by G. Akella
Part of the armor of the Elven King, Nakilon the Divider.
Requital.
Sword: two-handed.
Durability: 2489/3000.
Epic scalable.
No minimum level.
At level 10:
damage: 46-71,
+15 to strength,
+5 to vigor,
+10 to constitution,
+.5% to critical hit chance with a physical attack.
Weight: 15 lbs.
Forged by dwarves in the fiery chambers of Kuad Dor for Ertadyon.
Well, my luck was bound to run out at some point! Two scalable epic items, and I could use neither, since my class couldn't equip leather armor or two-handed swords. I sighed with disappointment. Scalable items grew in level and power along with their owner, and I couldn't begin to imagine what they were worth. Considering that they were dropped by a level 473 unique boss, each could probably fetch a luxury sports car.
As a rule, unique bosses dropped items with increased stats—the higher the boss' level, the better the stat bonuses. I stashed both items in storage to be dealt with later. The remaining fourteen items—eight rares and six epics—soon followed. Picture a Neanderthal stumbling onto a nuclear landmine. The analogy was more than apt, since the items were all level 400+, and I couldn't even sell them to anyone. Well, I could in theory, but I wasn't going to get back anything close to their real value.
Moving on the vessels, I had twenty vials of Shaartakh's blood and six of his saliva—all unique, unsurprisingly, since there was only one Shaartakh. The blood increased the value of any capped-out profession by one; the saliva added a random stat point to a weapon up to level 450, depending on the item's level. Awesome! As far as I knew, leveling professions at higher levels was sheer torture, so this would be by far the easiest +20 to any profession. And +1 stat to a weapon needed no explanation—random, sure, but better than a hole in the head!
Seven vials with Hellspawn Liver Extracts—a rare category base ingredient for level 200+ alchemical potions. According to the wiki, one example was the Great Elixir of Magic Resistance, which boosted all maximum resistances by 10% for six hours and persisted through death. The component was surely quite expensive, but useless to me for the moment. Who knew when I'd level my alchemy to 200, or if I would pick up alchemy at all?
Six epic quality vials with a Potion of Greater Healing, which instantly removed all diseases and curses and restored all hit points. Nice! In light of the recent changes of 20% reduction in levels and stats upon death, this could prove truly irreplaceable.
A strange unique vial the color of gold:
Shaartakh's Breath.
Unique item. Potion.
Duration: 30 seconds.
Effect: the mighty Monster's breath transforms your essence, making your stats on par with the stats of your opponent or the strongest enemy within a 20 yard radius.
Break to use.
I shrugged. Sure, when facing Shaartakh or someone of that caliber, it would be cool to acquire those stats for half a minute, but then what? Your gear and weapon would remain unchanged. Or would they? I wasn't going to waste the potion's single use to find out. At the very least, this little bottle should be able to save my life in a pinch.
But the remaining five vials were all good news!
Shaartakh's Venom.
Unique item. Potion.
Duration: 600 seconds.
Effect: no creature can withstand the ancient Monster's venom. Your opponent's health will shrink to 1/10th of their maximum value.
Throw at your opponent to use.
I knew raid leaders that would sell their soul for five vials like this! And using it solo would be akin to swatting a fly with a jackhammer. But certainly a nice ace to have up your sleeve in case of an emergency.
Filling up the last four belt slots, I put two Potions of Greater Healing, one poison, just in case, and, after some hesitation, Shaartakh's Breath—if anything, it was another chance at survival. The remaining vials and money I put into my private storage, leaving only fifty gold on me for basic expenses.
It was time to go down, have some chow and shop for some gear. As ridiculous as it sounded, at level 67 my character still hadn't had a single kill.
Suddenly I remembered the two strange items from before. I opened my bag and pulled up the mirror. A lovely oval encased in ornate truesilver—which had some value in its own right—with glass polished to perfection. Most likely of elven craftsmanship.
You've accessed the quest: Isyliel's Mirror.
Quest type: hidden.
Return the mirror to its rightful owner.
Reward: experience, unknown.
And not another word: not about who this Isyliel was nor where to look for her. And another hidden quest to boot. It was almost not even surprising anymore. I shrugged and put the item back in the bag, then pulled out the piece of fabric from there and laid it out on the desk. A menacing boar's muzzle was scowling back at me from the brown background, clearly marking some kind of banner. Tattered at the sides, with two holes in the middle, the fabric was stained with something reddish, presumably blood.
***
"What are you grinning at?" Drang gave Scitti a frowning, sour look. "You're a grownup now with a son of your own, but you're just as hyper as you were thirty years ago. No wonder Gorin still has you as an apprentice. A proper dwarf should be even-keeled and dignified, like me," he poked his thumb into his chest.
"Yeah, yeah. Keep washing swill down with beer, you'll be making faces even screwier than that," Scitti snapped back. "Gorin is still pissed that Darna chose me—he'd wanted Scovr as his son-in-law real bad. But it's all right, he loves his grandson just the same. One of these days he'll finally let it go."
"And who can blame him? You're not half the dwarf Scovr is—the legion's banner-bearer and a junior master for seven years now." Drang motioned toward the senior officers standing some fifty yards away from the formation. To their right, holding a long flagstaff at the pointed end of which the legion's banner fluttered in the wind, stood a tall broad-shouldered dwarf. "What do you keep looking at over there?"
"Dark elves, and Kirana's with them!" Scitti pointed at the group of mages from the Great Forest. "Did they forget something?"
"Covering their archers, obviously," the dwarf pulled another grimace, clearly suffering from a hangover. "You should be happy. If it weren't for them, there wouldn't be many of us left in Wolfish Wastes. We've buried a third of our people as it is," he added, the frown on his face growing deeper. "Our own Grimnir is on the front lines with the rest of them, while we're here twiddling our thumbs for reasons I cannot comprehend."
They had been standing here on a small elevation for two hours now, roughly two hundred yards behind the Wind Talkers, waiting for the battle to start, itching to start marching and cover the archers and the mages that were helpless before the hellspawn.
In the momentous battle on Wolfish Wastes, when their Sixth Legion took the brunt of the attack from Velial's main host, they held on by the skin of their teeth with the support of dark elf mages while the other legions, led by the the Erantian cavalry, maneuvered to flank the roaring monsters.
Today they had been left in reserve. For two days the troops had been keeping a rapid pace in hopes of securing an advantageous position in Saakum Gorge, protected by mountains on either side. Now everybody was ready: Erantian cavalry cohorts on the left flank, six legions of the Mountain Kingdom at the center with centuries of dark and light elf archers covering them from aerial attacks by winged demons.
The mages, whose main task was protecting the army, took up the right flank directly in front of them. Safe behind the legions, the battered yet celebrated Sixth Legion was nonetheless at their side, the mithril blades of their pikes and halberds gleaming in the morning sunlight.
"Like I said, it's all good," Scitti gave a wide grin, fixed his mustache and winked at his friend. "Their women are all right, if a bit scrawny. But they're n
ot so bad where it counts," leaning his pike against his torso, he made a gesture alluding to precisely the attribute of elven women he found passable. "And Kirana... that girl is all kinds of cute—"
"Shut up, you idiot!" Drang hissed at him. "She's a goddess, what if she overhears?! Have you seen her swing that sword of hers? She'll split a dozen like you in half and won't even notice that you're all wearing mithril... Look, I think it's starting!"
Sounds of magical explosions reached their ranks, as magic shields were activated over the rows of legions. Archer cohorts began an up-tempo march at the beck of their commanders' battle cries.
"Stand your ground! Silence and focus!" Aracus' voice reached them, amplified by magic. Imperturbable as ever, the legate wasn't even looking in the direction of the battle.
There were no major happenings in the next fifteen minutes; only when the two hosts met did Saakum Gorge seem to shudder from the impact.
"Hey, look," Scitti elbowed his comrade in the side, pointing toward the nearby cliff flanking them. "What's going on over... Alarm! Alarm!" he bellowed.
All heads turned at once. The magical shroud fell, and the dwarves beheld a whole army advancing on them, less than two hundred yards away and closing in.
"First cohort, advance straight, left shoulder forward! Second, third and fourth cohorts, left shoulder forward, two lines, ten deep, by the numbers!" the legate's commands sounded over the horns sounding alarm and were instantly echoed by the tribunes. The war drums thundered as banners were hoisted skyward, and the Sixth Legion began turning toward the approaching enemy at maximum speed.
The right edge of the host was held by the third century, affording clear view of three huge squads of advancing demons of dizzying diversity, and four giant monsters bringing up the rear.
"Which rat's tit did they crawl out of?!" Drang growled, staring at them with bitter hatred.
"Field-Marshal Bagert's legions," explained the gray-mustached Davrin, standing in Drang's row to his left. "Gaunil, Grohn and Shaartakh are his generals." Catching his weapon with his other hand, he pointed at three of the four towering shapes. "And the black one behind them is the commander himself."
"How did they get past us? They're five times as many! We've got the mages and Kirana, and somehow they slipped their attention?!"
"Must be Syrat's handiwork, that jackass. He and his brother have gone over to Velial's side, and only dark magic can deceive dark elves. Unless I'm missing something..."
"Quit your yapping and get into formation!" barked Centurion Gerkan from in front and a bit to their right, peering alarmingly into the advancing avalanche of hellspawn no more than five hundred yards away.
"Shieldbangers, close your lines! Rows three and six, pikes in front! Back rows support front rows!" the centurions' voices thundered through the air. Lowering his pike on the shoulders of the comrades standing in front of him, Scitti gathered his focus and prepared for the assault.
Four massive fireballs crashed into the shields of dark elf mages who had apparently recovered in time. The fifth broke through the defenses and smashed into the ranks of combat-ready fourth century. Cries of pain of dwarves burning alive filled the air.
"Legionnaires!" boomed the legate's voice. "Those beasts and their forsaken god aim to hit the flank of our army! If we fail to hold the line, they will break through to the mages, trample the archers and strike our brothers in the rear! Let's show those fiends what the Bronzebacks are worth in battle!"
His response was the deafening roar of four thousand gullets of revved up warriors.
The response from Kirana and the mages was almost instant, as nearly a third of the advancing squads was buried under a hail of ice spears. One of the monsters—a giant spider with what appeared to be three torn off legs—collapsed on its side and started rolling on the ground, wailing terribly and crushing the attackers' ranks.
The power of the demons' assault was horrific. As the two armies clashed, a peal of thunder seemed to rise over the gorge, punctuated by cries of blood lust and pain. Here and there demon bodies convulsed and went limp, punctured by the pikes. Shieldbangers worked their axes in a flurry, cutting down the demons that had broken through the wall of pikes.
Scitti's pike was wrenched from his grasp, and he barely kept his balance. Grabbing the shield off his back, he pulled out the axe from his side and immediately sliced off a leg of some vile creature that had leaped over the dwarven ranks. A moment later, his neighbor buried his axe deep into the hapless monster's chitin-plated neck.
"Hold the line!" their centurion's voice roared from afar. And they did, except many attackers possessed the kind of jumping ability that helped them to easily leap over the wall of shields, raining down on the heads of soldiers in the back rows.
A humanoid demon with a severed lower extremity fell right on top of Scitti, flailing its sharp-clawed paws in convulsions, spattering him with the ooze from its stub and smashing painfully into his hip. Clenching his jaw in disgust, he shoved the creature aside with his shield and finished it off with his axe. He heard grunting behind him, accompanied by hacking sounds—the battle was joined by the halberdiers.
Scitti sliced left and right—splitting skulls and cleaving vulnerable bellies of fiends breaking through the line. The ground underfoot was swimming in blood and guts. He'd been separated from Drang, and the dwarf hoped desperately that his friend was still alive. He could still hear the occasional command of their centurion and glimpse some kind of flashes all around. He watched a seven-foot-tall toad-like demon pounce on a shieldbanger, who stood his ground, albeit with considerable difficulty. Scitti charged and hacked at the beast from the side until it collapsed to the ground, wheezing in agony.
There was an unbearable howl that blocked his ears, and the dwarf spun around to see a huge gray mass, like a giant cave slug, hurling legionnaires left and right as it scuttled toward the dark elf mages pelting it with spells. A little off to the side, Goddess Kirana had engaged Bagert, and the earth blazed around the two adversaries. Not even the Netherworld's elder demon's massive mallet could break the goddess' shield, but her spells were likewise glancing off his defenses. After a moment's deliberation, Scitti tossed his shield aside, snatched a halberd from the grasp of a dead soldier, and plunged it hard into one of the monster's tentacles. The blade broke through the gray skin, and a fountain of green ichor gushed from the wound. The dwarf nearly hurled from the stench, but held his stomach together long enough to land another strike before being knocked back by the beast's counter blow.
Scitti opened his eyes. He didn't know how much time had passed; all he knew was that he was still alive and that he was wrapped up in something warm. His ears still ringing, the dwarf began climbing back to his feet when he saw a hole in the center of his breastplate, made by one of the spikes on the monster's tentacles. Then why was he still alive? Or was he already in the halls of the Mountain Kings? No, there was the reason—his legion's banner, now stained with his blood, had simply fallen on top of him. It was clear now—the relic had prevented his death. The banner was a powerful artifact that imparted strength to the warriors that went into battle with it; it was protected against hostile magic and handling.
"It's my turn to carry it, brother," with those words, the dwarf removed the banner from Scovr's lifeless hands. Leaning heavily on the flagstaff, he straightened his shoulders and grinned. Well, Master Gorin, you got your wish—your daughter is the wife of a banner-bearer! he thought to himself while surveying his surroundings.
The Sixth Legion had fulfilled their final task, buying time for the mages and archers to regroup. No more than a third of the attacking hellspawn had broken through, which were being finished off by the princes' heavy cavalry. But the legion was no more. The battlefield was a veritable sea of corpses, reeking of rot, blood and scorched flesh. And the unbearable stench exuded by the demons' carcasses. No, the Sixth is alive, he corrected himself and stroked the warm flagstaff tenderly. Just then a gust of wind touched the bann
er, and it smiled at Scitti with a scowling boar's muzzle.
The battle, however, was far from over.
Left all alone, Kirana was barely parrying the attacks of the Black Demon's mallet. Moreover, the nasty beast that had nearly ended his life was lingering not far away, eyeing the goddess. Kirana wasn't going to last long. The demon's eyes oozed wisps of mist that entwined the woman, weakening her and slowing her movements. And she couldn't do anything to stop it while occupied by the Netherworld army's field-marshal.
There wasn't a knight or mage in sight to help her in time, and as Scitti considered his options, Kirana cast a desperate look around. The sight of her in battle at that moment was terrifying.
And it spurred him to make a decision. The beast ensnaring the goddess was maybe a hundred feet away, its body stretched out parallel to the ground so that its eyes were six feet in the air. Scitti lowered the flagstaff like a pike and sprinted at the target, ramming the point into one of the monster's eyes at full speed. So strong was the impact that the banner disappeared fully into the eye socket, which burst and began to spurt a fetid discharge. The wounded beast's bloodcurdling wail drowned out all the other sounds in the vicinity. The monster literally trampled the offender into the ground with two mighty blows, spun in place and vanished into a portal.
Free of the magic shackles, the goddess unleashed a series of powerful strikes at the unsuspecting Black Demon. One of the attacks found a breach, and Velial's field-marshal collapsed to the floor of Saakum Gorge with a punctured gullet.
When Prince Daar's vanguard of knights made it to the site of the Sixth Legion's demise, they bore witness to an eerie sight. Sitting on the ground in the center of a field littered with bodies was a young woman in clean garb and hair black as midnight, her hand resting on the chest of a legionnaire, gazing wordlessly into his lifeless eyes.
One of the knights was about to say something, but the commander jerked his hand upward, bidding silence.