by James Hunter
Kaz rounded a corner and almost slammed headlong into him.
“Kaz will crush their delicate bird bones!” He gave a mighty swing of his enormous Legendary Meat Tenderizer, ruffling Roark’s hair around his horns. “We must defend the Citadel from the evil Heralds at all costs!”
Guilt twitched in Roark’s mind for a heartbeat, and he touched the World Stone Pendant hidden beneath his leathers. They weren’t coming for the Cruel Citadel; they were coming for the pendant. Whatever happened today, it would be because he was using his friends like pawns to fight his battles for him.
“They’ll bleed like anyone else,” Zyra said, interrupting his momentary brooding. She produced a series of sickly green vials and handed them around. “More, if each of you equip this to your weapons.”
Roark shook off the guilt and took his poison, glancing for a moment at its specifications.
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Gushing Death
Item Type: Ultra-Rare Anticoagulation Poison
Level Requirement: 17
Effect 1: 8 HP per second Bleeding Damage for 30 seconds or until the corresponding antidote is consumed.
Effect 2: Target is 2x more susceptible to poisons, diseases, and blood-based magical attacks for 30 seconds or until the corresponding antidote is consumed.
Effect 3: 5% chance of blood spewing from target’s eyes, nose, and mouth when killed within 30 seconds of contact.
╠═╦╬╧╪
He grinned over at Zyra. “You’re terrifying.”
The hooded Reaver took a pleased bow without breaking stride.
Mac met them just outside the marketplace. In spite of the phosphorescent spores covering the Young Turtle Dragon’s shell and stuck in his beard, he cut an intimidating figure galloping up to them. His charge lit up the glowing green grass around him and elicited a frantic melody like shattering glass. A bloodthirsty growl swelled from his scaly throat and he loosed a gout of black flame toward the ceiling. It was as if the canny beast could sense that Roark’s mortal enemy had arrived.
Roark slapped him heartily on the shell, infusing his voice with confidence he didn’t feel.
“Let’s kill some Heralds, boy.”
They took a portal plate up to the Citadel’s first floor and rushed into the entry hall, poisoned weapons at the ready.
“FOR THE CITADEL AND THE SALT!” Kaz bellowed, raising his weapon high as he searched for targets to unleash his wrath upon.
But the entry hall was empty.
Yevin looked around hopefully. “False alarm?”
“No.” Roark shook his head. “Druz and her patrol should be—”
The clash of battle drifted down the entryway stairs. It was coming from outside.
“The bailey,” Griff said at once.
Kaz made a lunge for the stairs, most of the others following the Mighty Gourmet’s lead, but Griff darted in front of them. At the same moment, Zyra stepped out of a puff of inky shadow beside the grizzled trainer, Cursed Longknives dripping poison as she helped block their path.
“Use your brains,” she said sharply. “It’s a trap.”
“They want to draw us outside where flight has the advantage,” Griff said matter-of-factly.
Based on the maneuvering Roark had seen in their brief foray into the Vault of the Radiant Shield, Griff was likely right. The Heralds’ attack style relied entirely on their flying, and the Vault had been built to reflect that—high ceilings and open spaces with ample room for aerial maneuvering. After seeing the Vault’s layout, Roark had redesigned the Cruel Citadel to have almost claustrophobically low ceilings. Save for in the Dungeon Lord’s Throne Room and the wide-open spaces of the fifth floor, Kaz couldn’t even stand up straight in the Citadel without knocking his head against the rough stone overhead.
Roark cursed under his breath. All of that redesigning and planning, worthless. Lowen was a step ahead of him, ordering his attackers to stay outside and draw the Trolls out. And obviously, it had worked.
“But Druz and the first-floor patrol...” Kaz looked desperately up at the door to the bailey. “They’re defending the Citadel! And the Shambling Revenants from the graveyard—”
“Don’t be stupid,” Zyra said. “They’ll respawn.”
Kaz advanced a step toward the hooded Reaver, gigantic fists tightening around the grip of his hammer. “So will we.”
“Not with our above-cap levels,” she retorted.
“Kaz doesn’t care about levels!” He stomped a huge foot, cracking a paving stone in half. “Kaz’s friends and allies are dying!”
Roark shoved between the two of them.
“The specialty forces will arrive soon,” he promised, voice calm and confident—woefully at odds with how he actually felt. “There’s no possible way they could miss the alarms. And, if they don’t, their treaties with the Troll Nation will be broken, and they’ll be Cursed.”
Kaz stared down at Roark, mouth agape. “But...” His eyes bounced from Roark to the sound of the battle. “But...”
“Just another few moments, Kaz.” Roark swallowed hard, the sharp pang of betrayal twisting his guts. There was nothing he wanted more than to race up the stairs and rip the wings from the Heralds’ backs, but he couldn’t waste the precious resources he’d so carefully cultivated for the fight with Lowen. “Please. Just give the other dungeons a few more moments.”
Kaz’s ears drooped. “Okay. For Roark, Kaz will wait. But only for a moment.”
Luckily, the specialty forces from their allied dungeons began arriving soon after.
The unit was about twenty-five strong, all at or near their various Evolutionary level caps, and all with unique specializations. Werebeasts—hulking, humanoid creatures of fur and fang—appeared, all armed with heavy-duty crossbows as large as ballistae. Those crossbows were of Roark’s design, and fired custom bolts fitted with a long, thick cable. Thursr Knights and Reaver Champions rushed in, bearing hooked halberds and scythe-bladed short swords on their hips. Like the crossbows and bolts, the halberds were Roark’s handiwork, sporting a loop of razor wire instead of a spike at the top, and a trigger that would cause the wire to suddenly snap taut, catching a limb inside.
All designed to pull Heralds to the ground, should they somehow gain the air. As for the scythe-bladed swords, they were built with the hacking power of a falcata and the sharpness of a razor, calculated to shear off wings with a single stroke, grounding their enemies indefinitely.
A regiment of Smoky Djinn, wiry Reaver Shamans, and bulky Thursr Elementals was equipped with special illusion-strengthening circlets Roark had Enchanted himself, and a squad of enormous Greater Bloodleeches bore huge, heavy shields, which snapped into place to create barriers over and around the vulnerable spellcasters. The last to arrive were the pair of Mind Mantids, on loan from Ko the Faceless. Their special variety of magick dealt Psionic damage, something Divine mobs were especially vulnerable to.
A rumbling, buzzing song started up as Ick raised all of his arms and opened his mandibles, casting a buff over the entire roomful of combatants. A scrap of parchment appeared in Roark’s vision detailing the effects of the spell.
[You have been temporarily Fortified! Dexterity and Strength increased by 50% for 32 seconds.]
On the opposite side of the entry hall, Yevin threw out his arms, adding his Paragon magicks to the din.
[Your skin has been converted to Ironwood! You take 50% less Piercing and Slashing Damage for 45 seconds.]
Finished, the Paragon and Nocturnus gave Roark a nod.
“Squad one of shield bearers and crossbows, up the stairs,” Roark ordered.
“With Kaz!” the Mighty Gourmet shouted, barreling up the stairs before Roark could stop him.
“Fine.” Roark turned back to the rest of the forces. “Everyone else take your positions at the portal plates! Casters, get to a shield bearer as soon as you’re transported.”
While the first squad crashed up the stairs and spilled into the bailey—d
rawing attention to itself—Roark and the rest stepped onto their designated portal plates. The distraction was in full swing when they ported into their prearranged spots around the decrepit remains of an ancient cathedral that stood watch over the entrance to the Citadel.
The clash was in full swing, and it was chaos.
Though there were only ten Heralds, each one was a level 99, just as Randy had reported, and their monstrous levels showed in the sheer carnage they caused. The bailey ground was littered with pieces of Shambling Revenants, gore smeared the walls, and several of Druz’s patrol were already down for respawn. One was hewed cleaned down the middle from head to groin like a piece of cordwood. The first-floor overseer herself was in the center of the battle with Kaz, swiping and slashing at the winged menace as they darted in from above. Huge Bloodleech shield bearers did their best to block the advances of the Heralds while the werecreatures’ oversized crossbows fired all around, the twang of strings filling the air.
But something was wrong.
The bolts weren’t penetrating deeply enough into the Heralds’ golden skin. As soon as one was pinned, the crossbowman would give a pull on the cable, only for the bolt to jerk out of its target, setting the Herald free once more. A design fail that fell squarely on Roark’s shoulders.
Roark had built redundancies into his system, though.
All around the inner bailey, the Troll Nation’s forces appeared in flashes of light. Spellcasters raised their hands to the dark, foggy sky, hiding as many of the troops as they could behind careful illusions. Others cast sophisticated glamours, summoning ghoulish apparitions that appeared solid but were as ephemeral as the misty clouds above. Distraction and misdirection were the greatest tools of the underdog, and Roark was nothing if not a well-seasoned underdog.
With a thought, Roark pulled his Initiate’s Spell Book from his Inventory. Numbness and tingling washed down his left hand as the book hovered open over his palm. Although he’d died many, many times since his battle with Bad_Karma—repeatedly dropping him back down to his level cap—he’d made some impressive gains in his Spellcrafting, pushing the skill up to level 13. As a result, he had ten level 1 spell slots—the maximum number—seven level 2s, six level 3s, five level 4s, four level 5 slots, three level 6 slots, two level 7 slots, and a slot at both level 8 and 9.
Although his Infernal Dungeon Lord spells were worthless against the Heralds, who had Divine Immunity to Infernal Magicks, Roark still had a great many options as a Hexorcist.
With a flick of his hand, he cast a level 2 Hazy Smoke spell, further obscuring the inner bailey from prying eyes above. It was always possible the Heralds would be able to see through the other casters’ illusions and glamours if they had a high enough Intelligence, but the smoke was no illusion. Roark’s team was equipped with enchanted pendants that allowed them to peer through the haze without issue.
That done, he crouched and broke right, heading for a partially collapsed column nearby, taking cover behind the stony debris while he prepared his next spell. A level 8 Storm of Fire and Ice.
[An Icy Torrential Downpour falls, depleting Magick of all enemy targets within a thirty-foot radius of the caster by (5 x Cursed! level of caster) points/second for 30 seconds; enemies suffer the effects of an Incendiary Burst, causing 15 points of fire damage (+2 burn damage/sec for 30 seconds) on contact.]
Overhead, the roiling clouds began to unleash fat droplets of frozen rain, which exploded on impact—cracks and booms filled the night sky like peals of thunder, accompanied by flashes of brilliant white light, illuminating the Heralds above. It worked exactly as Roark expected, driving the angelic-winged villains toward the ground, where the specialty halberds could be employed by his forces.
But the Heralds hit back just as hard. Lances of golden light fell like blazing meteors, slamming into the ground and kicking up swirls of dust and debris. The golden lances cut through the illusionary ghouls, banishing them in an instant.
A Reaver Shaman, not quite quick enough to find cover, was burned to a cinder, the golden light eating through flesh and scorching bone as she screamed.
A split second later, the Heralds appeared in all their glory, descending toward the ground, flaming scimitars clutched in one hand, spells burning brightly in the other. Bowstrings twanged all around the bailey and spells flew from the Psionic Mantids and Reaver Shamans, but the Heralds avoided each with ease—as lithe and agile as sparrows picking off moths in the late summer.
A woman with raven-black hair and ochre wings seemed to pick Roark out of the haze and chaos without the slightest bit of trouble. At once, she swooped in low, launching a javelin of golden light straight at his head.
Hasty Retreat
FROM PAST EXPERIENCE, Roark knew his Infernal shield wouldn’t be up to the task of stopping a Divine spell, so he sidestepped right, letting the javelin whoosh by him, scorching his face in the passing. He responded with a simple fireball spell, launched directly into the Herald’s face.
The orange ball of flame landed with a sizzle, but she shrugged the blow off as though he’d hit her with a snowball. It did, however, buy Roark enough time to ready his Peerless Rapier and assume the terza guardie—a perfect position for a robust counterattack.
Now at close range, the Herald lashed out with her flaming scimitar, a snarl of contempt distorting her otherwise angelic features. His rapier wasn’t strong enough to hold up under a direct blow from the heavy curved blade, but Roark pulled his body out of line, girata, deflected the scimitar with a flick of his wrist, and then executed a flawless lightning-fast dal polso, dal nodo della mano. The tip of his blade opened a gash across her vulnerable belly.
Her filigreed Health vial dropped by a fraction as molten gold rained down on him in place of blood. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. She may have had the advantage in level, but it was clear that Roark was by far the superior swordsman.
She seemed to realize it too, since she beat her wings frantically, trying to open distance between them so she could go back to lobbing deadly Divine spells from afar.
She didn’t act quickly enough, though.
Roark pressed the attack, lunging forward, blade flashing. In the corner of his eye, he saw Zyra and a cadre of razor-wire-halberd bearers puff in and out of the shadows. One lanky-limbed Reaver Champion shot in at Roark’s side, hooking the fleeing Herald around the ankle with his razor wire. The line snapped tight just as planned. The metal wire, supernaturally enchanted and fortified, bit into her golden flesh with ease, drawing a bright line of molten gold blood.
Rather than pulling the winged creature to the ground, however, the Reaver Champion could only hold on as the Herald finally disengaged and darted into the black sky, lifted by her enormous ochre wings. Up, up, up the Herald rose. Moments later, the Reaver let out a bloody wail as he plunged to his death, crushing a Bloodleech beneath him in a wet, red explosion.
“Seven hells,” Roark cursed, mind whirling as he surveyed the battlefield.
Even with their fortified Strength and Dexterity, the same thing was happening across the bailey. Knights, Champions, and Werebeasts were abruptly torn from the ground the moment they managed to snare a Herald. The swirling fog covering the ground was soon interrupted all over with piles of bloody meat and shattered bones, and more would follow if he didn’t do something quickly.
Inspiration flitted through his thoughts, though it was a gamble that would be as likely to damn them as save them. But if he stood around and did nothing, they would all die, and that was a certainty. Better to take the risk.
Stowing his sword, Roark drew a quill from his inventory and quickly jotted down a spell in an empty level 1 slot. Spectral Hands, though slightly altered.
[A field of spectral hands erupts from the ground, grabbing and holding any ally under level 36 for 90 secs – in exchange for 1 HP x caster’s character level.]
Roark activated the spell the moment he placed the last period on the page; the dusty parchment ignited in a flash
of pale blue light, and his Health dipped a few points in response.
Ghostly hands ending in long, spindly fingers erupted from the floor, grabbing at the feet and ankles of the Troll Nation’s troops, anchoring them in place—though also crippling their ability to dodge or maneuver. The Heralds, no longer able to effortlessly pull the halberd bearers from the ground, instead turned to using their deadly spells at range, hurling bolts of brilliant gold and summoning burning white rain that scorched flesh like acid. “Cowards!” Kaz bellowed, shaking his Legendary Meat Tenderizer at the sky. “Flutter down here and face Kaz like a mob!”
A trio of Heralds darted in from behind him, one knocking Druz aside and the other two grabbing Kaz. Though the Knight Thursr should have been mired in place by the ghostly hands, the sheer brute force of two high-level Heralds effortlessly ripped him from the hands’ grasp, pulling Kaz up into the sky, huge feet dangling and kicking.
“No!” Roark grabbed his Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter and fired off exploding arrows after the Heralds, but they shrugged off the blasts as though they were no more than the pesky buzzing of summer flies.
Running, Roark opened his leathery wings and launched himself at a glowing red updraft arrow, swapping out his Initiate’s Spell Book for his Peerless Rapier and Enchanted Kaiken Dagger. The battle grew smaller and smaller below as he beat against the thin air of the bailey to follow the Heralds who had whisked Kaz away in their iron grips. Fury burned in Roark’s chest as he followed their trail—he’d lost too many friends to the Ustari thugs, and he wouldn’t lose another. Certainly not Kaz.
Thin, spidery white lettering appeared over their heads as he approached. Nameplates declaring one Herald [Viago] and the other [Oasin].
Roark didn’t recognize the second man, but Viago was a name familiar to all of Traisbin. The man was one of Marek’s fiercest berserkers.
“On loan from the Tyrant King, mate?” Roark shouted up at the russet-winged Viago. “Where’s your infamous howling axe?”