Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  His leather armor came next. Once more he went through the labor-intensive process, this time picking a Flawed Diamond and pairing it with the Grist rune—which granted him a 15% Increased Constitution Enchantment, raising his Constitution by three points when he equipped his armor. He was running low on quality stones, but a final Flawed Amethyst, inscribed with the Valgerik Rune and bound to a golden signet ring, increased his Experience gain by 7% for every kill.

  By the time Roark was finished with those, his Health was topping out once again. And best of all, he’d managed to hit level 9 once more, regaining the ground Azibek’s assassins had cost him in their dirty maneuver. He’d lost the ten Stat points he’d invested at Respawn, so he went back through and once more divvied them up. Then, with that done, he woke Mac, equipped his Slender Rapier of the Diving Falcon, his Quality Leather Armor of Minor Endurance, and his Signet Ring of the Initiate, and left the smithy to find Kaz and Zyra. It was time to grief out some levels—only three more until he hit his Elite Form. Time to get his hands dirty …

  SEVENTEEN:

  Grind Time

  Scott Bayani in the form of PwnrBwner_OG re-upped his Shield of Blades spell as the Ghoul Hounds charged him. The lavender sphere of razors sliced into the rotting mutts’ flesh, releasing toxic green mist into the air from the wounds. At least it would be toxic if he were some low-level blart. At level 25 and climbing, his Con was too high to take poisoned gas damage from anything less than the toughest bosses.

  “I should be smelling roasted dog,” he snapped, smacking the closest Hound with his Crystal Mace. Its rotten head crunched like a potato chip as it died. “Where’s that Resonating Light, Kellie?”

  “On it,” Kellie said, shooting a blue flare from her Elemental Warlock, [KellieTheDeathless]’s staff at the Hounds between him and her. The air vibrated with the power of the Divine spell and the Hounds screeched as their Infernal carcasses went up in smoke. “Jeez.”

  “Yeah, light it up!” Mike the Boarkiller whooped, chopping a Hound in half at the shoulder with his massive oversized meat cleaver of an axe. “Bar-bee-que!”

  “Guys…” Kevin, better known as Dude_Farkowitz, had gotten cut off from the group and now he was facing down a crowd of Ghoul Menaces with nothing but his lowbie alt and a crappy enchanted longsword.

  “I told you losers not to get separated,” Scott said, scowling as he threw a Lightning Lance at another Hound. The thing’s head exploded in a shower of gore, and the spell triggered the Lightning Chain ability he’d added after his last level, arcing to two more of the rotting dogs. The second one fried, dropping more than two-thirds of its HP, and the third dropped to the ground seizing and dazed. With a few vicious swings of his mace, Scott finished them off. “That’s exactly what the Trolls are going to try to do to us. Separate us. Cut the weak ones off from the herd and take them out.”

  “Ouch! Guys!” Kevin yelled, his voice cracking. The Ghoul Menaces were all up in his business, scratching and clawing at him with their poisonous talons. And because Kevin hadn’t listened to Scott when he told him to bring his main, Kevin was low enough that the poisoned mist affected him.

  “I’m coming,” Mike answered, chopping his way across the room to help the idiot out.

  But the tank didn’t make it to Kevin before Dude_Farkowitz ate it. The dark elf dropped to the floor in a heap of plate mail, and the Ghouls surrounding him doubled in size, feeding on his death.

  “This is why I told you losers no lowbie alts!” Scott shot Lightning Lance at the back of one of the Menaces. It shook and shimmied, half its HP eaten up by the electricity, but Chain didn’t trigger that time around. “Close in, guys. Don’t let them surround you.”

  “Oh my God, micromanage some more,” Kellie groaned, firing off another air-shaking Resonating Light.

  Mike giggled as he gleefully hacked apart a Ghoul Menace.

  “Cut the chatter and kill these punks,” Scott said, smashing another one upside the head with his mace.

  Together the three of them managed to clear the last of the Menaces and Hounds, and Scott managed to get PwnrBwner the majority of the kill shots.

  He’d picked the Barrow of the Damned specifically because it was a high-level dungeon full of Infernal chimeras. They would be facing the same Infernali spells and crap here that they would in the Cruel Citadel against the Trolls, and they could get a better feel for how their Divine-based magick would work against the Griefer. Plus, Scott had brought a junk mace, no enchantments and barely any damage, so he could max his XP from each kill and level his Mace Class Weapon like crazy.

  While they were looting the Ghouls, RangerDick and JohnJon came back from their scouting mission down one of the tunnels that branched off this room.

  “We got a crypt up ahead with Blasphemers,” RangerDick said, lowering his Ilexim Forest Bow. “At least nine.”

  “Every one of ’em’s gonna cast Ethereal Copy when we get in range, so shoot for the one that hangs back.” Scott checked the cooldown timer on his Shield of Blades, then recast it on himself. “And this time, don’t get separated.” He hefted his Crystal Mace and led the way down the tunnel. “All right, let’s bust some caps in these ghouls.”

  He felt a smug grin twisting his lips. He was going to grind so hard that he’d be through the roof the next time he faced down that modding dickeater Roark. Then none of the Griefer’s overpowered bullshit cheats would matter.

  EIGHTEEN:

  Bonding and Bladework

  Roark found Kaz and Zyra in the antechamber with a small band of Changelings finishing off a raiding party four heroes deep. In the far corner, near where the door to the great hall was earlier, the one-eyed Griff sat on a crate, eating succulent beef skewers and watching the show.

  Not wanting to interrupt the griefing, Roark ducked under a Shoddy Iron Arrow and joined the grizzled weapons trainer, sitting on a barrel nearby.

  “Come for another spot o’ training?” Griff asked without looking away from the fight.

  Roark checked his mystic grimoire and found that enough time had lapsed for him to buy another round in blade-class weapons. Strange how time moved here in the citadel without the sunlight to judge by.

  “Another level wouldn’t go amiss,” he said, reaching for his gold. “I’ve also got your cut of the gold from yesterday’s griefing.”

  With a slow hand, Griff waved that away. “It don’t do to discuss business over food. Gives you the indigestion. We’ll worry about it after I finish my dinner.”

  Then suddenly the lethargic-looking old man was on his feet, waving his arms and shouting.

  “Ah, come on there, tiny!” Griff hollered into the fray. “You shoulda seen that opening a mile away! He practically gave it to you!”

  “Hey, shut up, old man!” a hero in dented plate mail yelled back.

  “Mind your own!” Griff flapped his hands at the hero. “I wasn’t talking to ya!”

  The hero took a threatening step toward Griff. Roark stood, drawing his slender rapier, ready to get between the trainer and the young man.

  But Zyra was already there with a knife in the hero’s kidney. His red bar flashed green—poisoned—and a pair of Changelings fell on him in a frenzy of shortsword and morning star.

  Griff chuckled as he eased himself back down onto the crate with a soft groan. Roark returned to his barrel, a smile tugging at his lips.

  “Nice of you to distract him for them,” he said, nodding toward the battle.

  The old man shrugged. “Your friends do well enough, but it ain’t always easy to keep an eye on the little guys.” He picked up his plate of skewers and gnawed on a slice of vegetable. “You can get a sort of tunnel vision, ’specially when the opponents have the superior levels.”

  Roark nodded thoughtfully. He’d experienced that often enough himself, here in Hearthworld and back home in Traisbin. The heroes in this party were levels 8 through 10, and while Kaz and Zyra looked up to the task, fighting four of them with a band of Changeling
s darting in and out and only half sticking to the strategy of attacking two to a hero seemed to be wearing on his friends. He hardly wanted to think about how the scene would change if the heroes had been sitting at levels nearer those of The_Mustard_Knight’s band. The image of that female Thursr’s head flying off flickered through his mind.

  “At least the Experience will be worth it,” Roark mumbled under his breath, his thoughts returning to Kaz’s warning about the consequences of griefing.

  “Somethin’ on your mind, lad?” Griff asked, craning his neck so he could spear Roark with his one remaining eye.

  Roark pasted an easy smile on his face. “I wouldn’t want to ruin your dinner.”

  “Nonsense! Nothin’ better for the digestion than a bit of a gab about someone else’s troubles. Makes a man feel fortunate.”

  For a few long seconds, Roark scratched at the back of his neck and tried to gather his thoughts. It wasn’t just the increasing level of players coming down on them. Kaz had been right about that. He’d also been right about Roark’s insistence on becoming Jotnar calling down Azibek’s attention on them, and he was right again about using the players as leverage in the negotiations with Wurgfozz.

  Worst of all was that it had taken the softhearted Thursr to call Roark’s attention to each situation. He’d been too busy rampaging ahead with his usual single-minded determination to consider the consequences, telling himself that if the consequences came with the risk, then they must be somehow worth it. The ends justified the means. The heroes could be sacrificed if they got him what he wanted. The whole city of Korvo could burn if he could just kill the Tyrant King.

  “Our alliance with the second floor … You were in the great hall, so you know we handed them over to Wurgfozz.” Roark faltered. Stumbling over his words wasn’t an action he was accustomed to. He tried to collect his thoughts into some sort of sense. “He’s a vital ally. It won’t be possible to survive the Dungeon Lord’s assassination attempts, let alone take over the citadel without his help. But there’s a reason he’s known as Wurgfozz the Sadistic. The heroes we gave him are going to be in agony until they die. If he ever lets them die.”

  Griff chewed thoughtfully, but made no move to speak.

  Roark sighed in frustration. “I’m no pure white knight. I’ve killed plenty of men and even a few women in the name of freedom, and I’ll do it again if that’s what it takes. I don’t have any right to cry foul now. But this might be the lowest I’ve stooped.” He shook his head, angry at himself. “It’s no different from something Azibek or Mare—” he caught himself before speaking the Tyrant King’s name. “Uh, or a hundred other tyrants would do, and I did it without a second thought because they’re not my people. And what’s worse, I didn’t even notice the cruelty of it until someone else pointed it out to me. I’ve traded off more than my share of civil niceties over the years, but I didn’t think I’d ever hand over my humanity without even noticing.”

  At the word humanity, Griff swiveled his balding head to glance at Roark. Roark thought he saw surprise in the old man’s eye, but the weapons trainer turned back to watch the final moments of the griefing before Roark could be sure.

  Across the room, Kaz sliced a blue-robed rog across the back of the knees, laming him just before Zyra planted her long knife in his heart. The mage rog gave a dying screech as his red bar flashed critical and emptied, then he dropped to the floor. Dead.

  Ascending chimes rang through the room as Zyra leveled up. Kaz gave a whoop of excitement and pumped a huge fist in the air as golden light shined from the hooded Reaver’s midnight skin. Two of the Changelings had leveled as well, and the lot of the tiny blue creatures were dancing and hopping around madly—chanting, hooting, waving their weapons in the air.

  At Roark’s side, Griff dug the sharp end of an empty skewer into his teeth, attempting to extract a bit of gristle.

  “Y’know, lad, I wasn’t too sure what to think of this mob outfit comin’ in,” the old weapons trainer said in his gruff voice. “Your war ain’t my war. I can’t say as I understand it, and I damn sure ain’t about to get involved in fightin’ it. But I know a thing or two about losing your humanity. Thirty years in the arena makes a man look different at what constitutes savagery, and there’s times when what I think of as a reasonable response would make a gentler man kick up his guts. The things we see every day have a way of blindin’ us.” Griff turned his head to cast a sly glance Roark’s way. “And unless I miss my guess, lad, this ain’t the only hard world you’ve laid eyes on.”

  Roark raised an eyebrow at the old man. “How did you—”

  “Nobody’s as obvious about secrets as those that have ’em,” Griff said with a shrug. “Is what you did to them heroes cruel? Sure. But look around you! This place ain’t named the Cruel Citadel because it’s a nice spot to settle down and raise a family.” He paused a moment to suck at the offending gristle, then, satisfied with the result, went on. “I will tell you this, though: You brought in an old man too washed up for combat, gave him a warm bed, a steady stream of meals, and a place to ply his humble trade. That ain’t the mark of a man—or Troll—without a thread of compassion left in the weft.”

  Roark considered this, ghostly pale hand rubbing at his hairless chin.

  “When I first walked into this job,” Griff said, leaning close and pitching his voice low, “I didn’t think much about gettin’ anyone else involved in this madness, recruitment bonus or no. But you’ve changed my mind about you, lad. In fact, now I’m starting to think—”

  Before Roark could hear what Griff thought, however, Kaz bounded over to join them in the corner. The weapons trainer quieted and leaned back against the wall.

  “Did Roark see?” Kaz demanded, his onyx-chip eyes glowing with exhilaration. “Zyra leveled up! She’s only one level from Evolution!”

  In spite of the interruption, Roark couldn’t fight back a smile in the face of his friend’s limitless enthusiasm.

  “I saw, mate,” he said. He nodded at the hooded Reaver, who wasn’t far behind Kaz. “It was well-done. Congratulations.”

  Zyra gave a smug bow and flourish of her hands. Roark rose, clicked his heels together, and returned it flawlessly, the picture of courtly manners.

  Rather than continue the playful charade, however, Zyra turned serious.

  “We need to get you in the rotation,” she said. “The sooner you’re Evolved, the less we’ll have to worry about an assassination knocking you back down to level 8. Next party, you’ll take the lead.”

  Roark smirked and canted his head to the side. “You’re worried about me? I didn’t realize you cared.”

  “Just trying to make my job easier watching your back,” she replied, the lilt in her voice betraying the teasing smile hidden in the depths of her hood. “Next party.”

  “I’m training with Griff first,” Roark said, jerking his head at the weapons trainer. “If the man ever finishes his dinner.”

  Griff chuckled and set aside his plate of empty skewer sticks.

  “Let’s stop all this jawin’ and see if I can’t teach you how to hold a dagger and rapier at the same time,” the old man said, standing. “Now, let’s see what you’re working with, huh?”

  Roark pulled free his Kaiken Dagger and offered it to the trainer with a dip of his head. The man scratched at his belly, then stifled a long belch with his hand before accepting. He eyed the weapon carefully, noting the gleaming blade, running his fingers over the contoured grip, checking the balance. After a beat he grunted and nodded. “Aye, this’ll do. First, it’ll do us well to show you the bloody right way to hold the thing.” He spun the blade with a flourish.

  “The first grip is the hammer grip. If you were fighting with the dagger in your main hand, this would be your go-to. A solid grip. Offers good reach”—he took several swipes at the air, graceful, delicate arcs—“great slashing potential, and the blade retention is unmatched. Chances are you won’t be easily disarmed. But since you’re mostly gonna
be using it in your off hand, I’d recommend the icepick grip.”

  With a flick of his fingers, he inverted the weapon so the blade ran along the outside of his forearm. “This is particularly usefully close in.” His feet danced and his shoulders swayed as he thrust and stabbed, each fluid movement leading into the next. “Now, the natural inclination of most new fighters using the icepick is to treat the blade as a slashing instrument, but it’s most effective as a thrusting weapon—particularly the downward thrust.” He made a series of quick, brutal, downward thrusts. “Clavicle, neck, even the heart. Those are your targets.” He straightened after a minute and offered Roark his blade back. “Now, why don’t you give it a try, lad?”

  Roark accepted the weapon and worked through a handful of different routines, trying the different grips and the various slashes and thrusts, getting a feel for each as Griff corrected everything from posture and footwork to blade angle and attack speed. After only a handful of minutes’ study with Griff, Roark had unlocked his Off-Hand Combo ability—a move that allowed him to follow a rapier attack with a quick slash from his Kaiken Dagger for double damage. And not a moment too soon.

  “Heroes!” the level 2 Changeling at the top of the stairs called.

  NINETEEN:

  Might Makes Right

  The last of the heroes darted toward Roark, blood streaking the rog’s green skin, a vicious slash crisscrossing his face courtesy of Roark’s rapier. The rog wore heavy wooden plate armor, but he was only a level 7 and in well over his head. The rest of his overly ambitious party lay scattered around him, brutalized and dead. A level 9 Swashbuckler here, a level 6 Warpriest there. He alone remained and was on his very last legs. But there was no retreat, not for the one called [CooterJoe]. No, the lesser Changelings and Thursrs were spread out in a rough semicircle behind him. Not attacking, but rather hemming him in, ensuring there was no retreat from Roark’s blade.