by S. R. Witt
He felt invincible.
The remaining bandits hesitated, suddenly much less enthusiastic than they’d been just moments before. The screams of the wounded had demoralized them, just as Osmark knew they would. Killing a soldier took him out of the fight. Crippling a soldier took the fight out of his companions. Robert stood his ground, arching an eyebrow as he leisurely cocked his crossbow. He needed them to see his contempt. He needed them to hate him with such intensity they couldn’t think of anything other than gutting him like a fish.
“Lost your will to fight?” he asked, voice condescending. “This is why the Empire stomped your people into submission in the first place. You’re weak. Our children have more spine than the lot of you.”
He watched their resolve harden in real time. One moment they loitered uncertainly, the next, they surged forward like a wave, ready to grind him down to nothing. Good. He laughed again and ran.
The path hooked around the burning pyre of the palisade, and Osmark followed it. He didn’t need the bandits to be close to him for this next trap, but he couldn’t help but look back.
After engineering his most impressive death traps, Robert had taken a few extra minutes to gouge deep holes in the path with his hatchet before scattering fallen branches around them. They weren’t deadly, but they did their job just fine. Careless feet plunged into those holes and bandits toppled like dominos, ankles and legs snapping in the process. Easy game.
The more alert bandits realized Osmark had pocked the path with leg breakers. So, rather than risk a crippling injury, they darted into the woods on the north side of the haphazard trail. The undergrowth slowed them, and the tree branches slapped and scratched at their faces while tugging mercilessly at their cloaks. Snarling with frustration, the bandits shoved one another forward, heedless of their surroundings as they struggled to forge through the woods. At last, they burst through the dense tangle of vegetation and onto the road heading north from the perimeter path.
As they crossed the tree line in a furious rush, their feet snagged a trip line carefully strung between several trees. The sudden strain released Osmark’s next trap. With a furious whoosh, a young sapling, studded with heavy iron nails—looted from the caravan and hammered into the tree’s supple trunk—whipped across the road in a vicious arc. The nails pierced armor and flesh like crossbow bolts punching through sheets of target paper. Impaled by the spits of iron and stuck to the tree, the Risi and Wodes couldn’t pull away from the trap without injuring themselves even worse, which was a thing of beauty in Osmark’s mind.
He stopped on a small hill, purposely sky-lining himself so the remaining men could see him admiring his handiwork. He laughed again, taunting the bandits even as the cries of their wounded hounded them like dogs in the night. “You like to attack innocent people?”
“Your people aren’t innocent,” a burly Wode in leather armor shouted as he strode toward Osmark, shouldering his way past the other bandits. “This isn’t your home. Your people invaded this land. Sacked our cities. Killed anyone who refused to bend the knee to you and yours.” He cocked his head, snarled, and spit a wad of bloody phlegm into the dirt. “And now you levy crushing taxes on us and conscript our young folk to fight your wars of conquest.”
“And you think you have what it takes to topple the Empire?” Osmark asked, eyes narrowed. “The Empire is civilization. It’s progress. It’s the future. And this”—he gestured toward the trail of broken bodies and scattered dead—“is the fate of all who would stand against us.”
“Your trickery will not stop us, Imperial,” the Wode replied in turn. “You may kill many of us, you may cripple many more. But us?” He slapped his chest. “We’re only one small part of the rebellion, and as long as the rebellion lives, you live on borrowed time.”
Osmark laughed right in his face. “Your home has burned to the ground. Your men grovel in the dirt from the wounds I gave them. How many of you remain? Fifteen? Less? The night is young, my tall friend, and I will end all your lives before the sun rises. Then I’ll do the same to your rebellion. As I said, the Empire is the future.”
That should do it, Osmark thought when he saw blind hatred twist the remaining bandits’ features into demonic masks. Lightning flared from the clouds overhead, transforming the night into day. Osmark glared down at the dirty and bloodied men coming for him.
It was true he’d killed almost all of the rebel scum, but those coming now were the hungriest, smartest, and most fearsome the Wolf’s Fangs had to offer. There was only one trap left, but it was the one he hoped would end this fight.
He darted away once more, keeping to the path, which had no more traps along its length. By the time he reached the trailhead near the well, the rebels were hot on his heels, their labored breaths rasping in his ears. Osmark could almost feel the heat of their unwashed bodies crawling across his back. He threw on a burst of speed and gained ground, praying it would be enough. He couldn’t afford to be caught, not so close to the finish line. True, he had the upper hand, for the moment, but he had no illusions what would happen if they captured him:
His head would join those stacked on the path before the burning gate.
With a gasp of smoky air, Osmark hurdled a low-hanging rope stretched across the path and reached the well. Dense forest surrounded the wide stone-lined structure, and there was nowhere left for him to run. He turned to face his enemies, crossbow hanging from his belt, one hand on his dagger’s pommel, his back pressed against cool rock.
The giant of a Wode who’d threatened him earlier stopped a few yards away from Osmark, just in front of the rope crossing the path between them. “This another of your godsforsaken traps, Imperial?”
Osmark shrugged, aiming for chagrined. “It is. I’m sad that you’ve seen it. I thought I’d hidden it better than that.”
All of the remaining Wodes and Risi were gathered behind their leader, now, pawing at the earth with their boots, grinding their teeth in savage frustration.
“I demand the right of honorable combat,” Osmark shouted. “You, big man, I’ll fight you.”
This time, it was the Wode’s turn to laugh. A deep belly chuckle shook his whole frame. “I don’t honor your ways,” he finally said as the laugh guttered and died, “but this sounds like fun. First, let me do away with this trap of yours.” As he leaned over to flick the rope away, Osmark made his move.
Without a sound, Osmark threw himself over the lip of the well and plunged into its depths, snatching frantically at the rope he’d dangled over its edge earlier.
That rope ran from the well to a thick-trunked tree, went up and over a gnarled bough, and connected to a host of other ropes painstakingly hidden in the forest around the spot where the bandits stood. The line went taut in Osmark’s palms, and he thudded hard against the stone wall, stopping his meteoric fall, but eating up a chunk of his HP in the process. He couldn’t see a thing from the belly of the stone well, but a chorus of startled curses told him everything he needed to know.
Osmark dragged himself up, one hand at a time, digging his toes into the craggy wall to ease his climb. At the well’s rim, he lashed the rope tightly around one of the supports holding its bucket, then straddled the lip with a tired groan and slipped back onto solid ground. His net hadn’t lifted the bandits off the ground, but that wasn’t the plan. The ropes and vines had tied them together in a knot so tight it would take them most of the night to free themselves.
Osmark stood a few feet away, arms crossed, staring into the burning eyes of the Wode who’d taunted him. “For the record, my name isn’t Imperial—it’s Osmark. Robert Osmark. Say it so I know you’ll remember. You’re going to be hearing it again very soon.”
The Wode spat into the dirt at Osmark’s feet. “My name is Balmar Garmson. Say my name so it may haunt your nights until I find you and tear out your heart.”
Osmark drew his crossbow and cocked it. The outlaws watched him with nervous eyes. All except for Balmar.
That one ne
eded a lesson.
Robert fired at his thigh. The black bolt speared through the Wode’s leg and crunched into the bone. Blood welled around the missile, dripped down leather trousers, and drooled onto the dirt path.
“Try again,” Osmark said as he lazily reloaded the crossbow. “What’s my name?”
A glint of cold hatred flashed through Balmar’s eyes as lightning raced across the sky. “Osmark. Robert Osmark the Imperial. I won’t forget. Trust me on that.”
“See that you don’t,” Osmark said. He turned on his heel and stalked along the path away from the well.
One of them called out. “You’re leaving us here to burn?”
Osmark smiled over one shoulder at them. “I’m giving you a chance. To escape. To redeem yourselves. The Empire is the future, but that future can include you too if you’re wise enough to see it.”
“You just don’t have the stones to kill us yourself,” Balmar roared in anguished frustration, his pale fingers clutching at the thick ropes of his temporary cell.
“No, I just don’t care to waste my time with you. Look around. The fire is hungry. Maybe you can cut yourselves free before you burn. Maybe not.” Osmark held out one hand to catch the first drops of rain falling from the swollen clouds scudding across the face of the night sky. “Maybe the rain will douse the fire and save you. Maybe lightning will strike the lot of you and do us all a favor. Make the best of it,” Osmark said, leaving the bandits behind, a wide grin splitting his face.
TEN:
Buried Treasure
Robert had a spring in his step as he left the last of the stranded rebels behind. They shouted and pleaded for him to cut them loose before the forest fire reached the final trap, but he ignored their cries. They’d made their choices, they’d earned this end, and it wasn’t his duty to absolve them of their sins.
Plus, he had given them a chance. Those who spent their time trying to free themselves might escape before the flames burned them alive. Those who spent their time crying and whining for someone else to save them would have to rely on the gathering storm to douse the conflagration before it reached them. The rain was only spitting into the fire now, but even that scant moisture was slowing the spread of the fire. Maybe Mother Nature would spare the trapped Wodes and Risi.
Or maybe not. He was indifferent.
Experience alert messages flashed yellow in the upper right corner of Robert’s vision, but he ignored them—there would be time for them later. He needed to find Horan, who was somewhere nearby, following through on their plan, executing the thugs who’d fallen prey to the traps. It was grim and dirty work, but the mercenary hadn’t complained when he’d been told his part in cleaning out the forest. Osmark was glad the man hadn’t kicked up a fuss, because he needed pragmatic allies who could do the work he needed to have done. Even the ugly, gritty, distasteful parts.
Retracing his steps through the burning forest led Osmark to the victims of his swinging spike trap. Blood loss had already claimed several of the bandits’ lives, and those who hadn’t died yet were pale and shivering against the tree that had impaled them. Traps in V.G.O. were funny like that: they might not kill right off, but they ate slowly and steadily away at HP unless the victims could free themselves in time. Rain splashed on their blue-tinged faces and mixed with the blood oozing from their wounds.
“Please,” a young Risi with bright red facial tattoos and a necklace of splintered bones around his neck croaked at Osmark. “Cut me loose. I can help you.”
In response, Osmark pulled the gutting knife from his belt and promptly drove it into the man’s left eye. Critical Hit. The young criminal sputtered and gasped as the signals from his brain short-circuited and died. The rest of the survivors cried out and raised their hands to defend themselves, but Osmark was having none of it. He ended each of their lives with a single quick stroke—his motions brutal, efficient, and merciless. Finally, when the last of the pinned bandits gave up the ghost, Osmark turned his attention to their belongings.
Despite their looting and pillaging, the bandits were far from rich, but at this point in the game, anything they had was worth taking. Osmark stripped the corpses of their belt pouches, crude gold and silver rings, and any rusty weapons, depositing the haul into his almost-empty inventory. Armor came next—a combination of thick leathers and shoddy fur hides—followed by a spattering of coins. Mostly copper and the occasional silver. A few had necklaces studded with bits of gold and yellowing bones; Osmark gladly added all those to the jumble of loot as well.
Have to start somewhere, Robert thought as he left the dead bandits bleeding in the rain.
He continued retracing his steps, pausing only to snuff out the lives of incapacitated bandits he happened to find along the path. A throat slit here, a dagger through the skull there. The scattered bandits didn’t even plead with him; the cold glint in his eye told them it wasn’t worth wasting the last of their breath.
Killing and looting the wounded was a boring, ugly grind, but Osmark took a grim satisfaction in the work.
It could have very easily been him on the receiving end of a killing blow. Just hours ago, he’d been at the tender mercy of these cruel bastards, and he doubted they would’ve given him a clean death. Outnumbered and surrounded by enemies, Osmark had snatched victory in V.G.O. the same way he had in his previous life: by coupling his brilliant mind to his iron will. Sometimes, winning in games or life just took the guts to keep going when your enemies had long since stopped.
It turned out that founding an empire wasn’t all that much different from the start-up grind of a tech company’s early days. Sure, there might be more blood spilled, but it was all just work. Executing the plan. And your enemies, Robert thought with a grim smile. Building a company might have even been easier if I’d been able to raid rival outfits and put their CEOs to the sword.
When Osmark met up with Horan a few minutes after dispatching the last bandit, the rain had intensified from a steady drizzle to a crashing thunderstorm. Though the fire still clawed its way through the treetops, the downpour was choking the life from its hungry flames. That was all right, though; the blaze had done its work admirably. Raindrops crashed through the blackened boughs and carried ash to the bloody mud of the forest path, transforming it into an inky ribbon.
Horan nodded at Osmark, then tilted his head back and opened his mouth, sticking the tip of his tongue out. Black drops splashed into his face and dribbled from the corners of his lips, but Horan didn’t seem to mind. “Killing’s thirsty work,” he said with a shrug. “How’d it go on your end?”
“Good. Better than I’d hoped. Almost all these monsters are dead, and they were kind enough to offer up some decent loot for the trouble,” Osmark said. “Not exactly a king’s ransom, but enough to pay you your damned bonus.”
Horan laughed at that, a hearty thing that billowed up from his gut. “You think? I don’t know that we ever agreed on an amount for that bonus.”
Osmark rolled his eyes and hitched his heavy belt back up over his hips. “Did you get the big prize?”
“This way,” Horan said, jerking a thumb to the right.
The duo tromped through the sticky black mud to the northwest corner of the fallen stockade. Osmark instantly recognized the hillock he’d taunted the bandits from and just as easily recognized the chieftain with a black bolt protruding from his thigh. The fat Risi hung from Osmark’s snare trap by his wounded leg like a rabbit ready to be killed, skinned, and cooked. Blood from the puncture wound painted a crimson stain from the man’s leg, down his torso, to his pale and bloated face. Wide white eyes stared out of the red mask coating his rough, leathery features.
“I’ll kill you,” the man growled, his words full of hate and resignation in equal measure.
Osmark’s attack had been a long shot, but it had succeeded beyond his wildest hopes. Slowed by his injuries, the chieftain hadn’t been able to keep up with his enraged men. The wounded Risi had made his way to the hillock for a better v
iew of the pursuit, and his clumsy foot had landed right in Osmark’s snare trap. Perfect. People were easy to predict and anticipate if you were observant and patient.
Robert glanced at the thug and then grinned at Horan, folding his arms in smug satisfaction. “Oh, dear. This terrifying rebel chieftain is going to kill us.”
Horan clapped his hands to his cheek, and his mouth formed a terrified O. “Whatever shall we do?”
“You think you’re smart?” the Risi growled. “The Wolf’s Fangs don’t stand alone, fool. Our allies in the rebellion will make sure you pay for what you’ve done here. When this is over, I’ll piss on your grave.”
Before the chieftain could blink, Osmark was at his side. Robert held the tip of his gutting knife against the Risi’s groin, the razor tip piercing the leather and drawing a thin bead of red. “That’ll be a good trick when I’m through with you, though I suppose you could squat over my grave.”
Under the mask of blood, the Risi’s face went pale, his lips trembling minutely. “What kind of monster are you?”
“The kind that doesn’t take kindly to other monsters stealing from him. What kind of idiot are you to think you’d be able to keep robbing the Empire’s caravans and killing its people without paying the price? There’s always a price to be paid.”
Osmark ground the tip of his knife into the chieftain’s crotch, ensuring the big bloke was paying attention. He was surprised at the depth of his anger, at how quickly he’d adopted the persona of an Imperial citizen, but then he realized he’d been living V.G.O. longer than anyone. Before the VR rigs, before the first line of code had been hammered out, Robert had helped design this world. He was god here, and this world was his child. If he felt like an Imperial citizen, it’s because he was, and had been for years.
The chieftain winced and licked his cracked lips nervously. “I have money. Gold and silver. Jewels. Fine weapons and armor. Let me go, and they’re yours. I swear by the face of my father it will be so.”