by James Hunter
Before the blow landed, Roark leapt into the air, his huge leathery wings fighting to rip him from the ground, and dove at the still-fighting Paragons. His Peerless Rapier and Peerless Kaiken Dagger appeared in his fists. He crashed into the sentient rock, exploiting its weakness to Blunt Trauma. The hulking stone behemoth—though a physical powerhouse by nature—was no match for Roark’s strength, size, and speed. Stone crunched as Roark’s shoulder connected and the creature tumbled away from the helpless Witchdoctor.
The human NPC’s eyes landed on Roark’s snarling face and flew open as wide as flagons. Before he even had time to scream, Roark lashed out with the rapier, beheading the brainless fool.
By then a sizeable crowd had gathered to watch the Dungeon Lord quell the chaos. Roark rounded on them, anger burning in his eyes, blood coating the length of his weapon.
“Let this be a lesson to any who would disturb the peace of this marketplace,” he growled. “All are welcome here, but fighting and wanton destruction will not be tolerated.”
Nearby, the sentient rock person had regained its feet. Roark glared at it. It put both hands into the air and fell back to its knees, bowing its granite head. Behind Roark, the spell wore off the students who had been paralyzed, and they dropped to the ground and bowed to him as well, all mumbling fearful apologies.
The crowd of mobs and NPCs cheered.
A victory, though a sudden uncertainty niggled in the back of Roark’s mind.
“Get these fires put out and repair the buildings on this street,” he barked, infusing his voice with a harsh authority very close to Intimidation.
All around him, contrite, terrified students leapt into action, avoiding his gaze as they began to douse the fires and repair the burnt buildings. The problem was solved—at least until the next time the two rival schools got into a row—but he couldn’t shake the feeling of doubt. The bloodshed had been stopped for today, but him stepping in and scorching the earth every time fighting broke out wasn’t a permanent solution. It wasn’t even a good short-term solution, really. Having a single person be judge, jury, and executioner was exactly how tyrants were born, and he’d already had his fill of tyrants.
Roark turned away from the frenzied patch-up activity. If this little experiment of his was going to thrive, the Troll Nation needed a system of laws that everyone adhered to—Dungeon Lords included—and someone to enforce them. Someone who wasn’t him. Someone who could temper power with authority, and if need be, keep Roark in check as well as the rest of the citizenry. But who could live up to such a task?
The crowd parted as Roark strode through, a few brave souls shouting praise and reaching up to pat him on the back. He didn’t stop. He needed to find Griff.
Order from Chaos
AS HE HEADED FOR THE training grounds on the opposite side of the marketplace, Roark realized just how far out of his depth he was. He had spent so long opposing Marek with the resistance that he’d never stopped to ask himself what would happen if they actually managed to overthrow the despot. Who would rule Traisbin? Would the Rebel Council take power? What laws could be set in place to stop them from abusing power in the same way Marek had?
Roark’s formative years had been spent learning Traisbin’s laws and various forms of governance from his father with the understanding that one day Roark would be head of the von Graf family and need the knowledge. Except the Tyrant King had ensured that such a day would never come by slaughtering every von Graf but one.
Or perhaps two?
Memories of the carnage of Bloederige Noct intruded upon the bright, cheerful marketplace atmosphere filling the streets. In particular, the troubling things he’d witnessed while performing the Ennus-Merkki ritual for PwnrBwner and Randy, giving them indisputable proof that he was from another dimension. During the ritual, he’d unwittingly caught a glimpse of his little sister, Talise, deflecting the axe with some unknown magick and being carried away by Marek.
Roark was so consumed with the memory that he almost tripped over Mac. The Young Turtle Dragon let out a disgruntled grumble while Roark threw out his wings instinctively to recover his balance. The motion scared a pair of Shaman Reavers and a Dybuk doing their shopping nearby. They skittered back from the Dungeon Lord in alarm.
“My apologies,” Roark said, nodding at them and slapping Mac on the shell.
The Young Turtle Dragon chirped his forgiveness, then trotted off toward the training grounds again.
The mobs looked even more dumbfounded that a mighty Dungeon Lord had apologized to them, but before they could respond, Roark hurried after Mac, shaking his head at himself.
To believe what he’d seen in that apparition would be idiocy. Talise had died by the wellhouse with their mother. That vision was more than likely a scheme concocted by the Tyrant King to push Roark into reacting without thinking. Roark may have been a naïve fool about ruling, but he wasn’t going to run into one of Marek’s traps like a chicken with its head torn off.
The familiar clang of metal on metal and the thud of wooden shields rang out as Roark turned the corner.
In many ways, blundering his escape portal and ending up in Hearthworld was a blessing in disguise. He’d been too young before the old world fell to apply much of what his father had taught him, and he had always been an outsider in the resistance. With the Cruel Citadel, he had a chance to learn how to rule on a small scale, while it was just one dungeon—hardly larger than a small town—instead of learning through trial and error when he had the welfare of an entire nation to consider. If he played things smart, he could work out the best strategies for governing a free country now, then take them back to Traisbin when he returned.
The odds that he would survive another attempt on Marek’s life were almost zero, but perhaps if he passed his findings on to the T’verzet before he went after the Tyrant King...
Well, that was a thought for later. For now, the one thing Roark was certain of was that he couldn’t rule a city alone. Not even a small one. He hadn’t any idea where to start, though. What he needed was advice, and the person who always seemed to provide the best guidance in these matters, in spite of his repeated insistence that he was just a simple weapons trainer, was Griff.
Ahead, a dense crowd had gathered around the training ground. The place had become one of the most popular areas in the Troll Nation, though not necessarily for the reasons Roark would have thought when he’d created it.
Over the heads of the crowd, Roark could see the grizzled old arena fighter down in the pit, working with a varied group of Trolls, Nagas, Werebeasts, and other allied mobs.
Surrounding the pit on every side was a host of female mobs and NPCs of every race, class, and level. Lately, Griff had become somewhat famous around the Troll Nation. Not only was he the first NPC to toss his lot in with them, but he was also the right hand of the mysterious Dungeon Lord, a battle-tested warrior, and an imposing general of the Cruel Citadel’s troops. He had all the makings of a proper celebrity.
Ahead, Griff raised his short sword and barked an order for a serpent-tailed Naga to slither forward and attack him. The Naga moved with grace and speed, but the grizzled trainer dodged under the snake’s swing like a man half his age, perfectly demonstrating the spinning off-hand combo he’d taught Roark when Roark first began training with him. The mobs in the pit all leaned in closer, intent on the lesson.
And the women and woman-ish creatures surrounding the pit all sighed.
Griff obviously heard them, because he cringed at the sound, but continued training as if he hadn’t noticed.
It seemed that rather than becoming famous for his training and abilities, the old man had become something of a heartthrob.
Roark tried not to laugh, but couldn’t contain a smirk.
The old one-eyed trainer glanced over his shoulder. Several of his admirers perked up visibly, leaning forward to draw attention to what Roark assumed was their race’s most attractive feminine assets. Bloodleechs’ puckered circular mouths rin
ged with needlelike teeth. Swirling tattoos shimmered across pale Djinn flesh while they fluttered long black eyelashes. One of the harpies preened golden feathers like an overgrown peacock.
Griff scowled when he caught sight of Roark’s telling smirk.
“Break back into your pairs and practice the combo until your Off-hand Combo climbs a level,” he ordered his trainees. “Once it levels for both you and your partner, you’re dismissed for the day.”
Without waiting to see if they would follow the directions, Griff strode across the pit, his admirers swooning from a distance. Roark pushed through the crowd and hopped the half dozen feet down to the churned, soft dirt of the pit.
Griff sized Roark up with his one piercing blue eye. “What can I do for you, Griefer?”
With a graceless thud that made them both look to make sure they weren’t being attacked, Mac landed in the dirt beside Roark.
“Have you got a minute to get a drink, Griff?” Roark asked—the pass phrase for I need your advice on dungeon business.
“We love you, Griff!” a craggy, gray-haired NPC screamed down.
A mob hidden in a full set of Shining Steel Armor shouted, “You can train me anytime!”
“Have my eggssss, Griff!” a curvy Naga hissed.
Griff didn’t look up at them, but he blanched visibly, his mood instantly souring.
“I could use a good scotch,” the old trainer grunted. “Just so long as it gets me out of here.” He turned away from the pit, shoulders stooped in resignation.
As they headed for the exit on the opposite end of the pit, a very large, very lacy corset sailed over Roark’s head and landed in the dust in front of Griff. The grizzled arena hand humphed grumpily and stepped over it as if he hadn’t seen it.
“You’re becoming quite popular with the ladies and... whatever else they are,” Roark observed, trying to hide his amusement. It wasn’t funny. At least, it shouldn’t have been.
Griff sighed. “I’m a simple man, Griefer. A roof over my head, food in my belly, a good stiff drink to set me straight, and a chance to pass on my skills. That’s all I wanted. This nonsense, though...” He shook his head. “Can’t get a damn thing done. Think there’s any way you can ban spectators from coming around the training grounds?”
Roark seriously considered it. “That would only be a temporary solution,” he finally said.
“If it saves my sanity here in the short term, I’ll stand for temporary.”
“Honestly I’m not even certain I can stop allied creatures from visiting certain parts of the marketplace,” Roark said, scratching at his chin. “Doing so might violate the compact. I’ll see what I can do, but you may have to suffer through it for now until I can come up with something more permanent.”
Ducking out through the pit tunnels, they headed toward the Troll Nation Inn—recently rebranded by Kaz as Portal to Flavortown in honor of his most beloved idol, Gry Feliri. Roark and Griff moved at a brisk pace to avoid the trainer’s many adoring fans, while Mac trundled along slowly behind them. More than a few mobs tracked Griff with inhuman eyes, but Roark’s domineering presence helped to keep them at a respectful distance. Roark was an enigma, and many of the visiting mobs and NPCs were intrigued by him, but not smitten in the way they were with Griff. Roark was mysterious and powerful, but he was also dangerous.
In addition to that, rumors of his involvement with Zyra had begun to spread like wildfire, and no one dared cross her for fear of dying suddenly and painfully.
When they arrived at Flavortown, the crowd waiting for a table was queued up around the square. Roark, Griff, and Mac slipped around the side, past the trio of meat smokers, the distillery, and the series of enormous aging barrels, then headed in through the staff entrance. The clamor of pots and pans filled the air, accompanied by the sizzle of frying food and the squawk of apprentice cooks as they scuttled about their work.
“Roark is here!” Kaz crowed, dropping a meat cleaver and what appeared to be half of a Saber Boar onto the roughhewn kitchen table.
The enormous Knight Thursr strode around the sunken fire pit crackling with meats and vegetables and stews and wrapped Roark in a bloody-handed hug. With Kaz being nearly fifteen feet tall, with blue-black skin, curling horns, and fists bigger than dinner plates, a hug from him was a trial to be endured even without Roark’s natural aversion to displays of affection. Roark winced, his wing bones creaking under the strain. He glanced around for a hand from Griff, but the trainer had busied himself pouring a heavy dose of Kaz’s latest batch of magically aged High Charisma Scotch.
“All right, mate,” Roark said, shoving the Mighty Gourmet off. “Remember how we talked about hugging?”
Kaz started, then looked down at his gore-covered hands.
“Of course!” He grabbed a Fine Linen Cloth and scrubbed them clean, then pounded Roark on the back. “Kaz is so glad to see Roark! And Mac too!” He tore a chunk of raw meat from the Saber Boar and flicked it to the Young Turtle Dragon. Mac snagged it from the air with an overly long tongue and slurped it down in a gulp, chirping appreciatively. “Roark will never believe the herb Kaz has learned of today,” the Knight said, wiping huge mitts on his apron. “Garlic. Salt is a wonder, yes, but garlic is surely a secondary wonder. Almost as magnificent as beautiful, flavorful salt. The boldness. The versatility!”
“It sounds wonderful, Kaz, but Griff and I—”
Kaz forged on, undeterred by Roark’s interruption. “Guaranteed to add complexity to any dish. Any food dish,” he corrected himself. “Garlic is a wonder, but even it has limitations. Kaz tried briefly to craft a garlic mead, a savory, unique Flavortown experience—against Mai’s advice, but Kaz was too enchanted by the beauty of garlic to listen.” He hung his head. “What hubris has a Troll Gourmet. Garlic mead is not a drink one takes without deep regret and considerations of the choices which brought one to the moment of drinking.”
The Mighty Gourmet shuddered at the memory, his enormous frame shaking like a leaf.
“Kaz would not wish it on his worst enemy,” he said solemnly. “Not even that chef from Chillend prison.”
“Glad you saw the way the strike was falling on that one,” Griff said, stepping in to keep the Knight from going off on another tangent. He shoved a cup of scotch into Roark’s hand, then gestured with his own. “The Griefer and I are starving. Could you send up one of your apprentices with a bit of stomach-stuffing?”
“Kaz will bring it up himself,” the Mighty Gourmet insisted. “Go up to the Dungeon Lord’s private room. Roark and Griff must prepare themselves for the Flavortown experience of a lifetime!”
Roark nodded. “Thanks, Kaz. I know the inn is busy, but can you have someone take over down here while you stay upstairs with us for a while? I could use some insight into the Troll Nation from her Master Chef.”
“Kaz would do anything for the Troll Nation!” Kaz replied, slamming a huge fist to his chest and staring through the smoke of the crackling fire pit heroically. “It is Kaz’s patriotic duty!”
“Right.” Roark slammed back his drink, then glanced around for the bottle.
Griff held it up and gave it a little shake.
“We’ll be upstairs,” Roark said.
They left the kitchen and squeezed through the throng in the inn’s packed common room. Over the dull roar of conversation, the scraping of utensils on plates, and the clunk of cups on tables, a sound Roark had never heard in the Cruel Citadel caught his ear.
Music.
A lilting, laughing tune drifted through the common room, making feet tap and heads bob. At Roark and Griff’s side, a pair of Changelings were so affected by the sound that they leapt up onto a long table and clapped and stomped around in a mad dance.
Roark craned his neck to see around the wide-open hood of a Naga nodding along in time. Since he’d last visited the inn only a day or two ago, the tables and chairs had been shuffled around to leave a small open space near the hearth. A square-jawed young man in tanned leathers crank
ed the tune out of a beaten and well-used hurdy gurdy.
“Who is that?” Roark asked. “I didn’t hear Flavortown had hired a bard.”
“Name’s Soileau. Mai hired him on the other day,” Griff said. “Way I heard it, he was quite the draw over in Lucite’s inns and taverns.”
Roark frowned. According to the maps he’d seen, Lucite was halfway across Hearthworld from the Cruel Citadel.
“I didn’t think Mai was comfortable traveling that far from Averi City.”
“She ain’t. The kid came here, if you can believe it,” he replied. “Asking for work. Way I heard tell, he had a spot of trouble in Lucite. He’s on sort of a provisional trial here. Long as he don’t strike up an epidemic of Saint Vitus’s or incite a riot, he’ll get hired on full time.”
As Roark watched, Soileau took a few dancing steps toward the crowd and winked at the closest ring of diners, all female. An Imp Enchantress, girded in a glamour that made her look like a gorgeous dark elf, swooned in her seat; a wiry Reaver clutched her heart; and a fur-covered she-wolf grabbed for him. The bard laughed and danced out of their way just in time. They didn’t follow, but they certainly looked as if they wanted to.
Roark smirked. “He might be on the wrong track if he’s trying to avoid riots.”
“Eh, he’s young yet,” Griff said, shrugging.
Just then, the familiar sound of brawling caught their attention—though it was coming from outside rather than in. Someone cutting the line, it sounded like from the disgruntled shouts. Roark caught a flash of armor through the door as the Behemoth and Knight who watched over the queue ran to break up the tussle.
Roark felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease. At least he wouldn’t be expected to put out literal and figurative fires here, too. He and Griff left the common room behind and slipped up the stairs to the private room Kaz always kept empty for them.
They settled in and refreshed their drinks while Mac shoved his way into the seat behind Roark, grunting contently as he tucked his head beneath a scale-covered limb. They didn’t have to wait long before a warm, sharp scent drifted into the room, making Roark’s mouth water. A moment later, Kaz appeared with a platter of food big enough to feed a family of Changelings for a month.