by James Hunter
Ankara was, without a doubt, the most beautiful city I’d seen in Eldgard, but conversely, the Bath District of Ankara was the grossest place I’d seen. Apparently, Ankara was a metropolis of extremes. The streets in the Bath District were cramped, narrow things made of cracked hardpan instead of sandstone, and littered with rubble, mud, and fluttering pieces of cloth. The people, all Accipiter, were more often than not dirt-caked, their hair greasy, their eyes hollow, their feathers molting and dull. There were a handful of vendors, selling questionable looking bread and even more questionable meat, but no real merchants.
Nothing like in the other sections of the city.
Eventually, we took to the foul back alleys in an attempt to avoid the claustrophobic thoroughfares and the press of unwashed bodies. We made better time, but instead of dirty Accipiter, we had to contend with rank puddles of fetid water, mangy dogs, and scampering rats almost as big as the pooches. After half an hour, we finally ducked onto a nearly empty street, cloaked in constant shade by the neighboring buildings. It wasn’t hard to tell why the street was empty: the whole place reeked like the inside of a dumpster behind a sushi bar.
This was the heart of the Bath District, so named because you needed a serious bath to scrub away the stink. According to Cutter, the runoff from the tannery, the stockyards, and the sewer ways all converged in a central pipeline running beneath this street. The place we’d come to find was a crude three-story building of mud and straw, its walls leaning drunkenly, the white plaster cracked or crumbling, the yawning windows covered with fluttering, sun-faded curtains instead of glass. A pair of grimy, rough-edged Accipiter in dark leathers loitered out front—a threat to warn away anyone who didn’t have business here.
Unfortunately, we did have business.
We beelined across the street, and for a second I thought the surly guards would give us a hard time, but one nasty glare from Forge, combined with a cold and feral grin from Amara, saw us through without a hitch. The inside of the Knobby Knee was even worse than the outside suggested and left me feeling supremely uncomfortable. It was dim and poorly lit, the walls were cracked and pockmarked, and a thick cloud of cloying blue-gray smoke hung in the air. Even a faint whiff of the acrid smoke left my head foggy and my stomach queasy. There wasn’t much by way of furniture. Just giant dirty Persian-style rugs strewn all over the crude mud floors.
Men and women—filthy, rail thin, and sickly pale—lounged on the rugs, leaning against fraying pillows as they inhaled the stale smoke from bulky glass hookahs with a host of tubes snaking off each one like rubbery spider legs. The whole scene was deeply disturbing. And more so because even at a glance it was obvious these people weren’t smoking tobacco. Not with those glazed and glassy eyes. Not with their skin paper thin. Not with those gaunt cheeks. This place was some sort of opium den, and these people were addicts.
I’d worked as an EMT for long enough to know all the signs.
As with the hangover debuff, the existence of a place like this shook my faith in the whole system. Why make this? Sure, it added an extra layer of submersion and reality to the gaming experience, but was that worth it? Then I reminded myself that Robert Osmark had known about the asteroid long before the general public. He’d always planned to turn VGO into a new feudal system with him at the helm, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this was part of the scheme, too. Had he allowed a place like this to exist as a means to placate and control the serfs in his new kingdom?
It felt horribly cynical to think that way, but after talking with Osmark, I wouldn’t put it past him. Not after hearing his disdain for the average person and the length he was willing to go to achieve his goals. I glanced at Abby and saw the same disgust and uncertainty on her face.
We headed deeper into the building, leaving behind the glassy-eyed addicts as we passed through a curtain made of polished bits of colorful glass. On the other side was a plush office, hugely at odds with the rest of the building: sandstone floors, crystal walls, lush carpets, and elaborate tapestries. Even an immaculate chandelier hung suspended overhead. A prim Accipiter woman with chestnut eyes and a mass of auburn hair sat behind a sprawling crystal desk with a bulky Risi bodyguard flanking her on either side. And those guards looked like they meant serious business.
With their steel plate mail and beefy axes, both looked like a match for Forge, and I hoped this wouldn’t devolve into a fight.
The woman smiled, a frosty thing showing too many teeth, and stared at us over steepled fingers. “Now what is this we have here?” she purred, her voice equal parts smoky and sultry. “You lot aren’t our typical clientele, and you’re outsiders to boot.” She leaned forward, lips drawing down into a frown. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be worried for your soul,” Amara replied with a dismissive sniff before I could speak. “Peddling Affka in the Storme Marshes is a good way to find yourself exiled.” Her glare was as cutting as a razor blade. “Or dead.”
“Well,” the woman said, shrugging one shoulder, “it’s a good thing we’re not in the Storme Marshes, then, isn’t it? And here in Ankara the Affka trade is entirely legal and embraced by the Merchant Council and King Ibrahim himself.”
“I hear King Ibrahim’s love for Affka is the reason some people call him the Mad King,” Cutter replied offhandedly, casually surveying the room—no doubt casing it for valuables to steal.
The woman thumbed her nose and shrugged again. “I couldn’t say. And, word to the wise: if I were you, I wouldn’t say such things where anyone more reputable might overhear. In Ankara, peddling Affka is legal, but speaking ill of the Merchant King certainly isn’t. Now, let me ask again. Should I be worried by your presence in my humble shop?”
“No,” I said, before shooting Cutter and Amara hard, please shut up now stares. “We were referred here by Hakim, from the Lucky Rooster. He told me you could help us find the entrance to a set of old tunnels that might lead to the Citadel of Arzokh.”
“Ah,” she replied, leaning back and visibly relaxing. “So you’re the daring band of adventurers responsible for robbing Yusuf. Quite the extraordinary tale. And made all the better since no one likes old Yusuf—an insufferable moron.” She paused, uncrossed long sleek legs, then carefully recrossed them. “Well, needless to say, you won’t find any opposition from me. My name is Ekrin, and I am but a lowly businesswoman, offering a necessary, even if distasteful, service to the fine people of Ankara.
“And yes, I can point you in the right direction—especially since you’re friends of Hakim’s.” Ekrin hesitated, on the verge of saying something. “Since you are guests here, seeking my aid,” she finally said, “I will be so bold as to ask what your purpose with the Winged Disciples is. Few know about the Cult of Arzokh, and none have ever sought them out—not in all the years I’ve owned the Knobby Knee. Frankly, I’m surprised that a party such as yours would have any interest in a monastic order.”
“They have some information we need,” Abby replied coolly, without giving away much.
“Well …” Ekrin paused again, chewing on her lip. “I’ll show you the way, of course. Just one thing before we go. The Winged Disciples … They are a godsend to the people of this city. Especially to the poor—to the overlooked and downtrodden. And the high priestess, Elanor, she is a good woman. I understand a recommendation from me may mean little, but you should know that.”
Her comment didn’t make much sense to me. I mean, the Winged Disciples were Dragon-worshiping crazies, hiding out in an underground bunker no less. Still, Ekrin seemed mollified by our silence, so I didn’t push her to elaborate.
“Well, why don’t you follow me,” she said, standing, then adjusting a pristine toga, fidgeting until her robe lay just so. After a few seconds, she nodded, satisfied, and ushered us from the room to a small set of stairs that dipped into a dank basement, lit by a few wall-mounted torches. “Originally, this building was owned by the Ankara Sewer Union,” she said offhandedly, stealing a quick glance over one shoulde
r as we made our way deeper and deeper. “A headquarters of sorts for their operations.”
“Great, more disgusting sewers,” I muttered, thinking back to my time trudging around in the knee-deep, fetid muck flowing below Rowanheath.
“Not really,” she replied. “That was ages ago, long before the Merchant Council put in the junction for the tannery. True, these stairs do connect to an ancient section of sewer—almost as old as the city itself—but after the junction went in, everything got rerouted. This portion of the tunnel is no longer in use, and as a result, this building”—she swept a hand around the dim hallway—“became essentially useless. Which is when I swooped in and snatched it up for a handful of silver.
“And that is good news for you lot because it means no unpleasant mess to wade through,” she continued. “Now, you’re going to take the main tunnel straight for about two hundred yards, and then you’ll see a ragged hole gouged into the wall. It connects to a sandstone passageway, and that’s what you’re looking for. That passage leads to a series of natural tunnels, which used to be the den of a great Sand Wyrm, back a thousand years ago before the first King of Ankara slew the creature. I’ve never been to the Citadel myself—it wouldn’t be proper, being what I am—but it’s down there somewhere. Be warned, though, it’s a regular labyrinth.” She turned, regarding us coolly. “And it’s not empty.”
“Can you tell us how long we should expect the trip to take?” Abby asked, professional to her core.
“My apologies, but no,” Ekrin replied. “You couldn’t pay me enough to go wandering down there—not even with my bodyguards, Marcus and Mert, in tow. Ah.” She paused as we came to a creaky wooden door, bent and warped from age and studded with rusty iron rivets. Nothing grand or fancy, just a practical door, built for a practical job. “This is where I’ll leave you fine folk. I wish you the best”—she paused, lips pursed, forehead furrowed in worry—“and I also wish you failure. As I said, Elanor, the Priestess, is something of a friend and I would hate to see harm come to her. And you? You all seem like a group ready unleash great harm.”
Her remarks left our group in an uncertain and somber mood as we headed into the thankfully dry sewer, built from time-worn sandstone blocks like most things in Ankara. It only took us a few uneventful minutes to locate the yawning hole Ekrin had mentioned. “Alright,” I said, drawing my warhammer in a white-knuckled grip. “Let’s go grind some monsters and find that belt.”
TWENTY-TWO:
Grind it Down
“Incoming!” Forge hollered, planting his feet and raising his battle-axe as another swarm of murderous insects scuttled toward us.
A [Boar-Beetle]—an armor-plated cockroach the size of a small car, with a thick bony shield for a head and a formidable set of tusks—led the charge, pushed on by a swarm of [Sand Wyrm Larvae]. Though “Larva” was a deceptive term. Each had a fleshy pink body as large as a rottweiler, was covered in poison-tipped quills, and squirmed along on hundreds of stubby legs all working in concert. Behind them, loitering in the back, stood the [Scarab Shamans]: strangely intelligent bipedal creatures with black chitinous armor, burning orange eyes, flesh-rending mandibles, and sword blade arms.
The spiders of Hellwood Hollow were gross, no question, but they couldn’t hold a candle to the critters living in this underground warren. Absolute nightmare fuel delivered straight from the mind of a truly depraved Dev who needed some serious psychiatric help. Still, after three hours of constant battles, and grinding through wave after wave of oversized multilegged cannon fodder, we had killing these suckers down to a science.
Abby threw her hands forward, spirals of golden magic twisting around her limbs as a trio of flaming pythons exploded from her palms and landed on the floor with a soft thump. The fire-serpents—mindless, conjured minions that lasted five minutes—were nine feet long and moved like oil on water. In seconds, they disappeared into the scuttling legs of the seething horde, completely lost from sight, though the inhuman screeches of dying Larvae and bursts of flame, followed by curls of smoke rising into the air, told me they were working hard.
“Deploying firewalls,” Abby hollered as flames erupted from the floor ten feet in front of me. Two barriers of dancing firelight—burning with the blistering heat of a falling star—created a V with a small gap right in the center: an artificial bottleneck in the middle of the tunnel, funneling the bugs into a single choke point. And standing at that choke point, with his axe raised and a malicious snarl on his face, was Forge. The bugs were powerful, true, but their greatest strength lay in their numbers, and Abby’s simple firewalls forced the endless swarm to face our tank head-on. One at a time.
Forge drew aggro—absorbing the big, brutal hits like a champ—which allowed the rest of us to do what we did best without the fear of being overwhelmed by their sheer numbers. Abby held the flame walls—an enormous effort that took her entire focus. Vlad tossed brutally effective Alchemic Orbs over the flame walls. Nikko scampered along the ceiling, hurling more of Vlad’s impromptu hand grenades into the packed crowd of horrors, sowing chaos and confusion, then poofing into the Shadowverse, only to appear someplace else an eyeblink later.
Meanwhile, Amara launched volley after volley of obsidian-tipped arrows into the swarm. She was a preternaturally good shot and somehow, almost impossibly, each arrow found a mark—an eye, a mouth, a fleshy head—often killing outright, or maiming terribly.
Cutter, who stuck close behind Forge, darted into the open just long enough to hurl a fan of conjured blades, which sliced through exposed limbs and sunk into armored torsos and ugly, multi-eyed faces. One of the bulbous Larvae attempted to skirt around Forge, who was locked in battle against the titanic Boar-Beetle, but Cutter was there in an instant. The thief lodged one black-bladed dagger into its vulnerable maw, slashed its throat with the other, then planted a boot on its face, forcing the overgrown slug back.
Truthfully, the strategy was classic MMO. Nothing glamorous in it, not really, but it was brutal, effective, and kept everyone safe. No one played the hero, everyone did their part, and the bugs fell like dominos.
And speaking of playing the part—now it was time to do mine.
First, came Crowd Control and AOE spells.
We’d fought so many mobs over the last two hours, my hands practically flew through the motions on their own. Left palm forward as I summoned Umbra Bog: inky tendrils of power bled from the floor and walls, snaring the Larvae jostling for a frontline position. Then, without even a pause, my hand zipped through the complex gestures needed for Plague Burst. Flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, hand curling into a fist as I summoned the deadly yellow fog right smack-dab in the middle of the insect swarm. Some of the Larvae possessed a degree of plague and disease resistance, but some were not all.
Nearly a fifth of the bugs squealed and shrieked in protest—their bodies writhing, their limbs flailing, their mandibles clacking—as they choked and died. In seconds the cloud dissipated and I moved, triggering Shadow Stride, calmly stepping into the Shadowverse as I’d done so many times before. I took a second to savor and appreciate the blissful quiet and frozen peace. This dungeon system had been the grind to end all grinds—monster after monster after monster—so even a forty-second break was a relief. I stepped directly through Cutter and Forge, then carved my way through the mass of minion bugs, back to the bipedal Scarab Shamans.
They were the real enemy.
Up close, they boasted some powerful physical attacks and could spit acid, but their real threat was as clerics for the horde. They could heal injured insects, and even worse, revive them completely. Even one lone Shaman, left unchecked, could raise the entire swarm back to life in a matter of minutes. This group had four Shamans, on top of another creature I’d never seen before: a horrifying new bug, nine feet long, covered in hard gray chitin, that looked one part centipede one part scorpion, one hundred percent horror-movie superstar.
A brief description appeared over its head before vanishing. [Armor
ed Protector].
Briefly, I considered going after the newcomer first but finally decided against it. As deadly as that thing looked, the Scarabs needed to go to win this battle.
I maneuvered over to the left-hand wall, ensuring there were at least two Shamans and a handful of Larvae between the Protector and me, dropped into a crouch, raised my hammer, and stepped back into the Material Plane. I was a shadow, a specter, and a black-plated Shaman didn’t notice me until my hammer smashed into the back of its nubby, armor-plated head. The spike, protruding from the back of my weapon, penetrated like a hot knife through a pad of butter.
Green, acidic goo spurted on impact, and the Shaman dropped, dead before it hit the ground.
My appearance might have gone unnoticed, but that Shaman’s abrupt death didn’t. The other Scarabs swiveled toward me, almost as one, their droning, unintelligible voices warbling in anger and outrage. That was okay, though. I was more than ready. I threw one hand out, unleashing a wrist-thick javelin of Umbra Flame. The purple fire wasn’t neat, clean, or precise like my Umbra Bolt. No, it was more like an unruly flamethrower: perfect for dealing out wholesale slaughter for a short time over a short distance.
And it worked extremely well.
Waves of shadow fire washed over two of the three remaining Shamans and splashed onto the back row of Larvae, setting the whole lot of them ablaze. Chitinous armor cracked under the intense heat and thick plumes of steam burbled out as the creatures within cooked alive like prawns thrown into a pot of boiling water. It was a legitimately terrible way to go, even for a bunch of randomly generated dungeon monsters, and a small part of me wondered if they could feel the pain in the same way I could. That same small part of me fervently hoped not.
In the end, though, I shoved the thought away because I didn’t really want to know.
The Umbra Flame ate through my Spirit at an alarming rate—after only eight seconds, I was uncomfortably close to zero, so I cut the spell off, taking a second to survey the battlefield as I downed a Spirit Regen potion. A ring of charred and burning bodies stretched out in front of me for a solid eight feet, and only one of the original four Shamans remained. A quick glance around the tunnel revealed a field of dead and dying Larvae—some burnt, others cleaved in two, still more peppered with arrows or conjured obsidian blades—with only a few pockets of resistance remaining. Almost in the clear.