The_Mustard_Knight followed hard on their heels, and Roark soon found himself blocking attacks from a longsword and katana at the same time, dancing through an ever more intricate series of parries. If they noticed the door, they paid it no immediate mind, either thinking that he couldn’t or wouldn’t retreat to the next floor.
They were wrong on both counts.
His rapier connected with the blade of the katana, trovar di spada, though the katana’s higher position gave the rog the advantage. With a flick of his wrist, Roark executed the tight circle Griff had demonstrated for him, not only throwing off the katana, but slashing open the rog’s forearm with a spiraling cut at the same time. A second after Roark’s stramazzone counter was complete, The_Mustard_Knight’s longsword sliced into the meat of Roark’s bicep. Blood oozed up and began to trickle down his pale white arm. His Health vial emptied another few notches.
From the corner of Roark’s eye, he saw the mage cast another spell. Roark threw up his left hand once more, the Infernal Shield flickering to life and licking away at the Infernal magick in his purple vial. The spell bounced off in a shower of bright sparks.
[Roark the Griefer resisted Stun Spell!]
Over The_Mustard_Knight’s shoulder, Roark saw the dark elf slipping toward the corner, trying to flank him, a pair of wickedly curved daggers drawn and ready. It was time.
Roark dropped the violet barrier again and turned on his heel, racing down the shadowy, torchlit staircase. His long legs skipped two and three steps at a time as he ran. A cacophony of shouting and clanking armor followed behind him. He leapt down the final four stairs all at once, landing at the bottom in the gloomy torture chamber that was the second floor. Without a backward glance, Roark sprinted for the door to the next room.
He should’ve kept his shield up or written a rebound spell for the chase portion of the plan. Roark realized this the moment he felt a burning fist smack him in the center of his spine.
[You have been Slowed! Movement speed reduced by 45% for 30 seconds.]
“Yeah, nailed him!”
“Nice shot, Doc!”
Indigo lights circled his head and chest, speeding up faster and faster as his own movement slowed to a crawl. It felt as if he were slogging through chest-deep sucking mud. The long muscles in his arms and legs strained as he fought to speed up, but he couldn’t coax anything resembling haste from them. A newborn foal that had just slopped onto the wet grass could’ve run him down at this speed.
Roark could hear the heroes gaining on him as he edged around a cage and its grinning skeletal occupant. If they noticed that this floor was as abandoned as the one above, none of the heroes mentioned it. They caught up to him as he was passing the breaking cradle. Longsword, katana, and now dual daggers were ripping at his flesh like a pack of dogs tearing apart a bear. Red drained from his Health vial in a steady stream. Only his increased Health Regeneration rate as a Jotnar kept him alive—and even that was a near thing.
These heroes were far more powerful than he’d originality anticipated … If Roark didn’t do something differently, they were going to kill him before he made it to the throne room.
Mentally, Roark scrambled, cogs clanking away inside his skull as he desperately tried to figure out a way to stay alive long enough to see this gambit through.
He veered left and leapt over an open pit of coals, moving slowly enough that he could look down at the glowing branding iron stuck deep in the bed of embers. The pit touched off a spark of memory in his mind. It looked so like the one in the first-floor torture chamber. The pit of coals where he’d found …
Neveret’s Last Laugh! He dug into his Inventory and ripped out the glittering black lava glass and metal mask.
It would block at least some of the damage from their weapons, but he wouldn’t be able to see where he was going. Worth the trade off? A glance at his Health decided it—the red in the filigreed vial was well below half and dropping with every fresh attack.
Roark took one final look ahead, committing the layout of the room to hasty memory: The doorway to the second room was five long paces away. The only way he could miss it was if he stumbled and went severely off track. Which was a possibility, considering that the mask contained no eyeholes.
With trembling hands, he fitted Neveret’s Last Laugh onto his face, rendering himself temporarily blind. Immediately, the bright lines of pain each blow dealt faded, and thin white text appeared in the darkness.
[Roark the Griefer has resisted stabbing damage from Superior Longsword.]
One pace.
The mask extracted its price of one Health per character level for the first second worn. Roark grimaced behind the nonexistent mouth of the mask. Neveret’s Last Laugh was deflecting 100% of the damage from all non-magical weapons, but with so little red left in his vial and so far to go, 8 Health felt like a steep price to pay. But then he noticed his naturally High Regeneration rate was combating the toll. As a level 8 Jotnar, he regenerated 6 Health per second, which meant that per second, Neveret’s Last Laugh extracted a measly 2 HP—practically a steal, considering the circumstances.
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]
Two paces.
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]
The dark elf’s dual daggers still cut little bits of his life away, but without the assistance of the larger blades, they were nowhere near as effective.
Three paces. Another 8 Health drained away.
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]
Four paces. Roark braced himself to slam into the stone wall.
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Superior Longsword.]
Five paces! He must be inside the second room, an open space studded with lava pits and roasting cages.
For a split second, he lifted the mask away from his face to check his surroundings. Orange light from the molten lava illuminated the doors on the far wall. The last one was his target. He slapped the mask back down, and not a moment too soon.
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]
[Roark the Griefer has resisted stabbing damage from Superior Longsword.]
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Superior Longsword.]
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]
Neveret’s Last Laugh continued to extract its price for protection, and the Slow Spell continued to make Roark’s progress a damned faraway fantasy.
Beneath the mask, Roark managed a wry smirk. If he had to find a golden lining to all this, it was that at least the heroes were committed to following him. He’d barely had to do anything to get them this far. As long as losing nearly three-quarters of his Health counted as barely doing anything.
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]
[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Superior Longsword.]
Roark stumbled. At first, he thought he’d tripped over something without feeling it. But then he realized his arms and legs were pumping freely again. It was like being held under water as the oxygen drained away and your lungs fought for air, then suddenly being released and gasping down lungfuls of fresh, sweet, delicious air. The Slow Spell had ended. Roark laughed—a full-bellied thing that rose from his center—and ripped off the mask. Suddenly, his long legs ate up the stone floor, leaving the surprised heroes dashing like mad to catch up.
Quickly, before the mage could cast another bloody Slow Spell, Roark held out his left hand and conjured an Infernal Shield to protect his back. He shot through the door on the end, then down the twisting meat-hook-adorned corridor usually crawling with Reavers hungry for a kill.
The heroes were catching him again, nearly breathing down his neck as he burst into the lava-lit throne room. But it hardly mattered, as the moment they stepped over the threshold was the mom
ent four Elite Reavers hit the party with Paralysis Spells from every direction. The heroes stopped dead in their tracks, bodies immobilized, expressions ranging from shock to rage frozen on their faces.
Roark slowed to a halt and came face-to-face with the obese, spike-studded Wurgfozz. The Thursr Behemoth’s eyes glittered greedily.
“Your show of good faith, as promised,” Roark panted, sweeping a hand toward the paralyzed heroes. His black hair had fallen into his face from the chase, and he quickly swept it aside with one sweat-slick hand.
“It’s quite the wonderful change of pace to work with a Troll of his word,” Wurgfozz said in his high-pitched purr. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Griefer … Or should I say it’s about to be a pleasure?”
[Congratulations! You have delivered (1) group of heroes to Wurgfozz the Sadistic within the allotted time limit! Your alliance with the Trolls of the Second Floor is now Secure!
To Maintain the Alliance: Allow second-floor Trolls access to first-floor kitchens, trainers, and strategies; allow Wurgfozz the Sadistic to continue ruling the Second Floor as Overseer.
To Break the Alliance: Challenge Wurgfozz the Sadistic for the position of Second-Floor Overseer.]
As soon as Roark closed this page, more text appeared.
[Congratulations! Your Troll Leadership skill has increased to Level 2! Trolls who were Receptive to your Leadership will become Supportive of your Leadership when spoken to face-to-face!]
With a thought, Roark dismissed the notice, took two long strides, and slumped into a stained aquatic torture chair. Every scrape, cut, and bruise he’d been trying to ignore flared up immediately, sending his vision swimming for a moment. The second-floor trolls who were hard at work attaching the party of motionless heroes to various devices of torture blurred into meaningless orange-tinged shapes.
Then a leather-wrapped hand materialized to his right holding out a bright red Modest Health Potion.
“Drink up,” Zyra’s voice said from somewhere out past the heavens. “We’re too close to enemy territory for you to be wandering around without full Health.”
FIFTEEN:
Reservations
It took two Modest Health Potions to heal Roark’s cuts and bruises and return his filigreed Health vial to full—and that was only with his hearty Health Regen rate. He drank off the last as he and Zyra headed down the staircase to the third floor. The screams of tortured heroes echoed off the walls behind them. At the bottom of the stairs, in the bottleneck where Roark had died, stood a familiar figure in an antlered headdress and clacking, wooden O-Rogiri armor.
A surreal feeling swirled in Roark’s mind as he looked down at the dead body that was supposed to be him. No, not supposed to be him—was him. Yet it was like looking at a total stranger.
True, the long, leanly muscled corpse was a sight closer to reality than the lumpy blue Changeling body had been, but it still didn’t look like the reflection he’d seen in every looking glass and bottle and puddle his whole life. The nose was sharper, without the slight crook that marked him as a descendant of the bands of Lyuko travelers who wandered Traisbin’s roads. The skin was ghostly pale instead of his accustomed darkly tanned olive. The curtain of dark, shaggy hair could’ve been his a few days before he realized he needed to crop it back again, but the serrated teeth, black razor-sharp claws, and pale staring eyes couldn’t have been further from what he was used to. Not to mention the extra foot and a half of height.
The body was supposed to be him, but it wasn’t, and looking down at it in that moment, Roark felt every bit the misplaced interdimensional traveler he was.
As he and Zyra approached, Kaz raised a hooked sword in greeting, though the Thursr looked uncharacteristically grim.
Zyra picked up on the change as well.
“Everything all right, big guy?” she asked.
Kaz shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncomfortable about something.
“Kaz believes he mentioned some reservations earlier,” the Thursr began hesitantly, shooting glances at Roark and Zyra in turns. “About the deal.” He paused and dropped his gravelly voice. “The one Roark made with Wurgfozz …” He frowned and fidgeted as if not sure how to continue, but a ragged scream echoing down the staircase—clearly from the heroes currently committed to Wurgfozz’s tender mercy—seemed to goad him into speaking. “It’s not a very nice deal, Roark. To give them to Wurgfozz to torture them … It seems wrong. Bad.”
“So?” Zyra shrugged one bare shoulder. “They’re just heroes. They would slaughter the whole lot of us without a pause, Kaz. They are invaders. This isn’t their home. It isn’t even their realm. So, if they’d simply chosen to leave us in peace, they wouldn’t be in this mess.” She shrugged again. “In my eyes, their fate is on their own heads.”
“What Zyra says is not wrong …” Kaz replied slowly. “Still, it feels bad. Wurgfozz, he will not allow them to die for such a long time,” he argued, voice heavy with concern. “Wurgfozz will torment them. To Kaz, it seems different from defending ourselves. And if they come back, he will do it again. Like griefing, but horrible. Painful.”
“That’s if they’re stupid enough to come back,” Zyra said, folding her arms across her chest. She, at least, was clearly unconcerned with the deal they had cut. “And that’s assuming they make it past us—which they won’t.”
Kaz turned back to Roark, his huge black eyes pleading. “Roark understands, doesn’t he? He sees that this is wrong? That defending the citadel is not the same thing as this bargain we have made?”
Roark raked a razor-clawed hand across the back of his neck, then bent to the corpse and began transferring items as if it couldn’t wait.
But the task was nothing more than a play for time. In truth, he thought Kaz might be right. Though the heroes could hardly be considered innocent bystanders, they weren’t a part of the conflict between himself and Azibek. To use them as a means to an end—and in such an agonizing, grisly way—was something the Tyrant King would do. How many people had Marek tortured? Whether for loyalty, information, or to make an example of those who would oppose him, Marek Konig Ustar had often used pain and torment as a tool to get what he wanted.
“Roark?” Kaz prompted.
But Kaz’s voice just barely registered in the back of Roark’s mind. He had needed to secure that alliance with the second floor. He couldn’t hope to withstand Azibek’s attacks without it, let alone unseat the despot. Yes, Roark could’ve challenged Wurgfozz outright, but if he had done that and won, the rest of the citadel’s Overseers would feel like he was declaring war on them personally, and the potential for any peaceful negotiations would have flown out the window.
Roark stood and put on his usual leathers and Slender Rapier. Their comforting weight did nothing to drive out the turmoil of Kaz’s concerns. Hard decisions had to be made in war—Roark knew that firsthand—and sometimes a few people had to be sacrificed to save many. But sacrifice and torture were on nearly opposite ends of that spectrum. Somehow, he had ended up on the same bloody end as Marek. Roark grimaced. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Try as he might, though, Roark couldn’t see another way he could have gained Wurgfozz’s allegiance. There was no simple solution available to him, other than morally dubious ones.
“Roark?” Kaz said again.
Roark watched as his emptied corpse dissolved in an unfelt breeze—ash scattered to the wind.
“Give me some time to think on it, Kaz,” he said. “I …” He faltered. “There may be something we can do. I just need time to work it out. For now, we need to continue down to the Overseer on this floor. The sooner we have her on our side”—or out of the way, he thought but didn’t say aloud—“the better.”
“You can’t go to Grozka like this,” Zyra said.
“Grozka?” Roark asked.
“The third-floor Overseer,” the hooded Reaver said. “I may have been a creature of the second floor, but everyone knows about her. And Gr
ozka? She’ll eat you alive. The Trolls down there respect might. Strength and power. Not”—she waved a leather-wrapped hand at Roark’s tall form—“whatever this is supposed to be.”
“This is a Jotnar,” Roark said, a touch of insult creeping into his voice. “And if I remember right, the third-floor Overseer’s a Thursr.”
“A level 26 Thursr Knight,” Zyra emphasized. “A level 8 like you won’t even make a full meal for her, Griefer, Jotnar or no. You had a chance before—cleverness is a form of strength, after all—but now that Azibek has put a bounty on your head and managed to assassinate you once? She’ll never take you seriously. Chances are, she’ll just kill you on sight and collect Azibek’s reward.”
“Do you think there’s no diplomatic solution to be had at this point?” he asked, a flutter of worry mounting in his gut. Even with the second floor behind him, there was no way he could hope to successfully wage war against the rest of the Dungeon. Either he needed more allies, or he needed to personally capture more floors, which would be a painful and slow slog.
“I didn’t say that,” Zyra finally responded, though there was a hint of hesitation in her voice. “I think it might be possible to sway her, but if you want that chance you’ll have to show up armed to the teeth and ready to kill. And level 8 just won’t cut it, not anymore. You’ll need to be at your Elite evolution—bare minimum. And even then, there is risk.” She planted her hands on her hips and edged into the middle of the hallway, as though to personally prevent him from passing should he be stupid enough not to heed her advice.
Roark considered this. One thing he’d learned in his time with the Rebellion back in Traisbin was never to discount the advice of a local. Zyra knew the lower levels better than he or Kaz did, and she was certainly no fool. He would have to take her at her word.
“All right,” he finally said. Then he frowned, lips pursed into a thin line as he thought. “We’ll return upstairs and grief until we’ve each obtained our Elites and Kaz has unlocked his Brute evolution.” He ran a hand over his chin. Lowen was out there somewhere as well, he reminded himself, and Azibek would no doubt be employing new schemes. So he couldn’t dally, but neither could he be too hasty, since that would eat through even more time he didn’t have should he die. If they all reached their next respective evolutions, then even if they perished, they would forfeit nothing more than a few hours of time during respawn. “Yes, a bit of griefing. And I have some crafting I’d like to do while we’re there.”
Civil War Page 11