Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  “You’ll have your own bedchamber,” Roark promised, offering her a reassuring grin. She shied back from his smile—a subtle reminder that though he still thought of himself as human, others didn’t. Even a simple smile with his wicked serrated black teeth was probably quite intimidating. “I can’t rearrange the floor layout until tomorrow, but when I do, I’ll put a room for you off the kitchen.”

  Mai’s eyes widened, and she glanced over at Kaz. Griff cleared his throat and looked at Roark meaningfully.

  “I’m getting on in years, Griefer, and not as spry as I used to be,” the trainer who had, not three minutes before, leapt over the rough-hewn wooden bench and to the cook’s aid in the blink of an eye said. “Could you maybe put the young lady within shouting distance of my rooms, case I need a bit of help every now and then?”

  “Of course.” Roark nodded, catching on immediately.

  At this concession, Mai relaxed visibly. Griff might understand that Trolls were no more savage or wild than any other human or hero in Hearthworld, but he’d had years in the arena to get used to them and the other, more civilized, chimera. Roark suspected that, given time, Mai would come around as well.

  “For now, Mai, if you’d like to put your things in Griff’s room and then get settled into the kitchen—”

  “Somewhere away from the stew,” Kaz suggested rather sternly.

  Mai glared at the Elite Thursr.

  Roark forged ahead. “While you’re doing that, Kaz will round up the Trolls who’ve been helping him out and send them your way. None have unlocked their Cooking Trade Skill yet.”

  “Well, I can help them with that.” Mai looked over at Kaz haughtily. “I can also teach you a thing or two about herbs that Gry Feliri don’t know. Just my own findings on some of the less common ones. Might save you a bit of trial and error if you ever come across them.”

  A hint of curiosity seeped into Kaz’s expression, his scowl softening by a hair.

  “How much is it to train with Mai?” he asked begrudgingly.

  “Ten gold, and well worth it,” she said.

  Kaz stared her down for a moment, then went to the stewpot. He ladled up a scoop in the wooden stirring spoon, blew on it, then took a bite and chewed thoughtfully.

  Slowly, the last of the anger burned away, and Kaz’s face lit up.

  “The jot leaf does complement the cliff fowl!”

  “I did tell you,” Mai said rather smugly.

  “Roark should try this!” Kaz said as he refilled the ladle.

  Before Roark could decline, the Elite Thursr had shoved a spoonful in his mouth.

  At first, he didn’t taste anything different from the usual, savory flavors of meat and vegetables. It was delicious, but no better than what Kaz had been preparing for them. Then a hint of tanginess settled in, not overpowering the gamey taste of the meat, but making it somehow more delicate.

  “It’s good,” he agreed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Good?” Kaz shook his huge head. “No, Roark, it’s genius! Mai, Kaz would like to train in spices immediately.” He pulled a fistful of coins out and shoved it at her.

  Mai inspected the gleam of the gold briefly, then slipped them into her cleavage, the lot disappearing into her bodice. She waved Kaz over to the stewpot.

  “Come on over here and have a look at the jot leaf so you’ll know it next time you see it,” she said. “It’s not hard to gather in the wilds yourself if you know what you’re looking for.”

  The pair of cooks inspected spices in the stew, lost in their own world.

  “She’s just wound a bit tight, Mai is,” Griff said in a low voice to Roark. “Ain’t been more’n a year since she lost her husband to that damned olm Legion of Order. Been a rough time for her.” The weapons trainer turned his piercing blue gaze on Roark. “She’s like kin to me, Griefer. The daughter I never had.”

  “She’ll be safe here,” Roark said. “We’ll give her all the same protections we promised you.”

  Griff nodded, clapping him on the back. “Aye, I know you will. That’s why I brought her.”

  TWENTY-TWO:

  Forge Work

  With Kaz busy showing Mai around the kitchen and rounding up his apprentice chefs, Roark was finally free to slip off to the smithy. Macaroni tagged along, curling up in his accustomed place against the forge while Roark stripped off his leather armor. Though the chamber stayed hotter than seven hells day and night round, the fire still needed stoking before it reached the perfect metalworking point. Roark threw himself into the familiar tasks required to prepare the smithy for a serious run of work, thankful for the mind-scouring that hard labor afforded.

  Over the next hour or so, Roark forged weapons and tailored armor, improving them all with the grindstone as he went, and gaining a level in Blacksmithing and Tailoring. These came with the ability to smith Infernal weapons and armor—though he didn’t yet have the required Obsidian Ingots, Infernali Shards, and Hellbender Leather—and the ability to improve armor to twice its Base Protection. He didn’t come up with any brilliant plans for securing the fourth floor besides the catchall Level Enough to Challenge the Floor Boss while he worked, but the popping of the sparks inspired some new ideas for nasty curses, which might help even the playing field.

  Assuming he could get them to work.

  Excited to try inscribing them, he moved to the Enchanting table.

  To begin with, Roark disenchanted a few of the new items that they’d taken in the most recent rounds of griefing. Any items enchanted with Divine spells, which would harm Trolls and other Infernal chimeras, Roark destroyed for their gemstones. By the time he finished off the items, he had gathered a small pile of precious stones of various types and qualities—even one Perfect Amethyst. He’d also learned the Enchantments for Fire Damage, Frost Damage, Increased Strength, and the slightly less practical Waterlungs, which allowed one to breathe underwater. He immediately set to Enchanting the items he had just forged with these, along with the Enchantments he already knew for Movement Speed, Increased Backstab Multiplier, Magick, Intelligence, and Constitution.

  He’d only made it through half his stock when a line of text appeared.

  [Congratulations! You have leveled up your Enchanting to Level 5! Enchantments are 15% stronger, and you can now add two Enchantments, two Curses, or one Enchantment and one Curse to each Item!]

  Very interesting. That would come in especially handy in one level when he could finally disenchant PwnrBwner_OG’s rose mace and learn how to inscribe its myriad attributes. In the meantime, however, there was no reason not to try it out. Roark fished his quill and inkpot from his Inventory, placed an already enchanted Hoary Fulgurite Warhammer on the table, and pressed his palms to the blue arcane symbols shaped like a quill and a skull.

  [Would you like to Curse this item? Yes/No?

  Note: For every item you inscribe with a Curse, Cursed! will extract a share of your Health equal to your Enchanting level x your character level.]

  In the beginning, the cost to Curse a given item had been minimal, but now that he was a level 12 Elite Jotnar and a level 5 Enchanter, the cost for each curse would be a hefty 60 Health points. No small thing, though his increased Health Regeneration as an Elite would help to offset the cost a bit. Roark made a mental note not to get carried away and give himself Enchanter’s Sickness this time, then selected Yes.

  A piece of parchment appeared beneath a depiction of the warhammer, a sprinkling of falling snow glowing around the craggy head.

  [The bearer of this Hoary Fulgurite Warhammer will explode at time of death, causing damage to anyone within a fifteen-foot radius.]

  As he finished the inscription, the letters turned into a strange string of runes that flared a brilliant blue-green in the warhammer’s handle, then disappeared. The cost of the Curse hit him in the gut like a physical blow, draining away nearly a fifth of his Health in one fell swoop.

  Roark checked his Inventory for Modest Health Potions and
came up with the larger Sufficient ones Zyra had retrieved from the marketplace. Even better. He grabbed a Double-Bladed Sickle he’d imbued with Fire Damage using the rune Iscar and inscribed it with the Exploding Corpse Curse as well. Then he went through a series of breastplates and shields, Cursing each one—any fool unlucky enough to loot one of the items from a Troll corpse would find a Plague of Flesh-eating Beetles descending on them in force.

  While bolting down a Sufficient Health Potion, Zyra’s fondness for poison began to niggle at the back of Roark’s mind. Could he turn that into a Curse in some fashion? He placed a set of oiled leathers already Enchanted with Movement Speed on the arcane table and pressed his palms to the depictions of the quill and skull.

  [Twice per day, the wearer can trigger a toxic fog that poisons all targets within a fifteen-foot radius.

  Warning: This Curse will affect Friends and Enemies alike!]

  The deep brown oiled leathers darkened until they were black, the glowing blue-green sigils worked along the seams. They flared, then disappeared, like otherworldly embers being smothered in the night.

  Encouraged by the success, Roark returned to the workbench and set to work Tailoring a handful of leather strips into Superior Hand Wrappings. After he improved them to Outstanding, he brought the wrappings to the Enchanting table and inscribed the same Toxic Miasma Curse onto them, followed by an Increased Backstab Multiplier. A little more back and forth and he’d made a set of soft leather boots imbued with another Increased Movement Speed and the Toxic Miasma.

  Roark stored the set in his Inventory to give to Zyra when he next saw her, then turned to the Outstanding Dual Scythes he’d forged for Kaz. Placing one hand on the blue sigil of a curl of smoke and the other on the green eye, Roark activated the Enchanting table and set to work inlaying the Runes Iscar and Algor into each weapon with the appropriate stones. Fire and Frost. When they were finished, each one spit a combination of blazing sparks and glowing blue-white snowflakes. A deadly combination that would prove especially effective against the Trolls of the lower floors.

  Roark was about to begin work on a pair of Obsidian Gauntlets when Mac bolted to his feet, snarling at the doorway to the smithy.

  A moment later, Zyra stepped out of the shadows trailing inky smoke. Instead of relaxing when he saw it was a friend, Mac’s bulging eyes locked on the long-limbed level 16 Dread Reaver with looping necklaces of teeth and a gnarled root staff standing by Zyra’s side. A burbling growl rolled out of his throat.

  “Take it easy, Macaroni, she’s up from the third floor,” Zyra explained. “A messenger from Grozka.”

  The Dread Reaver nodded, leaning on her gnarled root staff. “A wave of troops from the fourth floor have attacked our throne room, seeking to push through to the upper levels. The Zealot sends for the Griefer and his troops to assist in repelling the ascenders.”

  Roark set the gauntlets aside and leaned against the anvil, wiping away a sheen of perspiration from his brow as he faced the new arrivals.

  “Is she certain they’re not just a group of assassins trying to slip through?” he asked, Azibek’s word-of-mouth quest flashing to the forefront of his mind.

  “If they were trying to slip past, their notions of stealth are painfully misguided,” she rasped. “They demanded passage in the Dungeon Lord’s name, then attacked us outright when the Zealot refused.”

  Mac stalked to Roark’s side, bumped against his leg, and placed his fat-padded body between Roark and the pair of Reavers. Roark patted the Elite Salamander’s shoulder absently, but Mac didn’t relax, just stood there possessively guarding the Griefer.

  “How many attacked?” Roark asked.

  “By my count, at least thirty.” The Dread Reaver’s eyes glimmered with something akin to morbid curiosity. “Will you uphold the alliance, Griefer, when it is not your own neck in immediate peril?”

  “Of course,” Roark snapped. He went to the shelf and pulled on the leathers he’d stripped off earlier. “An attack on one allied floor is an attack on all. I assume you can outpace us?” The Dread Reaver nodded in reply. “Very well. Tell Grozka we’re gathering our troops and will be there soon. She needs to hold the line for only another half an hour.”

  “Oh, we will hold,” the Dread Reaver growled. She dipped her head once more, then twirled and vanished back into the shadows by the door. Curls of dark smoke swirled and eddied in her wake.

  “Cheerful sort,” Zyra remarked.

  “They’re holding off an attack and asking for our help,” Roark said. “Does this change your trust in them?”

  The hooded Elite Reaver shrugged. “If there is an attack.” She slipped an obsidian dagger from her belt and began inspecting the razor-sharp edge. “This could be a trap, you know. A way to lure you down to their floor for an ambush.”

  Roark smirked. “If it is, they’ll have to get through my honor guard first.”

  “Spoken like a true Jotnar,” Zyra said, the lilt in her voice betraying the hidden smile. She twirled the dagger and slammed it home in the sheath at her belt.

  After a quick survey of the smithy, Roark began gathering armloads of finished weapons and armor from the workbench.

  “Are those for our troops?” Zyra asked.

  “And anyone who fights alongside us,” he replied. “They’re Enchanted, so they’ll eat away at Troll Health faster. We’ve got fifty percent resistance to unenchanted weapons.”

  She fingered a glowing blue scythe. “You’ve been giving this some thought.”

  “You’re not the only paranoid Troll in the citadel,” he said, flashing her a grim smile. “Grab as many weapons and armor as you can carry. We’re going to need them all.”

  Together, they loaded their Inventories with the enchanted items, then headed down the corridor, through the open secret passage and into the throne room. It was empty except for a pair of newly evolved Thursrs posted at the doorway to the second floor.

  Roark made for the twisted obsidian throne, dropping into the seat and opening the Overseer’s Grimoire to the Troop Management page. The roster showed a full floor, none of the chimeras in respawn. With a thought, he selected the mass telepathy option below it.

  “The lower floors are attacking in the name of the Dungeon Lord,” he said, magick carrying his words to all the Infernal creatures of the first floor. “Our allies on the third floor have called for our aid, and we will not fail them. This is our opportunity to show the rest of the citadel what working together can achieve. Every Troll, bat, or salamander who’s reached their first evolution, gather in the throne room immediately. We march for war.”

  Roark closed the grimoire just in time to catch sight of Zyra adjusting her hand wrappings. The motion sparked memory of the Toxic Miasma Curse.

  “Almost forgot.” He pulled the set of Noxious Leather Armor out and handed it to the hooded Reaver.

  Zyra turned the set over in her hands, cocking her head as she inspected it.

  “It’s all right, they’re not poisonous to you,” Roark said. “Just your friends and enemies.”

  “What are they for?”

  “Wearing.”

  “I mean, why are you giving them to me?” Her hood swiveled to face him and Roark could feel suspicious eyes boring into his skull. “Are they part of the Jotnar’s Blessing? My boon as your Faithful Servant?”

  Azibek had given Roark just such a gift during their first meeting—a gift Roark still had, since he was unable to get rid of the bloody thing or destroy it. The Lash of the Waning Blood Moon, meant to remind Roark of the chains tying him to the Dungeon Lord’s good favor.

  “I thought they would suit you better than those scraps you’re wearing now,” Roark said, eyeing the scanty bits of armor clinging to Zyra’s lithe body. “They come without any strings—or chains—attached.”

  She was silent for a long beat, almost as though she were searching for some dastardly hook hidden away in his words. Finally, she shrugged and stripped off her assassin’s leathers. The h
ood remained in place, though it drew the least of Roark’s attention.

  “You’d be smarter to chain down your servants like the Dungeon Lord does,” she said.

  Her voice startled Roark, and he realized he was staring openly at the starry-midnight expanse of the Reaver’s bare skin. He cleared his throat and busied himself removing Enchanted items from his Inventory and sorting them into one pile of weapons and another of armor.

  “I’ll cut my own throat before I follow the lead of that two-bit tyrant,” he replied, fighting the urge to look at Zyra.

  “Kaz would never let Roark do such a thing!”

  Roark glanced up, surprised to find that the Elite Thursr’s arrival in the throne room had escaped his notice. That was the distraction power of a bit of exposed flesh. Thankfully, when Roark glanced Zyra’s way again, she was fully dressed, the Noxious Leather Armor concealing nearly all of her starry skin behind a veil of malignant black.

  “Don’t worry, mate,” Roark told Kaz. “It won’t come to that.”

  The plumage on Kaz’s antlered headdress bobbed and bounced when the Elite Thursr jerked his head in a robust nod.

  “I’m only pointing out that there’s a reason Azibek made it to Dungeon Lord,” Zyra said, winding her new hand wraps down one delicate wrist. “And stayed Dungeon Lord.”

  “Point out whatever you like,” Roark said. “But I’m not in this to become Azibek; I’m in it to kill him.”

  TWENTY-THREE: