by James Hunter
“The troops hardly get down the Citadel stairs before they’re transported to that cliffside location,” Viago growled, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides as if he wanted to strangle something. “There’s nothing we can do about it. The rebel’s using some kind of invisible portal magic.”
With a snap of his fingers, Lowen cast Consuming Flame. The berserker’s body combusted in a holocaust of brilliant golden fire.
On the stairs nearby, Darith, Lowen’s second-in-command, looked up from the Canyon Strider he was skinning and chuckled at the sight of Viago burning like an oil-soaked rag.
“I’m not here to listen to your excuses,” Lowen said over the sound of Viago’s hoarse screaming. “And I can tell you now, this is nothing compared to what Marek will do to you if you don’t start making progress.” Lowen found it was always best to reinforce failure with both tangible consequences and a healthy dose of fear. The fire was for the former, and Marek, the böggel-mann of Traisbin, was for the latter.
The berserker’s Health emptied pathetically fast, and he crumpled to the floor. Lowen rolled his eyes. Since Viago’s death and respawn at level 70, the man had been terribly easy to kill.
Lowen ran his thumb over the icy grooves of the rune. Unfortunately, the truth was, it would be Lowen’s head on the chopping block where Marek was concerned—though there was no need for Viago to know that. Responsibility for failure was the risk one took as a leader. The leader got the glory for victory, but also the terrible and oh-so-tangible consequences of failure. And so far, Lowen had failed spectacularly. The Tyrant King had entrusted the mage with a landslide of vital resources, and Lowen was still no closer to apprehending Roark or retrieving the World Stone.
The brunt of Marek Konig Ustar’s wrath was not something Lowen wanted to bear.
Yet even his best efforts to penetrate that puny little Citadel or coax the mouthy half-breed out had been unsuccessful. Von Graf had remained content to hole up and bide his time, playing politics and building alliances as if he were a noble angling for the throne in bloody Traisbin.
So be it. If von Graf wanted to play strategy games, he was about to find out that his opponent had been one step ahead all along. Lowen had been hoping to keep this trump card in reserve, but no, the time had come to play it.
He couldn’t get to Roark in the Citadel, so he would force Roark to come out to him.
True, this was a terrible gamble. If this failed, it could well be the end for him. But no risk, no reward. And at this point, unless he clinched absolute victory, he was damned anyway. He really had nothing left to lose.
“Darith,” Lowen snapped, tossing the rune stone in his hand. “It’s time to utilize the reserve weapon. Bring me Talise.”
Orbweaver Evolution
ROARK HIT THE COLD stone floor of an underground cavern a split second before twelve hundred pounds of Adolescent Turtle Dragon slammed down beside him. The impact bounced him a good half inch, though based on the meager amount of Health left in his vial, Roark thought wryly that he should just be thankful the jolt hadn’t killed him.
“Well done, honored Turtle Dragon,” Ick’s voice filtered through the faint crackling in Roark’s ears.
“Mac saved Roark!” Kaz cheered, the thunderous shout reverberating off the cavern ceiling.
“Yeah, with help from the Ranger,” PwnrBwner said. “Without my new Pitch spell, you’d all be dead.”
Roark thought the words Get stuffed, mate, but nothing came out. His throat was burned closed, his lungs seared nearly to the point of death. He’d died more times than he could count in the halls of the Cruel Citadel—beheaded, run through, blown up, drowned, even melted in acid—but burning alive was by far the most disagreeable way to go. His Health was regenerating, but it felt like the healing was taking forever. Everything hurt, and his skin sizzled, still cooking in places. When he tried to open his eyes, the charred skin ripped, showing him a blurry image of Kaz scratching Mac’s beard fondly.
With a groan, Roark rolled onto his side, pulling his knees in toward his chest, trying to force his diaphragm to work. To draw in even a little more air.
The soft grit of boots on stone heralded someone’s approach. Warily Roark turned his head just enough to find the pointed toe of a dark feminine leather boot swinging toward his face.
“Zyra, wait!”
Her boot froze mid-kick.
With a trembling, nerve-numb hand, he grabbed an Absolute Health potion and shot the sickly sweet contents in one long draught. Red liquid poured into his filigreed vial, refilling what he’d lost to Isara and the fire. His charred and melted body began repairing itself at once, hair regrowing, new skin replacing old, lungs drinking in sweet, cool life.
“All right,” he croaked, letting the empty bottle shatter on the stone floor. “Go ahead.”
Instead of a boot to the face, however, Zyra grabbed him by the collar of his leather armor and dragged him to his feet.
“I ought to beat you senseless for that foolishness,” she snarled. “What in the name of Azibek were you doing? We didn’t need to kill her, we just needed to live long enough to get past. You don’t even get Experience for killing other mobs, you bloody imbecile! It’s no wonder you’ve got less Impulse Control than that moronic loudmouth! The quicksilver must’ve eaten away the little sense you had!”
She sounded angry. No, more than angry—infuriated. But Roark had caught the singular glint in her eyes, even through the shadows, and realized the truth: she was worried. Worried about him.
Roark tried to smile smugly. Since his face hadn’t yet healed completely, it felt more like an unholy grimace of pain. He reached into his Inventory and pulled out the treasure he’d risked respawn for.
The stone pulsed with toxic yellow-green light as if it contained a tiny venomous star on the verge of exploding.
“Strictly speaking, we didn’t need to kill her,” he wheezed, “but I suspect you’ll be glad we did.”
Zyra’s breath caught at the sight of the stone. One hand disappeared into her hood as if she had covered her mouth in shock.
“Is that...?”
“A Peerless Orbweaver Matriarch Transmutation Core,” Roark said, letting her examine the pulsing green stone more closely.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Peerless Orbweaver Matriarch Transmutation Core
Rarity: Tier 8, Peerless
Creature Core Level: 69
Durability: Semi-Stable
Half-life: 1 month, 3 days, 13:59:59 remaining
Notice: Peerless (Tier 8) Orbweaver Matriarch Transmutation Core will degrade to Epic (Tier 7) Orbweaver Matriarch Transmutation Core if not implanted in a compatible host within its half-life. Once implanted in a compatible host, Durability status will be converted from Degrading to Stable.
Notice: Once implanted in a compatible host, the Orbweaver Matriarch Transmutation Core cannot be removed without destroying the Transmutation Core.
It’s what’s on the inside that counts... but sometimes what’s on the inside can significantly alter the outside...
╠═╦╬╧╪
“Isara was a calculating, vindictive slag who would’ve killed us as soon as look at us,” Roark said, words coming far more easily now. “Which naturally makes her the perfect match for a paranoid Reaver Champion. Ready for that new lethal Evolution?”
With a laugh of pure delight, Zyra threw herself into his arms. Roark winced and staggered backward, thankfully bumping into the helpful bulwark of Mac’s shell before they went down in a heap of limbs.
“I want a thousand arms,” she said. “And a spinneret! And venomous fangs as long as my hand!”
Roark chuckled and couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”
He opened his grimoire and turned to his Greater Vassals, scanning the page until he found Zyra’s stats. Her hooded doppelganger appeared, rotating slowly on the opposite page, eagerly awaiting the Transmutation Core. He selected the Preview and the newes
t addition to his Inventory.
[Compatibility: 97%
New Evolutionary Path for Zyra, Orbweaver Ravager, detected! Trapdoor Tempest (available at level 61) or Silkdeath Devastator (available at level 71).]
Zyra was at level 35, and Isara had died at level 69—even one additional level and the Transmutation wouldn’t have worked—making her new level 52. Even better, her new respawn cap would be 50, miles above her respawn as a Reaver Champion.
As Roark turned to her avatar, he felt a twinge of Mai’s concerns over the potential loss of the face he was used to Zyra having. Though in truth, he thought wryly, he saw it so rarely that he shouldn’t be all that used to it.
Just as her original had been hidden in the shadows of her ever-present hood, Zyra’s new visage was draped in a veil of black lace hanging neatly around her recurved onyx horns. Roark adjusted the color of the ringlets spilling from beneath the lace to her customary snowy white, then began trying to tweak the new avatar to fulfill each of Zyra’s requests.
Though there was no option for a thousand arms, there were several choices that featured different numbers and arrangements of limbs. After some experimenting, he settled on four slender humanoid arms and four segmented arachnoid legs that stretched up over her shoulders before folding neatly behind her back, almost like Roark’s wings did. To these, he added her preferred silvery tattoos and a ridge of scythelike spikes to protect the fragile joints of her new arachnoid legs.
In addition to holding a certain terrifying beauty, that arrangement of limbs came with the surprising transfer of two new abilities the other arm-leg combinations didn’t offer.
Wall Walk—Orbweaver Ravager can climb any surface as long as her arachnoid legs remain intact. While Wall Walking, Orbweaver Ravager can carry up to three times her weight.
Arachne’s Pride—Orbweaver Ravagers are capable of spinning an incredibly strong, incredibly thin thread drenched in hemotoxic poison. Thread strength is equal to 6n (where n is the spinner’s Dexterity) - breaking strain of .01 per foot in length. Hemotoxin does 1n Necrotic damage to flesh, muscle, and organs of any non-Infernal beings per second until contact with thread is broken (where n is spinner’s Alchemy Trade skill Level).
“Bloody brilliant,” Roark breathed.
When Zyra saw her new abilities, she echoed the sentiment.
“This hemotoxin’s exactly what I needed,” she said, for once failing to hide her genuine excitement behind its usual veil of sarcasm. “With a little experimentation, I’ll be able to find a recipe that degrades Herald flesh. Maybe we won’t even need the arrows. Maybe I can fine-tune the thread so that it eats through the flesh and anchors itself in the bone.”
“Any adjustments you’d like made?” Roark asked.
Zyra hmmed and inspected the avatar. A few minor stats changed, but Roark couldn’t see what exactly she was altering.
“There,” she said, satisfied. “That’s perfect.”
“What did you do?”
“Added fangs,” she said, tapping the veil over the place where her mouth would be.
Of course. Smirking to himself, Roark accepted the Transmutation.
The grimoire closed, and light flashed through the cavern, exploding off of Zyra in waves of gold. When it finally cleared, her spidery limbs unfolded, lifting her feet from the stone. Her practical black leathers had disappeared, replaced by a lacy black dress with slits up either side showing more of her long midnight legs than it concealed.
“Should’ve seen that coming,” Roark muttered. All of Zyra’s Evolutions so far had left her barely clothed. The attire was hugely impractical and there seemed to be no way to avoid it. It was almost as though the devs of this place had designed her to show as much flesh as humanly possible. Or monstrously possible in this instance. And even with the extra arms, Roark had to begrudgingly admit that she was more beautiful than ever. He turned to her and hastily cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring an extra set of Oiled Leathers. Do you have anything with a better armor rating?”
Zyra wasn’t paying attention. She was too busy enjoying PwnrBwner’s disgusted reaction to her transmutation. She spidered closer to him.
“Gross!” The hero leapt away from her, shuddering. “Walk like a person! And don’t fucking touch me!”
Grinning, Zyra set her bare humanoid feet on the stone and reached one spidery limb over her shoulder as if she were going to caress his face.
“You don’t like my new evolution?” she purred.
PwnrBwner drew his shortsword. “I’m fucking serious, psycho spidergirl. Any part of you that touches me gets chopped off.”
When Roark laughed, the hero glared at him.
“You think this is funny, you fake-pirate asshole?” PwnrBwner snapped. He pointed at Zyra. “That spider shit is creepy as hell, and if you think it’s hot, then you’re bad and you should feel bad.”
“I meant to tell you something earlier, mate,” Roark said, cupping his chin and pretending to think back. “What was it? Oh, right—toss off.”
“Well, Kaz thinks Zyra is terrifying!” the Mighty Gourmet chimed in happily. “Much scarier than she was before, and her new legs make her look much bigger. That is good for intimidation.”
“Thank you, Kaz.” Zyra dipped her veiled head in a gracious bow. “You’re right, as usual.”
Ick chuckled, mandibles rasping. “You will certainly have an easier time with the School of Night’s postures. They were made with at least four arms in mind.”
“I knew it.” Roark shook his head, a smile working its way onto his face.
“A celebration is in order,” Kaz insisted, dumping firewood on the stone floor. “Roark survived the fire, Mac acted with great valor, and Zyra has evolved into her new Mega-Evolution! Kaz will prepare a feast!”
“Down here?” Roark glanced around the decrepit cavern, finding little more than ruined stone walls and a dusty stone floor. No sign of habitation, food, or supplies.
“A Gourmet is prepared for a feast no matter where he might find himself,” Kaz said with the air of quotation. Most likely Jordan Bamsey—one of his other culinary idols. As if to prove it true, he was already pulling Saber Boar Bacon, Large Cauldrons, various vegetables, skewers, and salt from his Inventory. “If Ick will kindly set the fire, Kaz will begin cooking.”
“Of course, Mighty Gourmet,” Ick said, dipping his head, mandibles clicking in anticipation.
“Bacon on a dungeon crawl? You’re the fucking man, Kaz.” PwnrBwner produced a bedroll and laid it close by. “Wake me up when it’s chow time. I need to sleep to regenerate my Wilderness Survival Skills and junk.”
Mac saw the opportunity and curled up beside the bewildered Ranger, turning a few times before finally settling in.
“We good?” PwnrBwner asked, clearly annoyed by the jarring.
Mac chirped, the sound comically high-pitched for such a large creature, then nestled his blocky head into PwnrBwner’s side. To Roark, he looked for all the world like an overgrown house cat.
“Good,” the Ranger-Cleric snapped. “No more moving. If you’re sleeping here, go the fuck to sleep.”
After a few moments of silence from the Ranger, Zyra climbed up the wall on soundless arachnoid legs and crossed the ceiling with effortless strides. Snowy ringlets hung down from her head, showing their respect for gravity, but her scrap of dress and lacy black veil defied the natural pull of physics, hanging up to cover her face and body. She crept across the ceiling, stopping directly over PwnrBwner’s head.
“Sleep tight, loudmouth,” she whispered from above. “I’ll be sure to wake you once the eggs start hatching.”
“Fuck!” PwnrBwner bolted upright in his bedroll, scratching obsessively at his face and hair. “Don’t fucking do that!”
She snorted. “Calm down. I can’t actually implant eggs—this evolution didn’t come with that particular ability. Besides, I wouldn’t implant eggs in you if you were the last warm-blooded food source in Hearthworld. Feeding
from you would probably give a young spiderling brain damage.”
PwnrBwner held up both of his middle fingers in response.
Zyra ignored him and turned to Roark.
“I have an extra set of leather armor in my Inventory,” she said. “Help me get them on, Griefer?”
With a quick check to make sure his Clearblood Ring was equipped, Roark grinned and followed her around the corner into the shadowy depths of one of the branching tunnels.
Swapping out the armor took only a few minutes, but it did give Roark an opportunity to lift the lacy veil covering her face. He let out a pent-up sigh of relief he hadn’t even been aware he was holding when he saw her familiar heart-shaped face and mismatched purple and green eyes.
“Despite how much I hate it,” she muttered into his chest, “I know you have a certain fondness for my appearance, so I decided to keep my looks intact.” She shrugged. “Mandibles aren’t to my taste anyway. Although I did make one minor alteration.”
Her lips pulled back in a smile to reveal a pair of wicked fangs that would’ve looked more at home on an overgrown viper. Deadly white needles that gleamed even in the low light.
“Care to test them out?” she purred, nipping at his neck...
A while later, after a very thorough introduction to Zyra’s new fangs, they rejoined the others.
PwnrBwner had finally fallen asleep alongside the enormous Turtle Dragon, and both were snoring lightly. Roark and Zyra joined Ick at the fire—though Roark kept a comfortable distance; he still felt a phantom sizzling every now and then looking at the flames—and helped Kaz prepare the food. The Mighty Gourmet had even brought a small keg of his honey mead, and soon they were all enjoying a cup.
Little by little, everyone’s Health, spells, and abilities recovered. They woke PwnrBwner and Mac when the food was ready, then feasted as if they were in the Portal to Flavortown in the middle of the Troll Marketplace. The atmosphere was warm and pleasant in spite of the dust and dank of the shadowy cairn.
But as seemed to be customary for Roark during these celebrations, his mind refused to focus on the festivities. Time and again he found his gaze wandering to the tunnel leading away from their camp, deeper into the shadowy Underworld Cairns.