Nocturnus had cast during their ill-fated fight with Bad_Karma, not to mention that sun-hiding silvery blast of moonlight and flame. Support like that would come in handy, and Ick was a powerful combatant. Truth be told, the Nocturnus was growing on Roark. Even his to
o-perceptive eight-eyed gaze. Once Zyra saw him in action, as he had, Roark was sure she would come around to the strange little creature. If there was one thing Zyra valued, it was competence, and Ick seemed to have that by the bucketload.

  “You’re welcome in the citadel for as long as you follow the rules,” Roark said. “No killing natives or customers of the marketplace.”

  Ick’s mandibles clicked together, and his eyes glimmered. The Nocturnus version of a beaming smile. “Many thanks.”

  “With that out of the way,” Zyra said, “on to more important matters.” She turned to Kaz and held out her hand. “Roark was sent for respawn before supper. I believe you owe me one hundred gold.”

  Kaz scowled and started unloading handfuls of coin into Zyra’s waiting hands.

  “The fight was probably very close,” the Knight Thursr grumbled.

  “You didn’t put money on close, big guy,” Zyra said. “You put it on victory.”

  Roark’s mood darkened once more, and he slumped into the table in the far corner, which had become theirs, reserved for the Dungeon Lord’s inner circle by unspoken agreement.

  “It wasn’t close,” he admitted. Mac shoved his way under the table, bumping and jostling it with his spiked shell as if he didn’t realize he was nearly too big to fit beneath, then laid his head in Roark’s lap and promptly fell asleep. Roark scratched the Young Turtle Dragon’s scaly head absently as he thought back on the fight. “Bad_Karma was nearly impossible to wound, and every time I managed to do damage, he reflected most of it onto me.”

  A little Changeling chef’s apprentice raced by and dropped off Roark’s preferred ale unbidden, then scampered away without a word to see to the other customers. Condensation beaded on the side of the flagon. Roark picked it up and took a deep drink of the cold amber liquid. Being Dungeon Lord did have a few perks.

  “Not to mention that every time he landed a strike, it refilled his Health by absorbing mine,” Roark added, returning his flagon to the table and wiping a bit of foam from his mouth.

  “We discussin’ Bad_Karma, then?” Griff asked, coming down the staircase. The grizzled weapons trainer sauntered over and lowered himself into a chair with a groan and popping of old joints. He checked under the table, then propped his foot up on Mac’s shell. “Caught your fight, Griefer. Nasty stuff. You did all you could, but like as not, you won’t stand a chance of beatin’ him without bein’ at least his level.”

  “So Roark griefs more heroes,” Kaz said with a shrug of his massive shoulders. “Kaz will help funnel them toward Roark again. It was very fun last time, and we can bring bacon for a delightful snack between heroes.”

  Trying not to get his hopes up, Roark pulled up his character sheet and did the math. Even if he disrupted the portal plates for the next three days and griefed every player who came into the citadel, one after another, there was no way he could reach level 50 before the quest timer ran out. He was only level 36 now, and that had taken a month or more in Hearthworld time of strenuous effort and brutal campaigning. And to make matters worse, earning each new level became exponentially more difficult. Now that he’d hit his Jotnar Infernali form, any death would automatically reset him to level 36.

  “It’s a mathematical impossibility.” He scrubbed his hands across his face. “Even if we had the full seventy-two hours left, I couldn’t make level 50 in time.”

  Zyra grabbed a chair from an unoccupied table nearby and spun it around, sitting on it backward.

  “What about contact poison?” she asked, folding her arms over the seat back. “Something Unique and Virulent. I’ve got some of each in the shop, but given a few hours, I could probably whip up a poison that fits both qualifications into one bottle.”

  “Apologies.” Ick shook his head, tentacles sliding over his shoulders. He’d sidled closer to the table as silently as Zyra could when Shadow Stalking. “But Blood Magick users spawn with full immunity to all poisons and venoms. Contact poison would have no effect.”

  “What if I used Clotwart to counteract his immunity?” the Reaver asked.

  “In the poison?” Ick clarified, blinking a few of his outer eyes.

  “The poison he’s immune to,” Zyra said, her voice taking on a rare self-deprecating edge. She bumped the heel of her hand against her hidden forehead. “Right. Of course it won’t work.”

  Roark raked his claws through his hair. “Any other ideas?”

  Griff scratched at his bristly jaw. Kaz opened his mouth, then deflated and shut it again. Zyra’s hood was trained on the floor, her hand inside cupping her chin.

  Roark sighed.

  “It’s fine,” he said, hoping he sounded more convinced than he felt. “We’ll figure it out. I just need some time to think it over. Regroup.”

  In spite of his effort to reassure them, a heavy silence fell over the table. Mac squirmed in his sleep as if he could feel its uncomfortable weight pressing down on him.

  After a few moments of this, Zyra stood up with a scrape of her chair. “Well, boys, as much as I enjoy these depressing little get-togethers of ours, I’m going to go do literally anything else. Maybe there’s some sort of lethal concoction or a different delivery system we’re overlooking. I’ll be in the shop if you need me.”

  Kaz fidgeted as he watched Zyra go.

  “What is it, mate?” Roark asked wearily.

  The Knight Thursr’s ears sagged like a fretting puppy. “Kaz doesn’t want to leave Roark... Especially not after such a defeat.” He glanced around the quickly filling common room. “It’s only that, with the inn doing such good business around mealtimes, Mai will be needing Kaz’s help in the kitchen. One must stay ahead of the dinner rush while still providing pristine, delicious meals if one hopes to remain in business,” the Mighty Gourmet quoted.

  Roark didn’t bother asking which of Kaz’s culinary heroes he was quoting, though he felt he’d heard enough of both chefs by now to be fairly confident it had come from Jordan Bamsey.

  “Don’t worry about it, Kaz,” he said with a wave of his hand. “We’ve got to keep this place running smoothly, present a confident public face, or the other Dungeon Lords will smell blood in the water. Go ahead.”

  With one last worried glance his way, Kaz disappeared into the kitchen, ducking to avoid knocking the enormous white Gourmet’s toque from his head on the doorframe.

  Roark leaned back in his seat and took a long draught of cold ale.

  “You’ve got the right idea, Griefer,” Griff said. “Nothing tastes better after a hard day in the arena than a cold drink.”

  The weapons trainer raised a scar-crossed hand and got the attention of one of the little Changelings sprinting around the common room.

  “Bring us a scotch when you’ve got a minute,” Griff said. Then he glanced over at the Nocturnus and shoved an empty chair toward him. “Rest your shanks, Ick. You had a rough one, too. What’re you drinkin’?”

  “Many thanks.” The Nocturnus sank into the chair with a grateful half-bow. “I have heard endless good things about the Mighty Gourmet’s spiced mead.”

  “It’ll set you right,” Griff agreed. “One of each, if you please,” he said to the Changeling, dropping a palmful of gold in the little creature’s hand.

  With a sharp nod, the Changeling sprinted off for the springhouse at the back of the inn, where the drinks and meats were kept cool. Moments later, the three of them had a drink in hand.

  Griff took a sip of his scotch, then sighed in appreciation. “That hits the spot, for certain.”

  “The notes of cinnamon and honey are highly refreshing as well,” Ick agreed, swirling the mead in his goblet.

  Roark glared down into his flagon, unable to shake his gloom long enough to agree.

  A rough hand slapped him on the back. “Truth be told, Griefer, you lasted longer against Bad_Karma than I expected you to. Taking to the air was a smart play. And I thought you had him with the ice spear through the wing—the move was a peach. Could see clear as day that he
never expected something like that from a mob. Truth be told, he had me fooled as much as he had you fooled.” Griff chuckled.

  A fraction of the tension in Roark’s shoulders and neck loosened. He took a deep breath and blew it out.

  “Were you ever up against someone like him in the arena?” Roark asked. “A level 50?”

  The weapons trainer waved his scotch dismissively. “Bah, this level, that level, this class, that class. I’ve fought a fair few of ’em over the years, but after a while, all them high-falutin’ heroes just start to look like obnoxious little pricks.”

  Roark choked, snorting ale up into his sinuses. Across the table, Ick was clicking his mandibles together and his sapphire eyes were sparkling as if the Nocturnus, too, were struggling to contain his mirth at Griff’s pronouncement.

  “The both of you ought to be right proud of your fight today,” Griff said, tapping a blunt finger on the tabletop in emphasis. He turned his single eye to Ick. “That was some mighty fine support castin’ I saw out there. Where’d you say you hailed from?”

  The Nocturnus set his goblet on the table and stared down at it. “At one time, I was happily entrenched in the Jungles of Eternal Night.” Ick’s rasping voice had softened and taken on an almost melancholy tone.

  “Hope you don’t mind my askin’,” Griff said.

  “No offense was taken, friend,” Ick assured him, though the many spidery legs jutting from his back wriggled. “It is a place of surpassing beauty, and I am proud to have spawned there.”

  “You mentioned you were cast out into the wilds by your mistress.” Roark sat forward a bit, resting his elbows on the table. Mac chirped grumpily under the table at his moving pillow, but Roark ignored him. “What happened?”

  Ick’s mandibles clicked, and his eight-eyed gaze became faraway. A Nocturnus’s version of a sad smile, if Roark had to guess.

  “She was a beauty to behold,” Ick said fondly. “And the severest conquistador ever to serve the Nocturnus Empire. Under her generalship, we soon counted every inch of the Jungles as ours. I was her personal Witchdoctor in battle, chosen by her own many hands from the creche and assigned as her support during our now legendary raids of the Underworld Cairns. But I soon discovered that I was not chosen for my abilities—though I hope you will not think I am inflating myself if I say that they are more than worthy of such. No indeed, my mistress was using me to make a play for the Overlord’s Web.” Ick paused a moment, blinking his many eyes. “Your equivalent, I believe, would be called a Dungeon Lord’s throne.”