Battle Lines
After outfitting the half-dozen level 4 and 5 Thursrs, trio of Reavers, and handful of Elite Reaver Bats who called the first floor home, Roark led the way down the torchlit staircase and into the torture chamber that was the second floor. Though he couldn’t hear the sticky smacking of Mac’s feet on the stone over the thunder of his own force’s boots and armor, Roark knew the bloodthirsty beast was somewhere overhead, following along and leading a small pack of Elite Stone Salamanders like the maka-ronin Mac was supposed to have been named for.
As they stepped into the first major chamber filled with gruesome devices, Roark was met by several more muscular Thursrs and one skulking Reaver, all level 7 and above—all Lesser Vassals who had migrated downstairs since evolving.
“We want to stand with you, Griefer,” said a level 9 Elite Thursr named [Pivo], resting a two-handed battle-ax on his shoulder. He seemed to be the spokesperson for the group. “You may not be our Overseer anymore, but you’ll always be our Overseer, if you catch my meaning.”
Roark offered his hand. “You’ll be a welcome addition.”
Pivo gripped Roark’s hand and leaned in close. “What my meaning was is we’ll always follow you, Griefer. Because it’s like you’re still our Overseer even though we’re living on the second floor now, and Wurgfozz is our Overseer now—”
“Yes … I understand,” Roark said, disentangling his long-fingered hand from the Thursr’s mighty paw. “And I appreciate the sentiment. Anyone who wants to fight can. It’s your decision.”
“Good, I didn’t know if you got what I was saying, seeing as the statements sound contradictory—”
“I managed to grasp it.” Roark slipped around the slow Thursr and pressed on toward Wurgfozz’s throne room.
As the second-floor Vassals fell in with the first-floor ranks, Roark heard Zyra tell Pivo in a stage whisper, “You really should call him Lord Overseer to his face. I know what he says, but he prefers the title.”
Roark scowled, his strides picking up speed. Zyra was only doing it because she knew it got under his skin. He shouldn’t let it get to him. He knew he wasn’t a tyrant. That was all that mattered.
Still, when he stalked into the throne room and saw Wurgfozz the Sadistic tormenting the final raving hero from the good faith showing, Roark’s mood turned tar-pit black.
Without a word, Roark crossed the room, drew his newly improved and Enchanted Outstanding Kaiken Dagger, and sank it into The_Mustard_Knight’s heart. The hero’s last bit of tortured red bar flashed a critical warning, then emptied.
“Thanks,” the Knight breathed as he died.
“What in the Infernal piss of the Dungeon Lord do you think you’re doing?” Wurgfozz spat in his grating, high-pitched voice. “I had at least an hour left in that one! He was dead set on sticking out the Death of a Thousand Torments quest to the end. You just threw that 1000 Experience into his lap!”
“The third floor is under attack,” Roark said evenly, returning his dagger to his belt. “Azibek supporters. Gather your highest-level fighters and catch up with us below in the nave.”
Without waiting for the spike-studded Overseer’s reply, Roark shouldered past him and down the winding staircase to the third floor, troops following along behind. Far ahead, he could hear the faint clash of metal on metal and the cries of the injured.
Kaz fell into step beside Roark, holding up the twin scythes Roark had enchanted for him. They glowed with subtly shifting blue and red light, illuminating the shadowy bottleneck where Roark had most recently died.
“Kaz thinks Roark did the right thing,” the Elite Thursr said. “Even if it did give the hero Experience points.”
Roark stared at Kaz for a moment, then mumbled, “Thanks, mate.” He didn’t bother reminding Kaz that his morally dubious deal was the reason the heroes had fallen into Wurgfozz’s clutches in the first place.
The ring of battle grew louder as they traversed the lava pit rooms of the third floor. Roark could hear Grozka shouting orders, though too many walls still separated them to make out the words. Roark drew his Initiate’s Spell Book. His palm tingled as the tome levitated over his open left hand. All his spell slots were available. Hastily, he jotted down a few level 1’s, two level 2’s, and a level 3. The rest he could inscribe on the fly.
Satisfied, Roark traded his spell book for his Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter. Immediately, a quiver full of Steel Arrows bounced against his back. He drew one and nocked it against the bow at half-ready. Roark hadn’t had time to add an Enchantment to the bow’s 2x Drawing Speed, but the Improved Damage on the arrows he’d crafted was nothing to sneeze at. Taking their cues from Roark, the few Trolls who didn’t already have a weapon in hand drew one.
They crossed into the final winding corridor before the nave. Straight ahead, the swarm of pale blue witch lights floated peacefully in the darkness, a sharp contrast to the commotion of the battle raging just one room away.
All around Roark, Kaz and the Thursrs broke into a lumbering run. Their armor clanked and rattled, disturbing the relative quiet of the hallway.
Ahead, the shadows flickered. Zyra and the Reavers slipped in and out of the gloom, disappearing and appearing closer to the throne room in puffs of black smoke, quickly outpacing their stronger but slower counterparts.
A Reaver with a glowing bone staff fired a ball of green energy at the scorched double doors at the end of the hall. They exploded inward, revealing the battlefield that had once been the nave.
Grozka’s honor guard of Dread Reavers and Thursr Behemoths clashed with an assortment of Thursr Knights and Reaver Champions. They were fearsome looking creatures, each one different from the last. The Knights all stood head and shoulders over even the Elite Thursrs—broad in the shoulders, arms and legs built like small tree trunks. Some were fat, others lean, but all looked deadly in their spike-studded black plate armor, covered in glowing glyphs. The Reaver Champions were a lanky lot in black leathers, who likewise towered over their lesser brethren.
Thursr Elementals and Reaver Shamans stood off to the sides, hurling multicolored spells into the crowd without regard for friend or foe. The Thursr Elementals wore no obvious armor at all, but rather were clad in elemental power—a chest plate crafted of arctic white ice here, battle robes built from flickering green foxflame there. The Reaver Shamans sported swishing robes of deep purple instead of the slick black leathers of the Reaver Assassins.
Grozka’s force was putting forth a valiant effort, but they were outnumbered and losing ground. There were three Azibek supporters for every one of Grozka’s, and none of them was below level 21.
As soon as they passed through the doorway into the confusion of the nave, Zyra and the Reavers disappeared into the shadows. They would target the spell casters, since they were the biggest threat and the most vulnerable to a flashing blade in the back. Kaz’s Thursrs slammed through next, crashing into the battle like a wave on a beach. While the heavily muscled warriors bashed and cut through the enemy with club and sword, the Reaver Bats circled overhead, swooping down at exposed backs, chipping away at red Health vials.
From what Roark could see, the highest of their opponents was a level 26 Reaver Shaman. She tossed icy white whirlwinds of death from one hand and arcs of blue chain lightning from the other. Whenever a Thursr barreled toward her, she disappeared—without the aid of shadows—and reappeared somewhere else. She was the greatest threat on the battlefield, and Roark intended to take her off it.
He stopped just inside the door and fired at the Shaman. His arrow buried itself in her shoulder, but did an insignificant amount of damage. The Shaman spun and flung a crackling bolt of lightning his way. Roark leapt right, dodging the blast of elemental force as he fit another arrow to the string. The lightning bolt slammed into the wall behind him, chunks of rock flying, dust swirling and eddying in the air. He took a calming breath and let the arrow fly. This shaft whistled over her head, sprouting from the back of a Thursr Knight behin
d her.
But it had the intended effect—the Shaman hurled more lightning at Roark and came after him, her weird gait a cross between the side-scuttle of a crab and the gallop of a horse.
Roark backpedaled into the corridor, peppering her with arrows as he went. They bit at her red bar like fleas on a bear.
The Shaman scuttled into the hallway after him. With a twist of her deep blue hand, she sent a snowy white whirlwind spinning toward Roark. There wasn’t enough room in the corridor to avoid the vortex. Roark threw up an Infernal shield, but the whirlwind blew through it, chilling him to the bone and sapping his purple Magick vial, draining it to zero. Hells! There would be no more Infernal spells until that vial refilled itself. But that was all right—Roark traded the bow for his Plain Maple Wand and tapped the floor—he’d come prepared for a battle of words anyway.
As the Shaman threw another lightning arc, Roark tapped himself on the chest and cast his first level 2 spell.
[45% of all damage done to target rebounds to the opponent for the next 30 seconds.]
Electricity crackled along Roark’s nerve endings as the bolt hit and a small amount of red ran out of his filigreed Health vial, but the spell didn’t knock him to the ground seizing and shaking as it had done to the unprotected Thursrs in the nave. Better yet, the Shaman yelped with surprise as the ricocheted damage burned away a slice of her red bar as well.
Without wasting a moment, Roark tapped the Maple Wand on the stone floor and cast a level 1 Acid Bath, leaping out of its way.
A hole opened up where he’d been standing, fifteen feet in diameter, dropping the Shaman into a hissing and bubbling pit of fluorosulfuric acid. She screamed and splashed toward the edge, trying to get out while her deep blue flesh sizzled and dripped from her bones.
As she struggled, Roark cast a level 1 Fireball. The sparking and popping flame blurred toward her, but at the last moment, the Shaman threw a hand up, stopping the spell with a shield just a shade lighter than her melting flesh. The crackling electricity disappeared from her other hand and a red glow suffused her palm.
Overhead, the Shaman’s red bar refilled itself, reaching nearly full before the acid began burning away at it again. She was making no move to leave the Acid Bath now. As soon as the Health spell in her palm burnt out, she began over. She dropped the magical shield barrier and shot a shrieking beam of blue-black at Roark’s center.
He threw himself into a roll, but couldn’t escape the beam of darkness in the narrow confines of the hall. The beam hit him in the back. Before he could stand, his own hands were tearing at his face and neck, the hooked razor-sharp talons tearing into his flesh. Blood poured over his ghostly skin like hot water, and red drained from his Health bar. It was then that his Rebound Spell ran out, settling all the damage squarely on him. The black talons of his left hand ripped into his stomach, opening a hole so his right could yank out a fistful of entrails. Agony and disgust roared through his body in equal measure as his hands kept digging at the wound, pawing out more ropy organs.
Roark heard a hoarse voice howling, then realized dully that it was himself. He had to put a stop to this torture or risk madness.
From the corner of his eye, Roark saw the Shaman approaching—she’d climbed from the Acid Bath at last. Without thinking, he rolled onto his side and cast Infernal Torment, his only ranged Jotnar spell. Though he hadn’t realized it, his Infernali Magick had regenerated around the same time his Rebound spell ran out.
A blast of purple-black energy infused with strange dark sigils roared through the corridor and slammed into the Reaver Shaman. She screeched as plum-colored flames flickered from her eyes and mouth. Immediately, Roark’s hands stopped clawing at his own body—the Shaman’s spell broken when the Infernal fire shattered her concentration. She raised her palm, red light flickering between her spidery fingers, but it seemed she couldn’t Heal herself without concentration. Here and there the flames burst from inside her, the deep blue surface of her skin cracking and blackening.
Remembering the wording of the Jotnar spell—that the damage continued for thirty seconds or until he lost eye contact—Roark very carefully pulled a Sufficient Health Potion from his Inventory and gulped it down. There was a moment of disturbing motion—his skin tingling like mad, his guts roiling as they slipped back into his stomach—then warmth and energy flowed through his limbs like a soothing balm.
Despite his best efforts, the disturbing healing broke his concentration, interrupting the Infernal Torment. He was lurching to his feet when he caught sight of the Reaver Shaman’s hand darting toward him. Roark threw up an Infernal shield, the violet barrier glowing in the dark hallway. But it was another Magick-sapping whirlwind. The icy white tornado blew through his shield and devoured every last bit of his purple vial like a starving grass lion.
He grabbed his Maple Wand again and cast his second inscribed level 2 spell:
[Any single opponent within a ten-foot radius becomes instantly paralyzed for 30 seconds.]
A crackle of lightning shot from the Shaman’s outstretched hand, then broke off short as the spell hit her. She glared with wide black eyes at Roark, a furious snarl frozen on her face.
Quickly, Roark swapped the wand for his Slender Rapier and Kaiken Dagger and set to work hacking, slicing, and hewing through her red bar before the spell wore off. As he cut and chopped, lines of text informed him that his Off-Hand Combo ability had gained a level and now earned him twice as much damage per dual slash. He was exhausted by the time her Health bar finally flashed the near-empty warning. Too tired to end things with a flourish, Roark settled for running her through with a lightning-fast stoccata.
The Shaman wheezed, utter disbelief dancing across her face, then slumped in a heap on the floor, dead. Though she’d badly out-leveled him, she’d come to battle cocksure and overconfident. Clearly, she hadn’t been expecting his spell-casting ability, and it had cost her five hard-earned levels. When she respawned, she would fall back to level 21. A shame for her, though it would be a hard-won lesson she likely wouldn’t forget for some time. Sadly, Roark would earn nothing from the kill, since Trolls couldn’t level up from killing their own—not unless there was an Overseer Quest tied to the kill, such as Azibek’s word-of-mouth quest.
No longer occupied with the Shaman, the din of battle once more caught Roark’s attention.
Well, as the saying went, he could rest in the cold embrace of the grave. He stowed his rapier and dagger, pulling out the spell book and quill once more, and inscribed his final two level 3 spells.
TWENTY-FOUR:
Hold Fast
Roark returned to the nave, fighting his way to the thickest of the combat, rapier flashing out here and there, mandritto and riverso squalembrato. Many of the Trolls he slashed were levels double his own 12. They came at him, unafraid of his blade. Seemingly invincible.
As a burly trio of Thursr Knights leapt for him, Roark cast his first level 3 spell—Minor Paralyze. Two of the three brutes were instantly paralyzed, and Roark danced out of the way of the third easily, running his rapier through the soft spot behind that unlucky Knight’s chin and up into his brain. The blade came free with a wet slurping sound. The Knight shook his head dazedly and swiped a massive three-headed flail at Roark. Roark sidestepped again, feinted left, then lunged right and low, driving his blade into the creature’s exposed knee. A potentially crippling blow that would likely slow his movement rate, at least for a time.
A moment later, a pack of angry Stone Salamanders led by Mac landed on the Knight from above, ripping into his coarse-furred hide. Devouring him like a school of hungry river piranhas. Meanwhile, a group of Reavers from the first floor fell upon the Knight’s paralyzed companions, slicing skin and chopping through meat. His health vial flashed sickly green as a poison attack landed.
Stepping back, Roark cast his second Minor Paralyze spell. Another pair of Azibek supporters froze in place, Grozka and a friendly Dread Reaver quickly cutting them down like a haying party at
harvesttime.
“Don’t suppose you have any more of those handy,” the Zealot boomed at him, a grin stretching her face as she waded back into the thick of the battle. She looked as if she were having the time of her life.
“Afraid not,” Roark said, casting a level 1 Ice Spike at the Reaver Champion facing down Kaz and a second-floor Thursr. The ice spike hit like an oversized arrow, driving into the Reaver’s chest. The Champion’s motions slowed to a crawl, allowing Kaz and the other Thursr to put it down with brutal efficiency.
Kaz glanced over his shoulder, searching for the source of the spike. He cheered when he saw Roark.
“Roark is still alive!”
“For now,” Roark agreed. “Let’s finish this, and then we’ll celebrate.”
Kaz gave him a happy nod and bounded off to assist an Elite Reaver engaged with another lower-level Shaman. The Elite Thursr hacked his way across the nave with his glowing Dual Scythes, leaping over the remains of a splintered, burnt pew to chop into the Shaman’s neck. Roark was so caught up in watching the burning and freezing effects of Kaz’s blades that he nearly had his head taken off from behind by a Reaver Champion. He darted out of the way just in time, only losing a few strands of shaggy black hair over his right ear to the Champion’s blade.
With the Plain Maple Wand, Roark cast his final level 3 spell.
[A fog of noxious gas poisons enemies within a fifteen-foot radius.]
With a hissing puff, bright yellow gas billowed up from the floor. In Roark’s spell book, the Noxious Fog was supposed to do 1 x Roark’s Intelligence damage immediately, followed by three damage per second for thirty seconds, but most of the Dungeon Lord’s force were already wounded from the battle with Roark’s supporters. As the toxic fumes filled their lungs, several clutched their throats, gagging and coughing up bloody chunks onto the scorched stone floor.
Zyra and another Elite Reaver danced through the masses, putting their Backstab Multipliers to good use, picking off several of the lowest Health bars. Roark, Kaz, and many of Grozka’s Trolls followed suit.
Civil War Page 17