Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  Roark and company had been grinding relentlessly for the last five hours, carving their way through opponent after opponent, raiding party after raiding party. A seemingly endless stream of bloodshed, with Roark at the fore of literally every battle, syphoning off ever-greater amounts of experience. They’d been griefing heroes on and off for so long, Roark had actually lost count of the heroes he’d killed. But he was close now, so very close to hitting his mark.

  The rog in front of him grimaced, lips pulling back to reveal yellowed teeth, changed stances, his arms high, boxy meat cleaver of a battle-ax slanting downward over his head, and charged.

  “I. Am. Cooter. Joe!”

  It was an act of sheer desperation. Roark dropped the tip of his rapier, opening his guard, chiamata invito, making the lumbering warrior think he might actually have a chance. The rog took the bait, his axe whooshing toward Roark in a clumsy but powerful overhand strike. Roark easily sidestepped the weapon as it fell, then before the rog could correct or counter, the Griefer closed with him, lashing out with his new Off-Hand Combo.

  The tip of the Kaiken Dagger descended into the hero’s exposed neck, plunging deep and eating up the scant remainder of Health left to the rog. As Roark pulled the blade free, the hero gurgled weakly and dropped to his knees, swaying for a heartbeat before toppling onto his side. Dead. An ascending chime rang through the antechamber as the rog hit the floor, a pool of deep crimson spreading out around him like a devilish halo.

  [LEVEL UP!]

  Golden light exploded from Roark’s skin, as bright as the noonday sun. Raw heat flooded through him, racing along his arms and legs, while a lightning storm seemed to fill his belly, sending out sporadic bolts of primal, infernal energy. Roark felt his bones growing, stretching, his teeth lengthening, his body evolving into an Elite Jotnar. When the change stopped, he was standing over Kaz once more, nearly eight feet tall, and those vestigial wing bones in his shoulder blades had poked out into sharp nubs as thick as his thumb. He was still as lean as a whipcord, but he could feel the added power in the muscles rippling under his ghostly pale skin.

  He stowed his Slender Rapier and the Kaiken Dagger. Over the last five hours, he’d raised his proficiency in both weapons until he’d barely needed to reach for his Initiate’s Spell Book or Infernal Shield. That had been part luck and part intention; he wanted to go into the confrontation with the third-floor Overseer with all his spell slots available.

  Roark opened his mystic grimoire.

  [You have 30 undistributed Stat Points!]

  He dismissed the notice and inspected his character page, eager to invest the points he’d been hoarding while they griefed. After a few moments’ thought, Roark managed to restrain himself from dumping the lot into Intelligence. Instead, he spent only nineteen of his points on Intelligence, thirteen on Dexterity, and left the remaining eight to Constitution. He’d never match Kaz for Strength, but he could make up the difference with his movement speed and Magick. He examined his new character sheet:

  He noticed his new evolution had come with a number of different perks—everything from increased Critical Hit Chance and Attack Damage to boosted Health Regeneration—and among those perks was a brand-new Jotnar spell: Infernal Torment.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Infernal Torment

  Ranged Attack Spell

  Range: 40 feet

  Casting Time: Instant

  Casting Cost: 6% Base Magicka

  Infernal Torment burns target from the inside out with Infernal flame, inflicting 1 Damage x character level per second on target for 30 seconds or as long as caster maintains eye contact.

  Note: Infernal Torment disrupts concentration-based spells.

  Note: Divine creatures are invulnerable to Infernal spells.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  In addition to the new spell, Roark’s increased Magick had come with two more level 1 spell slots, two more level 2 slots, and a pair of level 3’s. With the Plain Maple Wand, he now had eight level 1’s, five level 2’s, and three level 3 spell slots.

  Satisfied, Roark looked over his numbers one final time, then accepted the changes.

  “It’s time we headed back downstairs,” he told Kaz and Zyra. If he wasn’t up to facing the third-floor Overseer now, then he never would be.

  “Is Roark sure he wouldn’t like to make at least Soul-Cursed before he tries the third floor again?” Kaz asked anxiously, tapping his huge fingertips together. “It will take time, yes, but in the meantime, Kaz could make Roark a delicious feast while he is griefing, and—”

  “It’s now or never, mate,” Roark said. He’d spent five hours griefing and had gained a mere three levels, and that was with his new ring that increased experience by 7% per kill. Soul-Cursed required level 18. No, he simply couldn’t afford the time it would take to grind out another six levels, especially since the experience requirements shot up drastically with each new level he obtained. “The longer we put this off,” he continued, “the better entrenched Azibek is becoming down there.” And there was no telling what Lowen was up to, wherever the man was—though that he kept to himself.

  “Okay,” the mighty chef agreed reluctantly.

  Zyra—who’d gained her Elite level as well, though much earlier than Roark—appeared in the only doorway still currently attached to the antechamber. She stood a foot taller as well, nearly six feet, and had grown willowy in the bargain. Her skin was now a shade of blue so dark it was almost as black as her assassin’s leathers, though in the light, her flesh had a slight sparkle, like ink mixed with powdered sapphire. Her white ringlets almost glowed against it.

  “I’ve got Health potions fresh from the marketplace,” she said, her voice tinged with singsong. She tossed a trio to Roark and then three more to Kaz. “Not the lowly Modest version, either. Old hag wanted twice what they’re worth, but I won out in the end.”

  “By poisoning her?” Roark asked wryly, cocking one eyebrow.

  “By refusing to pay her outrageous prices without a deep discount,” the hooded Reaver said smugly. “Though to hear her tell it, she’d have preferred the poison.”

  Roark inspected one of the magenta potions she’d thrown him. Its bottle was a sight more ornate than the Modest ones, and as he scrutinized the potion, a page of his mystic grimoire opened, allowing him to study it in more depth.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Sufficient Health Potion

  Restores 50 HP

  Uses: 1

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  It was a step up in healing, certainly. He just hoped the flavor concentration wouldn’t be doubled as well.

  “We’re ready to head below,” he told Zyra, storing the potion in his Inventory.

  The Elite Reaver’s hood dipped, then rose as she inspected his newly evolved height from head to toe.

  “It’ll do, I suppose,” she said. “Just remember: Show no weakness. Grozka can’t stand weakness.”

  Roark nodded, then turned on his heel and headed for the door from the antechamber. Griff caught up to Roark before he slipped deeper into the dungeon and pulled him aside.

  “A moment, Griefer,” he said. “There’s a lass I know, a young widow on the down side of her luck. She can cook a meal like glory be, but what’s more, she can train others to do it almost as well. If you have a mind to treat her as well as you’ve treated me, she could use the extra coin.”

  “Of course.” Roark nodded, thinking of Kaz’s would-be kitchen assistants. Without a trainer, the best the Trolls who wanted to help in the kitchen had been able to do so far was run errands for Kaz. “She’ll have the same guarantees as you. No involvement in our fight, protection from the heroes and other Infernal chimeras of the citadel, and a share in the profits. If she’s willing to move in, she can start today.”

  “I’ll just slope off for a bit, then, and see if I can’t find her,” Griff said, jerking his thumb at the crumbling staircase.

  As the grizzled old weapons trainer headed up, the firs
t-floor Overseer and his honor guard headed down.

  Wurgfozz’s throne room was a mess of blood and gore, though the activity had died down somewhat as three of the four heroes had gone quiet. The_Mustard_Knight was the only one still screaming, and so Wurgfozz’s honor guard was concentrating their efforts on him.

  “Think of the XP, think of the XP, think of the XP,” the hero mumbled between bloodcurdling screams, his face ashy and body drenched in sweat.

  Roark’s stomach turned as they passed. What had Griff been about to say before Kaz and Zyra interrupted? I think you’re—what? A tyrant in the making? Out of the humanity pool for good? A lost cause? Not a lost cause? Salvageable? The only one who can make these sorts of terrible but necessary decisions?

  No answers came to him as they descended the steps to the third floor, and from the bottleneck on, there was no time for idle thought. As far as Roark was concerned, they were in enemy territory. The three of them maintained a watchful silence, weapons out and ready for attack as they traveled the winding stone corridors. Most of the torches in the halls had burnt out, seeding the damp, dank, crumbling corridors with a multitude of shadows perfect for lurking assassins. Zyra scouted ahead as Roark and Kaz followed a few paces behind. They saw plenty of eyes tracking them, but none made to attack.

  A good sign. It showed that the third level was at least open to the idea of parlay—assuming Roark could properly impress the floor Overseer.

  Finally, they came out in the throne room, a cathedralic nave, lit by the weak combination of a single glowing Infernal stained-glass oculus high on the rear wall and a dozen or so pale blue witch lights wandering between the rotting and burnt wooden pews. A double colonnade of pillars arched up into the chipped and peeling painted ceilings.

  Here, the silence was heavy enough to suffocate. The soft scuff of their boots on the stone, the creaking of Roark’s and Zyra’s leathers, and especially the tock and clack of Kaz’s wooden armor seemed to offend the quiet. But rather than cringe away from the noise, Roark straightened his back and let his footsteps ring out with confidence. As if he owned this floor and everyone in it.

  A trio of Dread Reavers and a hulking Thursr Behemoth skulked in the shadows as he approached the head of the nave.

  Roark came to a stop at the foot of the chancel, where a heavily armored Thursr Knight sat on a scorched-wood throne. She cut an impressive figure, that was for sure. The wide rack of stag horns on the Knight’s helm tilted back slightly as she looked down her crooked nose at Roark. Her nameplate, thin white letters surrounded by a bloody aura, read:

  [Grozka the Zealot]

  Before Roark could open his mouth to address the muscle-bound Knight, she raised a spiked scepter of charred black metal with one substantial hand and forestalled him.

  “No need to spew your pretty words at me, Roark the Griefer,” she said, her voice every bit as deep and gravelly as Wurgfozz’s was high-pitched and smooth. Spoken from the chancel, her words echoed off the acoustic tiles and resonated through the nave like a sermon. “I know why you’re here. You want us to turn against the Dungeon Lord and help you take the citadel.”

  “I do,” Roark agreed, infusing his words with the strength of his absolute conviction. “We’ve reached an alliance with the second floor already. If you agree to join our side, we’ll be even stronger, a three-braid rope Azibek won’t stand a chance of breaking. Together—”

  “If you want talk, go to Wurgfozz,” Grozka snapped. “Where two words will do the job, he thinks a hundred will do it better. But if you want us, then yakking is pointless. We follow Azibek the Cruel because he’s strong. Are you strong, Griefer?”

  “Yes,” Roark said without hesitation. “And getting stronger every minute.”

  “Easy enough to say.” Grozka waved a gauntleted hand dismissively. “But talk is a cheap thing made of dust and promises. Down here, we believe in action. You want our respect and our allegiance, then show us you deserve it. Show us the strength of your fist.”

  “How do you propose I do that?” Roark asked.

  Grozka’s black-onyx eyes glittered with a sudden fervent fire, and Roark suspected he knew how she’d gotten saddled with the nickname Zealot. He forced himself to hold her unwavering manic gaze, not betraying the tingle of unease he felt. He’d faced down predators before, and showing fear before them was the surest way to incur their malice and wrath.

  “By beating me one-on-one in a barehanded brawl,” she said finally, rising to her feet amidst the clanking of heavy armor. She was much taller than he’d originally thought—at least ten and a half feet to his eight, and nearly twice as broad in the shoulder despite being a female. Her armor was heavy black plate mail, studded with spikes and bits of yellowed bone. Pale white runes stood out in stark contrast against the metal. More than a few he now recognized from his enchanting work. Rorne and Sikea, offering a bonus to movement rate and attack speed. Grist, which increased Constitution, and Onn, which granted elemental resistances.

  Below these were a handful of other runes he couldn’t make out.

  A pale witch light wandered closer to her, and in the gaps between her plates of armor, he could see thick cords of muscle flexing. “None of this namby-pamby magick or suckling at the healing potion teat,” she barked. “Just you and me and the sweet music of knuckles pounding skulls.”

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Might Makes Right

  Grozka the Zealot has challenged you to a bareknuckle fistfight to prove your strength.

  Objective: Beat Grozka the Zealot senseless with your bare fists.

  Reward: Win Grozka’s Respect, 1,000 Experience, and forge an alliance with the Trolls of the Third Floor.

  Failure: Get beaten senseless by Grozka the Zealot.

  Penalty: Lose Grozka’s Respect; alliance with Trolls of the Third Floor permanently locked

  Restrictions: No assistance; no gauntlets, magick, or Health Vials may be used.

  Accept quest? Yes/No

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  The weight of the penalty for losing settled heavily on Roark’s shoulders: no chance of forging an alliance with the third floor if he failed. Permanently locked. And if he rejected the quest now, what were the chances that Grozka would offer him another opportunity? Likely zero. Odds were if he simply walked away from the quest, she would turn on him like the wolf she was, murdering him and his honor guard where they stood. This would be his only shot. There was no other way to gain the support of the third floor.

  At the same time, however, Roark was surprised to find himself strangely relieved. After the moral dilemma and frustratingly murky areas of the last alliance he’d made, to have such a straightforward task staring him down felt like a mercy.

  Grozka was big, and she looked strong, but he was fast. Fast and clever. Roark thought he could wear the bulky Thursr Knight down, then move in for the kill … or the beating senseless as the case was this time.

  Some small measure of his accustomed confidence quickly returned, and Roark accepted the quest.

  Like a bolt of lightning, Grozka the Zealot leapt down from the chancel and drove a meaty fist into his face before he could move.

  TWENTY:

  Fisticuffs

  Roark stumbled backward, bringing his hands up too late; Grozka didn’t give him an inch or a moment to recover. She pursued him, lashing out with her enormous fists at a speed that left Roark disoriented. How the bloody hell could someone so big be so fast? Another blow landed, his mouth throbbing as his head snapped back. Though the quest had specified that this was a brawl to unconsciousness, every blow sapped Health from his red vial. In moments, the Knight was backing him across the nave.

  The back of his knees hit the edge of a pew and buckled, dropping him into the seat. Grozka’s eyes blazed with excitement as she cornered him and began raining down punches. He tucked his chin and covered his head, curling in on himself so she couldn’t hit the vital bits, but it was useless.

  Then from nowhere, Roar
k heard Danella’s silky steel voice.

  “Dig your way back into it! This isn’t tea with Mummy. Nobody’s going to beg your pardon milord and ask if they can knock your bloody block off. You’ll never see it coming. All you can do is be a hell of a lot harder to kill than they expected and take as many of them with you as you can.”

  Roark opened his eyes and found himself staring down at Grozka’s feet. She rocked back and forth from foot to foot as she punched, hips pivoting, throwing her weight into every blow. But there was a split second each time when her weight was mid-transfer and her grounding was compromised. A small weakness, but a weakness all the same.

  Grozka reared back, then started to throw her fist. Roark hooked his foot around her thick ankle and jerked, sliding her foot forward by several inches and pulling her off balance. The Thursr Knight’s eyes went wide. Before she could recover, Roark launched himself out of the pew like a half-crazed bull, slamming his shoulder into her armored gut.

  With a surprised “whoof!” Grozka stumbled backward, trying to brace herself and pummel his shoulders and back at the same time. But Roark kept pushing, driving his legs, digging in with the toes of his boots, forcing the Knight back until she slammed into one of the pillars. She grunted from the impact, and the falling hammer of her fists momentarily ceased. Roark shot his head straight up, smashing into her jaw and snapping her head back. Her skull slammed against the pillar with a vicious crack, which drained a handful of her red bar.

  Taking advantage of the Knight’s momentary daze, Roark promptly drove his bony Jotnar fists into her thick skull. Left then right. A jab to the cheek. A sharp right hook to the mouth. Another jab followed by a wicked uppercut that landed right on her chin.

  Rather than go down from the thrashing, however, Grozka shouted, “Ha-ha!” as if this were the most fun she’d had in ages. She jerked her head forward as fast as a striking viper, obviously intending to headbutt Roark, just as he’d done to her, but he was ready. He slipped aside like water rolling around a smooth river rock.