Instantly he pulled up his Character sheet:
The new level also came with a boost to his magic—his Spellcraft jumped to Level 2, and he earned two more Level 1 Spell Slots, another Level 2, and for the first time, a Level 3 Spell Slot.
Roark dismissed the grimoire. He could distribute his points and tinker with inscribing new spells later. For now, he had work to do. The corpse of PwnrBwner_OG lay a few feet away, a stark reminder that the heroes were still overrunning the citadel’s first floor, killing the Changelings, Thursrs, bats, and salamanders. Roark could hear the sounds of combat echoing through the corridors—the clash of metal on metal, the whumph of triggered firebombs, the clang of the spiked grate slamming against the stone wall.
“Top off your Health if you’ve got any potions left,” Roark told Kaz. His voice no longer croaked like a bullfrog. It was still deep and gravelly, but there was something strangely compelling about it. Level and deadly, but honeyed, like one might expect a demon to sound. “We have a raiding party to mop up.”
While Kaz knocked back a glowing magenta concoction, Roark found his rapier near the foot of the dais. One delicate, leather-wrapped hand lay open beside the hilt as if Zyra were the one who’d dropped the slender blade.
Roark picked up the rapier, and with a final glance back at the hooded Reaver’s corpse, he headed for the open portcullis. He had survived. He’d won. The only thing remaining was to kill them all. Over and over again. As many times as the heroes came back, Roark would happily earn his nickname griefing them.
THIRTY-ONE:
Looming Threats
It took another twenty minutes of bloody combat—moving room by room, hallway by hallway—but finally Roark, Kaz, Mac, and the remaining Infernal creatures cleared the first floor of the heroes, the last either dead or fleeing for their lives.
Roark’s new Jotnar form had certainly not disappointed. His speed, size, and raw strength scattered warriors and magick users before him like chaff in a hard wind. By the time they were done, corpses littered the corridors, strewn across every floor and open space, slumped in corners, burnt to a crisp in dead ends, or impaled on spring-loaded spear traps and spiked grates. Most of the bodies belonged to the invading heroes, but a good number of Trolls, Reaver Bats, and Stone Salamanders lay dead among them.
In the aftermath, Kaz finally shook off his fear of the greatest Troll taboo and helped Roark loot the heroes’ corpses. Seeing a Jotnar—one who also happened to be their floor Overseer—crouched beside heroes’ bodies, emptying their Inventories with help from a Thursr, seemed to break through to the other Trolls who had survived the battle. Slowly, cautiously, as if expecting a bolt of deadly lightning to smite them for violating the natural order, a few tentatively rifled through the heroes’ possessions. When no Infernal retribution struck those Trolls down, the hesitant stragglers loosened up and began to help as well.
Roark instructed the looting Trolls to take everything to the smithy except the food and ingredients, which went directly to Kaz’s kitchen. The budding army needed to eat, after all. The enchanted armor and high-quality weapons he would distribute to the first-floor Trolls, along with a share of the gold, Health Potions, and other beneficial items. The majority of the spoils, however, Roark would dismantle for their components and forge into better weapons and armor. The process would also allow him to level up his Smithing and Tailoring Skills, which, in turn, would allow him to craft even better, deadlier items.
With everyone pitching in, Roark and Kaz were freed up to go through and mark the positions of the heroes’ bodies on a parchment map and their time until respawn. In three hours, the griefing would begin in earnest.
When the looting was finished, and all the corpses had been marked and all the traps reset, Kaz headed for the kitchen to revel in his new ingredients.
“Kaz will prepare a feast to celebrate our victory,” the Thursr declared proudly, puffing his chest up as he spoke. “Cooking with Gry Feliri said that a feast is a meal where more than one food is consumed! Can Roark imagine? Stew and skewers?”
Roark chuckled. “I look forward to it, mate.”
He glanced around the antechamber at the number of Trolls and other Infernal creatures needing to be fed in this room alone. He rubbed at his chin as he ran numbers in his head. Currently, he and Kaz were the only Trolls in the Dungeon with proper Trade Skills, and that simply wouldn’t do at all. Especially not when they expanded into the lower levels and took new troops on. Kaz could never cook for the whole Dungeon—not alone—nor would Roark be able to do the blacksmithing or weapons training for so many creatures. He would have to do something about that soon.
“Before you head off,” Roark said, “why don’t you ask around and see if you can’t find someone interested in learning how to cook as well. They won’t be able to prepare food properly until we get access to more skill books or a trainer, but they can run errands for you. Ease your workload a bit.”
While Kaz bustled off to find an apprentice chef, Roark set up a rotating force of Changelings in the bailey to watch for returning heroes and new threats. They would draw the invaders inside, kill them and loot the corpses, then trade off with the next group. A clockwork griefing machine.
In the meantime, Roark went to the smithy to sort through the spoils. PwnrBwner_OG’s guild had left behind a handsome assortment of gold, gemstones, potions, and scrolls, but the weapons and armor were mostly of a lower quality than Roark could smith. He set to work sorting the scrap items into one pile and the enchanted and high-level items into another.
An hour into it, the keep pile contained only three enchanted weapons—a Stiletto, a Kukri, and an Oak Staff—one set of Iron Gauntlets of Minor Endurance, and a pair of Flawless Glass Boots which weren’t enchanted but were beyond his current smithing skill.
The assortment of gemstones and gold the heroes had left behind this round made Roark eager to see what they would drop upon their next death. He thought of PwnrBwner’s Rose-headed Mace—now that was an item he was eager to inspect. A little too eager, maybe. If he weren’t griefing for the levels, he knew that twinge of greed could easily get out of hand and shift his priorities.
As it was, his Infernal magick couldn’t even touch portal spells until he’d reached level thirty-six, which meant he needed to outmatch Azibek before he could open a way home. Deconstructing all the scrap weapons and armor and forging new gear would only take Roark so far toward a new level. The griefing would have to continue, for the lower-level Trolls as well as himself. Then there were more Trade Skill books to find and read, so another trip to the marketplace was in order. He was particularly keen to raise his Calligraphy and Enchanting skills. If he could find a way to bring these new magics back to Traisbin, then the fight to depose the Tyrant King would change drastically.
A moving shadow in the corner of Roark’s eye caught his attention. Zyra slipped into the smithy and boosted herself up onto the workbench with catlike grace.
“Congrats on the victory, Griefer,” she said, a playful lilt to her voice. Her leather-wrapped hand reached into her hood, and Roark got the impression she was cupping her chin as she studied him in the fiery light of the forge. “And the Evolution. Jotnar suits you.”
Roark tossed another iron longsword onto the pile of scrap weapons. “Neither would have been possible if you hadn’t absorbed that contact poison.”
“You were the only one who could operate the Overseer’s throne. Besides, I’ve already Evolved; death can’t knock me back further than level six.”
“All the same, I appreciate it,” Roark said, staring into the shadowy hood and hoping he was meeting her gaze.
“I’m a paranoid assassin,” Zyra responded with a careless shrug. “I was only doing my job.” She canted her head to one side. “And unless I’m mistaken, isn’t that exactly why you wanted me in your honor guard, conniving Jotnar?”
“Indeed it is. And may I say that’s the best conniving I’ve done in recent memory.” Roark scoo
ped the final handful of daggers onto the scrap pile and straightened up to his new full height. “Come on, Kaz is preparing a victory feast.” He offered her a hand down. “Try not to poison anyone if you can.”
“Roark the Skittish?” Her voice carried the hint of a mischievous smile. “Don’t worry, I keep spare Antidotes in my Inventory.”
“Lord Overseer!” A Level 3 Changeling sprinted into the smithy, a look of bewildered concern twisting his leathery blue features. “Lord Overseer, there is an intruder!”
“I’m not Lord anything,” Roark said, frowning. “Just Roark. And if there’s a hero invading, then kill him and mark the body for griefing, same as the rest.”
“No, this one is different, strange,” the Changeling said, dancing with impatience. “The chef Kaz said to fetch the Lord Over—to fetch the Roark. Please come.” The Changeling’s eyes bulged and he danced from foot to foot, nearly quivering with barely contained nerves.
Whatever was different about this intruder, it had clearly rattled the poor fellow. Roark’s lips pursed into a thin line as he followed the Changeling out into the stone corridor. He didn’t hear Zyra’s footsteps, but when he looked over his shoulder, he found the hooded Reaver stalking along behind him like a shadow.
Kaz was already at the foot of the staircase when they reached the antechamber, arguing with a strange gold-fleshed creature with the speckled brown-and-white wings of a cana-hiri falcon, its human body wrapped in soft brown leathers crisscrossed with buckles and straps. Roark faltered, uncertain. This beast was unlike any of the races of heroes in Hearthworld, but the soft light shining from its golden flesh gave it away as Divine. Another chimera, perhaps the Divine equivalent to a Troll?
Slowly, Roark resumed his pace. As they approached, the creature’s piercing golden eyes shifted from Kaz to Roark and a smile stretched across its shining face. Roark was on the verge of asking what the hells was going on when he saw the nameplate floating above the creature’s head, situated between the feathered arches of its speckled wings. His heart seemed to seize in his chest, a cold sweat suddenly blooming along his brow.
[Lowen]
Before the bastard could utter a single word, Roark jerked the Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter from his Inventory and loosed arrows one after another at the Tyrant King’s right-hand mage.
Lowen chuckled and flicked a slim olive wand. The arrows burnt to ash midflight.
“Don’t you ever know when you’re outclassed, Graf?” Lowen asked, his speckled brown wings stretched wide, beating at the air and lifting him free of the ground.
As Lowen rose into the air, he offered Roark a cruel smile, then turned that olive wand on Kaz. Roark moved in a blink, bolting toward the Thursr, slamming his shoulder into Kaz’s chest. As a Changeling, Roark never would’ve been able to so much as budge Kaz, but as a Jotnar he easily tackled him out of the way, both hitting the ground several feet away. The flagstones where Kaz had been standing only a moment before exploded, throwing shrapnel in every direction. A sliver of red drained from Roark’s filigreed vial as jagged stone fragments cut into his exposed flesh and peppered his leather armor.
“Still overdoing it, mate,” Roark growled over the rain of grit as he rolled to his feet, coming up in a wary crouch.
“Give me the World Stone!” Lowen shouted down at him, a glower etched into the lines of his inhuman face.
“You’re welcome to come down here and take it,” Roark said, trading his bow for the Kaiken Dagger. All of his Spell Slots were still in cooldown, but his Health vial was nearly full. With a steady hand, he slashed the letters of the spell he’d killed PwnrBwner_OG with into his forearm once more. With a snarl, he thrust his arm out, palm up, fingers splayed back, unleashing a stone lance at the feathery interloper. The shaft of deadly rock screamed through the air while over half the red bled from Roark’s filigreed vial.
Lowen darted aside easily, laughing as the stone lance shattered against the ceiling where he’d been.
But his mirth was cut short as a trio of arrows slammed into the winged bastard—two from his right and one from his left. The Changelings and Thursrs spread around the antechamber reloaded. A pair of flat throwing knives sprouted from Lowen’s thigh and hip like magick an instant later. More sailed past Roark on all sides, courtesy of Zyra.
The Troll archers fired again, sending a cloud of arrows flying at Lowen. Roark switched back to the bow and joined them, nocking an arrow, pulling the string taut, and loosing it in a single fluid motion. A particularly nasty-looking spear with a barbed head thrown by Kaz impaled Lowen’s right wing. Macaroni appeared on the ceiling just over the mage’s head and dropped with a hiss. The little beast—though not so little now—landed with a meaty thump, his feet and claws scrambling for purchase while his jagged needle teeth latched onto Lowen’s feathery wing joint.
The Tyrant King’s lackey promptly tumbled from the air, his single wing unable to support the combined weight of himself and the Elite Salamander. The pair of them landed clumsily at the top of the stone staircase.
Roark was already carving another spell into the unmarked space on the back of his forearm.
“Mac, move!” he shouted, voice ringing off the high stone ceiling.
The salamander scrambled off the winged mage and down the side of the crumbling stairs with a speed belying his fat-padded form. Sensing the danger, Lowen stumbled to his feet as well and ran for the door, his injured wing dragging behind him.
“This isn’t over, Graf!” the mage snarled. “Marek will have his pendant back! You’ll suffer until you beg to die like the dog that you are! You think you’re clever, but we will own this land, just as we own all of Traisbin and Terho beyond that. You can’t escape. You belong to us!”
Roark aimed his palm toward Lowen’s knees and triggered his second spell, firing the bolas. The second offensive spell drained nearly all of Roark’s remaining Health, dropping him to his hands and knees on the shattered stone floor in a wave of pain and encroaching darkness, but he managed to hold off unconsciousness. The bolas sang through the air at the mage, but Lowen darted through the door, bashing his battered wing gracelessly against the side as he disappeared out into the night. There was a clatter of steel on stone as the bolas slammed uselessly against the wall a split second behind him.
“Damn it all,” Roark cursed under his breath. Nausea roiled in his gut—no small part of it due to letting that horse’s ass of a mage escape. In the corner of his eye, his Health vial flashed critical. A good slap across the face would likely kill him.
Kaz’s huge hands gingerly lifted Roark up and set him on his feet. “Kaz will take a party of mighty Thursrs and catch him, Roark.”
“Don’t waste your time,” Zyra said before Roark could respond. She stood in the shadowy doorway, looking out into the darkness. “He’s long gone.”
“He’ll be back,” Roark said, fingering the World Stone’s chain. “Probably with reinforcements. Does anyone know what he was?”
The Trolls seemed to shift uncomfortably. It was Zyra who finally broke the silence. “He was a Malaika Herald. A rare chimera from the great war. He will be part of a dungeon not so different than our own …”
Troubling. Extremely troubling.
Macaroni appeared at Roark’s side, providing something solid to steady him on his feet. Roark scratched the salamander’s head absently as he glanced around the antechamber at the dozen Trolls who had come to his aid just moments before. They must have been changing watch when the mage barged in. Lowen was too smart to assume they were the full force of the citadel. He wouldn’t come back before he felt certain he could kill them all and take the pendant. Roark couldn’t help wonder what sort of forces a Malaika Herald could bring to bear.
“Is the feast ready, Kaz?” Roark asked.
“Yes...yes,” the Thursr stuttered. “Kaz was on his way to tell Roark the food was served when he found this intruder demanding to speak to Roark.” Kaz glared at the place where Lowen had disappeared, t
he black plumage in his antlered headdress trembling with anger.
“Come on, then.” Roark raised his voice until the whole room could hear him clearly and affected a lighthearted tone he hoped would be contagious. “We’ve fought hard and won a victory over the guild of heroes who sought to demolish us. We will deal with Lowen when the time comes, but for now it is high time we celebrate.”
The play worked. Slowly, the Trolls lowered their weapons and mumbled their agreement. The guards headed up to the bailey to watch for threats with promises of rotation as soon as another group had finished eating. Kaz led the way into the great hall, detailing for Roark and anyone who would listen every food he’d made. Mac slithered along beside Roark, growling once when Zyra sidled up to them, but the bloodthirsty salamander relaxed when she only slipped Roark a Modest Health Potion.
The great hall was already full of hungry Trolls eating the fare Kaz had laid out. Three Changelings in aprons—Kaz’s new apprentices, apparently—bustled around refilling flagons of ale, plates of skewers, stacks of bread, and massive pots of stew. Reaver Bats swooped down at intervals and Stone Salamander tongues shot out to steal morsels off the table, much to the delight of the Trolls. Soon they’d made a game of tossing food to the creatures overhead. Even Zyra tossed the occasional scrap up.
Roark ate and joked and played the part of carefree leader, though his mind was on Azibek the Cruel breathing down his neck and Lowen the winged horse’s ass threatening him from the front. If Lowen had found his way here, it was likely only a matter of time until Marek did as well. When that all came to a head, it would be as ugly as a Rotbeest’s back end. They would need loads of preparation just to survive it. Zyra slipped up beside him and placed a hand on his forearm. Instead of gouging him with poisoned spikes, she simply gave his arm a light squeeze.
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