Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  The move also had the intended secondary effect, though—forcing Roark out of the way so Grozka could get off the pillar. She turned to follow him, swiping at him with a mean hook of her own. He ducked and took the blow on the top of his head, then instinctively darted inside her guard and went to work on her body, hammering at her ribs and belly. He quickly realized how futile that was when his fist bounced off an armored breastplate with a metallic thud.

  The Thursr Knight laughed again and drove her armor-plated knee into his gut. The blow fairly lifted him off his feet and knocked the air from his lungs, his soft leather armor as effective as a thin layer of silk at dissipating the blow. Roark wheezed and sputtered, desperate for air, but his body seemed dead set against cooperating.

  Before he could pull himself up straight, she grabbed him by the hair with one huge hand and under the chin with the other. With barely a grunt of effort, she threw him off his feet.

  Roark crashed back-first into a pew, splintering it as he toppled over, then hit the next one and smashed right through the burnt-out seat. He rolled to a stop in the debris, stars dancing before his eyes.

  Roark rolled again, this time onto his side, and shook his head, trying to clear it.

  From this angle, he could see that the Dread Reavers and Behemoth Thursrs who patrolled the throne room were standing in a circle at a safe distance from the fight, cheering and stomping and swinging their fists in the air. Kaz was crouched overtop of Mac—or was he lying on top of the Elite Salamander?—trying to keep the angry beast from tearing into the fight to Roark’s rescue. For a moment, Roark thought he saw Danella standing there wearing some sort of hood. Then he realized the hair was white, not golden, and that Zyra was the one hiding her face back in that strange dark cave of leather.

  Grozka grabbed the unharmed pew between them and threw it aside as easily as a child hurling a cornhusk doll, then stalked through the ruins of the others toward him, a wide grin on her face. Every step thudded to the floor so hard it nearly shook the flagstones beneath Roark.

  She was fast, but she wasn’t light.

  Roark waited until Grozka came within arm’s reach, trying to look as dazed and helpless as possible. It wasn’t hard, considering the state he was in. But just as she was about to set her left foot down, he grabbed her boot and pulled it out from under her. This time, the Thursr Knight’s weight got the better of her, and with nothing to stop her, she toppled, crashing through the one unbroken pew to the floor in a clatter of armor and boards.

  Before she could turn over, Roark scrabbled over to one of the bigger chunks of pew—a heavy piece with the end board still attached to a hunk of the seat—and threw it over Grozka’s chest, a miniature wooden mountain pinning her arms to her sides. Roark threw himself overtop the mountain, adding his weight to the equation, then reared back and threw hell for blood. One punch after another knocked the Knight’s head to the left and right and left again as she struggled and kicked, trying to back him off and get free. But Roark grabbed the neck of her metal breastplate with one hand, holding on for dear life, and switched to single punches.

  He drove his right fist into her teeth, her nose, her eyes, each strike more forceful than the last. More desperate than the last.

  The red bar over her head was dropping quickly. Roark didn’t know how far it would have to go before she was unconscious, but he kept at it. She went for a headbutt again, trying to force him back or off, but Roark tucked his chin and took it on the top of the head, then came back swinging even harder. His arm ached from the exertion and the fingers gripping her neckline were going numb, but he couldn’t quit. If he stopped now, he knew he would lose. Though he was slowing down from exhaustion, so was Grozka’s struggling. He realized with a surge of relief that her eyes were losing focus.

  Finally, she blinked, then her head fell back, lolling on her neck.

  Before he could slump to the floor, his mystic grimoire opened to the Quests page.

  [Congratulations! You have completed the quest Might Makes Right! You have won Grozka’s Respect, 1,000 Experience, and forged an alliance with the Trolls of the Third Floor!

  To Maintain the Alliance: Allow Grozka the Zealot to continue ruling the third floor, and back your claims with swift, decisive action.

  To Break the Alliance: Challenge Grozka the Zealot for the third-floor Overseer’s position, or fail to take decisive action in the war to take over the Cruel Citadel.]

  Roark closed the grimoire with a thought and was mercifully allowed to slump to the floor in a heap, using the last of his energy to roll off of the Thursr Knight’s still body. The cold stone felt like heaven against his bumps and bruises.

  He didn’t get much of a reprieve, however.

  [Congratulations! You have leveled up your Troll Leadership Skill to Level 3! Trolls who were On the Fence about your Leadership will become Receptive to your Leadership when spoken to face-to-face!]

  And as soon as he’d dismissed that notice, Roark was immediately knocked flat on his back by three hundred pounds of Elite Salamander. In celebration of Roark’s survival, Mac’s sticky black tongue slapped against Roark’s cheeks and eyes and forehead over and over.

  “Bloody hells, Mac,” Roark said, trying to shove the beast’s head away. “Let me stand up, you little monster.”

  When he had finally extricated himself from the overgrown salamander and stood, Roark dug into his Inventory and produced a Sufficient Health Potion. He gulped the sticky, sweet concoction down with a grimace—it tasted like blackberry brandy mixed with sour wine. As he finished it off, a line of text appeared.

  [Brought to you by NEW Monster Hyperactive! Thanks for drinking!]

  Disgusting, but effective. Warmth and vitality flowed through Roark’s battered and bruised face. It eased the ache deep in the muscles of his arm and erased the cramps in his fingers—both the ones that had been gripping the collar of the breastplate and the ones that had spent what felt like hours balled into a fist.

  Off to his side, Roark heard the rumble of deep, gravelly laughter. He turned to find Grozka the Zealot clambering to her feet as well and offered her a hand. She clasped it, still chuckling delightedly.

  “That’s the best fight I’ve had in a Changeling’s age! One damned jolly romp!” she declared, slapping Roark on the back. “In return, I’m more than happy to weed out the assassins and spies coming up from below.”

  “Many thanks,” Roark said, making to turn toward Kaz and Zyra.

  But Grozka didn’t let go of Roark’s hand. Instead, she pulled him in closer and lowered her voice, eyes squinted.

  “I respect a Troll of action, Griefer, so I’ll give you a bit of advice about the fourth floor: Don’t even try to convert them peacefully. They’re Azibek supporters through and through. Lackeys to their very core. If the Dungeon Lord says bleed, they say how much. If you go down there without the intention to kill, you’re already dead.”

  “You’re saying my only hope is to take it by force,” Roark said.

  Grozka tapped her nose with a thick forefinger and nodded. “Once you’re running the show, though, the underlings’ll fall into line. It’s the fatal flaw in Azibek’s strategy. Promote staying true to Troll tradition, then lose a floor’s worth of followers to their new Overseer. Same’ll go for the citadel once it’s yours.”

  Roark felt a wry smile twist his features.

  “Sure, all I have to do is overthrow a level 36 Jotnar Exarch,” he said. He didn’t want to take on the fourth-floor Overseer even as a Jotnar Elite. It would be dozens of levels before he was ready to take down Azibek himself.

  Grozka threw back her head and laughed as if she’d never heard anything so funny.

  “Naïve child!” She doubled over, still whooping laughter. “The Dungeon Lord’s well past the final Jotnar evolutionary cap. He’ll be a level 40 if he’s a 1! Probably more.”

  TWENTY-ONE:

  Unwelcome Visitor

  As Roark and his honor guard returned from their thi
rd-floor excursion, the problems of the lowest floors weighed heavily on his mind.

  If what Grozka had said was true and he couldn’t gain the support of the fourth floor by anything but open battle, then taking over the Dungeon would be that much harder. He doubted even an Elite Jotnar could do much more than mildly inconvenience the fourth floor’s Overseer before being ripped apart, and Roark had no plans to die at the hands of a lackey. His plan was to return to the smithy as soon as they made it to the first floor. A few levels each in Blacksmithing, Enchanting, and Tailoring wouldn’t go amiss. Plus he had a few new ideas about his cursing ability—a way to increase his griefing.

  And besides, he’d never yet found a better place for thinking than sweating over an anvil while hammering away at a bar of hot metal.

  But the moment Roark set foot in the first-floor throne room, he was accosted by a level 5 Changeling named Zag.

  “Griff the trainer, Lord Overseer! Griff is in the kitchens with a”—Zag dropped his voice to a panicked whisper, wringing his clawed hands—“with a human!”

  Roark shot a withering glare at a certain snickering hooded Reaver.

  “I’m no lord,” he told the anxious Changeling. “It’s Roark. That’s all.” He slashed one hand through the air.

  Zag nodded, but still shivered and shook like a scared pup. “Will the Lord Over— Will the Roark come to Griff? Griff wants to speak with him about the …” He glanced furtively around as if someone might be eavesdropping. “Human,” he finished in a whisper.

  For a moment Roark was too startled by the fact that, though he knew himself to be a man and thought of himself in human terms, the Changeling and even Kaz and Zyra all thought of him as a Troll. Then Roark realized the significance behind the summons. A human with Griff. The grizzled old weapons trainer must’ve returned with his cook.

  “Yes, I’ll be right there.” Roark nodded at Kaz. “I’ll need you to come with me. Griff was supposed to be bringing back a cook from Averi City, and you’ll have to help her get acquainted with the kitchens.”

  Kaz’s heavy brows pulled low and together over his onyx eyes, but before he could say anything, Zyra spoke up.

  “Unless you need me to point out pots and pans, I’ll be keeping an eye on our open door,” she said, gesturing to the arched doorway leading to the staircase they’d just climbed. “Make certain nobody uninvited pops in for a visit.”

  “You do realize there are two more friendly floors between us and Azibek than we had earlier today,” Roark said.

  Zyra shrugged one bare shoulder. “I’m not prepared to trust either of them on the strength of their word alone.” When he didn’t look immediately convinced, she said, “You brought me on to be paranoid where you overlook the dangers. That’s my job. Let me do it.”

  “You might find yourself out of a job if you keep spreading this Lord Overseer nonsense among the Changelings,” Roark muttered.

  The hooded Reaver chuckled, stepping into the shadows by the doorway and disappearing in a puff of inky smoke. But not before he caught a glint of tooth in the depths of her hood.

  “Lor—Roark?” the Changeling prompted.

  Roark nodded, waving the Changeling on. “Let’s go then.”

  The lumpy little Changeling scrambled out of the throne room, Roark and Kaz not far behind. Mac’s sticky footsteps kept time overhead, his huge body nothing more than a distortion passing over the beams and stonework.

  They’d barely gotten out of the throne room when Kaz said, “Roark has hired a cook from Averi City?” in a slightly watery voice.

  “A trainer,” Roark explained, glancing over one shoulder at the Thursr. “She’ll be able to help unlock your apprentices’ Cooking Trade Skill. Ultimately, that will be more practical than slouching off to the marketplace every time a Troll wants a Trade Skill. And you can train with her to gain levels in Cooking the same way we did with Griff for Melee Weapons.”

  Several steps passed without comment, the only sound the creak of leathers and clack of wooden armor over the backdrop of Kaz’s lumbering footfalls. Roark assumed the matter was taken care of; his mind had already wandered to accommodations for the chef and how long it would be before he could rearrange the Floor Design again. If they acquired many more trainers from outside the citadel, he would have to discuss barracks space with the second- and third-floor Overseers. Unless, of course, he could take the fourth floor by force—that would solve many of his problems.

  “But Roark said Kaz’s food was excellent!” the Elite Thursr wailed, his cries echoing down the corridor and startling the Changeling ahead of them. “He said it was better than any that Roark and Kaz had in Averi City. Is this because Kaz hasn’t finished the gourmet quest yet?” He wrung his oversized hands in the air. “Because Kaz has been trying to find information on the ingredients in the library! Kaz has been reading, Roark, reading, but—”

  “What? No!” Roark stopped and grabbed the wailing Thursr by his meaty shoulders. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your performance, Kaz. You are an excellent chef, and I know you’ll finish the gourmet quest, it’s just—”

  “Not if Kaz never has the time!” Beneath the antlered headdress, Kaz’s eyes were wide, nearly hysterical, and brimming with unshed tears. “Kaz cannot find anything if he never leaves the citadel!”

  “Listen to me!” Roark had to shout to be heard over his friend’s cries. “We’ve two more floors to provide food for now, Kaz. You can’t do all that yourself and expect to finish your gourmet quest and grief heroes. Hiring this woman on will actually afford you more time. Not only can she help prepare meals, but she can train your apprentice chefs so that they’ll be able to cook, too, instead of just fetching things while you cook. But make no mistake, you are the head chef of the Cruel Citadel.”

  This calmed the wailing, but Kaz remained sullen.

  “She’ll want to poke around Kaz’s kitchen and touch everything,” the Elite Thursr grumbled, crossing his massive arms. “Maybe even the salt.”

  “Isn’t there anything Gry Feliri says about hiring experienced kitchen help?” Roark asked, desperate for any way to make this a tad more palatable for the Thursr.

  Kaz scraped a huge foot at the gritty flagstones and admitted reluctantly, “He recommends an experienced sous chef for anyone cooking large quantities of food.”

  “Think of her as your sous chef, then,” Roark said, coaxing his friend back to a walk. “It’s still your kitchen, mate, she’s just there to make things run more smoothly when you’re out.”

  Though still clearly unconvinced, Kaz allowed himself to be led through the stone corridors to the kitchen.

  Griff was there already, seated at the rough-hewn oak table, drinking a flagon of ale and munching on a loaf of bread. Across the room at the enormous fireplace, a particularly wide-hipped and buxom woman with blonde hair stood with her backside to the door, sprinkling something into the pot.

  Kaz’s mood darkened further, his face contorting into a thunderhead.

  “That is a stew,” he announced, stepping up behind the woman. “And it is simmering now to reduce the gravies and bring out their flavor. It does not need any more salt. Kaz put in enough.”

  The woman wiped her hands on an apron strung around her waist as she turned.

  “Yeah, well, I just threw in a couple florets of wild—” When she caught sight of Kaz’s hulking form looming over her, the woman screamed and stumbled backward, slamming into a shelf and rattling a series of dishes and pots.

  In a blink, Griff was at her side, moving with a speed one wouldn’t think possible in such a wiry, grizzled old body. The cook clung to the old trainer, eyes wide with terror as she tried to shrink behind him.

  “Now there, Mai, remember I was telling you how much higher level these few are because they run this floor?” Griff said in a soothing voice, patting the woman’s healthy shoulder. “There’s nothing to be afraid of from ’em, nothing at all. That big’n is Kaz, and this lanky fella’s Roark the G
riefer. He’s the one in charge down here.”

  “Over the first floor, at least,” Roark said, sketching a courtly bow, but remaining far enough away that he wouldn’t tower over the frightened cook. “For now.”

  Mai looked as if she couldn’t decide whether to curtsey or scream again.

  Griff saved her the trouble, his one good eye swiveling up to the ceiling. “And isn’t there usually a salamander creeping along on your heels, Griefer?”

  “I suspect he’s around here somewhere,” Roark said, not pointing out the telltale distortion climbing down the wall toward the warmth of the cookfire.

  Her initial panic dissipated, Mai straightened up and smoothed out her skirts. She was still visibly pale and her hands were shaking like leaves, but she was recovering quickly.

  “I didn’t ’spect no one to sneak up on me’s all.” She dipped her head at Roark, then Kaz, and forced a tight-lipped, “Charmed.”

  Kaz didn’t return the sentiment. “What was Mai putting into Kaz’s stew?” he grumbled, broad nostrils flaring as though he might be able to discern her trickery through scent alone.

  “Wild jot leaf,” she said, adjusting the straining décolletage of the bodice reining in her ample bosom. “It complements the cliff fowl and quiets the gaminess down a bit.”

  “Gry Feliri didn’t say anything about jot leaf,” Kaz replied, eyes narrowing, brow furrowed.

  Mai rolled her eyes. “That blowhard don’t know half the herbs and spices in Hearthworld. If it ain’t salt, he’s never heard of it.”

  Kaz’s scowl darkened.

  “Salt enhances flavor in every essential way,” he growled. “It is the ultimate spice.”

  Roark decided it was time to step in before someone got hurt.

  “Mai, did Griff explain to you what we’re doing here and how you’ll be paid?” Roark offered, before things could escalate further.

  “I heard plenty about the strange goings-on in the Cruel Citadel of late—and not just this one, but the Vault of the Radiant Shield as well. Seems the whole of Hearthworld’s gone mad.” The Vault of the Radiant Shield? Now that was something Roark would have to inquire about in greater depth. Before he could, however, she plowed right on ahead. “But Griff sorted out the rumors from the facts for me, yeah.” She crossed her thick arms beneath her breasts. “He also mentioned I’d have a place to stay down here included. Only I haven’t seen much in the way of sleeping quarters. I’m not a picky one, mind you, but if it’s just grab a bit of floor, then I can’t say as it’s much better than where I was sleeping …”