Civil War

by James A. Hunter

  Not wasting any time, Roark spun back to Kaz’s aid. Another of the angry Foals lay dead, impaled on one of the Brute Thursr’s short spears, its skeletal body half in and half out of the glowing lava stream. The rest, however, were shooting in and out of Kaz’s range, distracting him from one side while another attacked him from behind.

  Roark focused on the Foal diving at Kaz’s back and loosed a trio of arrows in quick succession. The first tore into the creature’s shoulder. The second flew wide, but the third sank into one of the Foal’s fiery orange eyes. The creature tumbled from the sky, slamming into Kaz and knocking the Brute Thursr to the ground.

  While Kaz struggled to disentangle himself from the creature’s bony carcass, Roark loosed into the swarming Foals, scattering them. One of the three screeched, turning sharply in the air and diving toward Roark like a bird of prey. Roark fired again, but the creature banked away from the bolt. Thanking fate for the bow’s drawing speed bonus, Roark nocked another arrow and let fly. But he didn’t see whether this one hit the mark.

  A flash of blinding pain seared the top of his head as a cloven hoof laid his scalp open. A second blow fell less than a second later on the back of his neck, sending bright white sparks dancing in his vision.

  [You have been temporarily dazed! Dexterity decreased by 50% for 8 seconds!]

  Roark stumbled, fighting to bring the bow back up and aim it with arms that felt as if they were made of stone. He fired off a wild shot at one of the Foals, but the bolt passed harmlessly overhead. He groped in his quiver for another arrow, his numb fingers fumbling over the fletches.

  Too late his dazed brain remembered their attack maneuvers. He whirled around to find a flurry of hooves and wings plunging toward his face. Just before they struck, however, another Foal slammed sideways into his attacker, driving them both to the ground.

  “Take that!” Kaz shouted, the blood of the creature he’d thrown dripping from his massive hands.

  Finally, the countdown timer hit zero and Roark’s Dexterity went back to normal. Feeling and flexibility poured back into his limbs. At his side, Kaz pulled another short spear. Overhead, the final two Foals circled, searching for an opening to take advantage of.

  “Put your back to mine,” Roark told Kaz, resting an arrow against his bowstring.

  A second alter, Roark felt the hulking Thursr bump against his back and had to duck the end of a fulgurite spear as Kaz cocked it over his shoulder. He heard the flutter of wings as both Foals dove simultaneously.

  With a grunt, Kaz hurled his spear. A Foal screeched.

  At the same moment, Roark raised his bow, aiming at the Foal diving for his face, and let fly in one smooth motion. The bolt buried itself in the creature’s right wing. It wheeled, flapping the injured appendage frantically. Before it could recover enough to land, Roark fired again, then a third time. His arrows thudded first into the breastbone, then into the Foal’s long face, eating up its meager Health bar. The Foal slammed to the ground, delicate bones snapping, and skidded several feet before coming to rest at Roark’s boots, dead.

  Roark let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and let his bow drop to his side.

  “Bloody hells,” he whispered. No Experience points because, like the Trolls in the citadel, these creatures weren’t heroes. What was the word Mai had used? Mobs?

  Shaking his head, he turned to the closest Foal and bent to search its Inventory.

  Empty. The next one came up the same. He went through all six, finding only a single Obsidian Ingot. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Killing these creatures had been even less profitable than killing Azibek’s supporters.

  “Roark.” A huge finger tapped his shoulder and a yellow flower appeared an inch from his face. “Roark, look. It is a saffron crocus! This entire patch are saffron.”

  Roark straightened up and looked from Kaz’s jubilant expression to the yellow flower. It looked exactly like the thousands of other yellow flowers they’d already passed over.

  “You’re certain?” he asked the Thursr.

  Kaz nodded, grinning. “Smell it! The aroma is savory, with a hint of warmth, just as Mai said it would be.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Roark said, pushing the flower away. “Did she warn you about the Lava Kelpies?”

  “Oh no,” Kaz said. “But Lava Kelpies only attack males. Mai probably didn’t even know they were dangerous since she gathered saffron here with her mother.”

  Roark scowled. “Next time maybe we should send her.”

  “Perhaps next time, Kaz will bring Mai here instead of Roark,” Kaz said, bending back to the patch of saffron crocuses and gently plucking more of the blooms. Suddenly, he stopped and looked up at Roark, horror etched in his face. “Not because Roark was not good company! Mai … Kaz thinks she … she would like to, um, talk about spices and, eh …”

  With a chuckle, Roark returned his bow to his Inventory.

  “It’s all right, mate, I understand.” He wasn’t entirely sure Mai would, given her initial reaction to the Brute Thursr’s imposing size, but he found himself hoping the young widow would eventually come around. A gentle soul like Kaz deserved to find some happiness. “Shall we circle round, then trek down to the hot springs and find your buzz fish caviar?”

  Kaz nodded, his arms filled with saffron crocuses.

  The ground rumbled beneath their feet, that low rolling grumble like distant thunder. Roark kept one eye on the mouth of the volcano as they started walking, counting down to the eruption in his head. With a thundercrack, hot ash and a spray of lava exploded into the air. The rain of ash and pumice sprinkled down on their heads, harmless except for a few sharp bits, and rustled a patch of yellow flowers just ahead.

  Heavenly spice or devilish poison, and they all looked exactly alike to Roark.

  The thought of the deadly consequences of choosing the wrong flower touched off a spark of inspiration that lit his brain up like a fire.

  “Kaz, are those—”

  “Coquelicot,” the Brute Thursr said, nodding sagely. “Kaz can see the difference a mile away now that he has found the saffron. But Roark can smell them if he doesn’t believe Kaz. They are earthier than the saffron, and they leave an aftersmell of sweetness in the nostrils.” He held out one of the saffron cups. “Try it. Smell the difference.”

  Roark took a quick sniff, then leaned down and tested the coquelicot’s scent. He thought he smelled a difference. Probably. Maybe. Or maybe he just wanted to smell the difference.

  He pulled up a handful of the poisonous yellow flowers and stored them in his Inventory.

  “Just don’t tell Zyra we almost died smelling flowers,” he told Kaz. “She’d never let us live that down.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN:

  Friends and Traitors

  When they returned to the citadel—with both saffron and buzz fish caviar in hand—Zyra was just coming up from her shift below. Roark pulled the bundle of coquelicot from his Inventory and tossed it to her.

  She caught the flowers and held them at arm’s length, as if afraid the yellow blooms might bite.

  “What are these?” she asked, voice oozing suspicion.

  “Poisonous,” Roark said cheerfully. “Soon as I can, I’m going to find you an Alchemy Trade Skill tome. Then you can brew your own poisons. Keep all of us supplied as well as yourself. Find some more efficient ways to kill our never-ending line of enemies.”

  That seemed to warm her up to the unexpected gift. She tucked the bouquet away, careful not to damage the petals.

  “I take it your mission was a success, then,” Zyra said.

  Across the room, Kaz was recounting their brush with the Lava Kelpies to a rapt Mai. The buxom young widow clapped with glee as the Brute Thursr concluded the tale by bringing out his armful of saffron.

  “If it wasn’t before, it is now,” Roark said. The buzz fish caviar was just the icing on the pastry.

  “Good. It’s your shift downstairs, Kaz’s turn griefing with your loyal
subjects, and my lunch break.” She turned on her heel and stalked off toward the kitchen. “Welcome home, Lord Overseer.”

  The appellation snapped Roark’s attention away from her swaying hips.

  “Handing you over to Wurgfozz sounds like a better idea every time you address me like that,” he called after her.

  Zyra just shook her head and kept walking. “Jotnars and their promises.”

  Smiling in spite of himself, Roark left in the opposite direction to find Mac and round up his group of Trolls, all ready for their next round of civil war.

  From the moment they made it down to the nave on, nothing went right.

  A high-level Thursr Elemental paralyzed half of Roark’s force as soon as they stepped into the battle. Roark and one of the Elite Reavers who’d come with him fired off spells and arrows between their frozen bodies, trying to hold off the Knights and Champions cutting their way through the chaos of second- and third-floor Trolls, but every shot was answered by a dozen from the archers and magick workers loyal to Azibek. Grozka lay dead in the clutter of a shattered pew, an ice javelin through her face, and Wurgfozz was nowhere to be found. Soon, Roark’s paralyzed troops fell to the slicing blades and deadly magicks, and the few second- and third-floor Trolls left alive were scrambling out of the nave, screaming, “Retreat!”

  The remaining first-floor Reavers and Thursrs looked to Roark, panic in their black eyes.

  “Retreat to the bottleneck at the stairs,” he ordered. “We’ll hold them there.”

  Roark found an Elite Thursr carrying a tower shield—[Druz], according to her nameplate—and crouched behind her, covering his army’s retreat with a barrage of arrows and Infernal spell fire. The Azibek supporters pressed forward, hard on their heels. Roark’s shots took out a Reaver Champion and then a Thursr Knight in the winding, witch-light-lit hallways, but the deaths of their comrades didn’t even slow the loyalists down.

  Finally, Druz and Roark made it to the bottleneck where he had most recently died. Unlike the stony corridors where two or even three Trolls could walk abreast depending on their size, the bottleneck wouldn’t allow more than one through at a time—and that was if the larger Thursrs turned sideways. Roark stepped back and out of the way.

  As the first of Azibek’s Reaver Champions charged into the narrow space, Druz pointed her heavy club at the bottleneck, and a pair of Elite Reavers leapt out of the shadows to either side, chopping the Champion down. A Knight was right behind the Champion, but at Druz’s whistle, the Elites ducked aside and a hail of short spears and arrows from the Trolls on the stairs ended it.

  Roark raised an eyebrow at the Elite Thursr. “Did you plan that?”

  “It works well for griefing, especially in a dead end.” Druz shrugged her massive shoulders. “This seemed like a good time for it.”

  It had been a perfect time for that maneuver, but Roark hadn’t expected a Thursr to recognize something like that, let alone put it into action with a few gestures and a whistle. She must be a natural leader for the lower-level Trolls to follow her so willingly.

  A bellowing war cry interrupted Roark’s musing, and a skull-bedecked Thursr Knight barreled into the bottleneck, swiping blindly with a longsword from behind a massive kite shield studded with sharpened bone spikes. Just like before, the Elite Reavers popped in behind the Knight, trailing inky black smoke, and slashed away at his red Health bar in perfect coordination.

  A blast of purple light hit one of the Elites. She screamed as purple-black flames licked through her skin, stealing away her life. Roark aimed a counterspell down the hallway to break the concentration of whichever Troll was casting Infernal Torment, but the Elite was dead before Roark felt his spell hit anything.

  The Elite hit the floor and exploded in a shower of putrid acid. The remaining Elite Reaver dove behind the Knight, letting the enemy Troll take the sizzling spray full in the face, the Knight’s Health bar dipping significantly. Before the enormous Knight could recover from the Curse, Roark cast his own Infernal Torment, burning away the rest of the Troll’s life. The Knight dropped onto the pile of corpses clogging the hallway.

  A scuffle broke out in puffs of smoke, the single remaining Elite Reaver and an enemy Shaman suddenly tangling in the shadowy corner of the bottleneck. A shimmer of light distorted the air over their heads, then Mac slammed on top of them, driving both to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs and paddlelike tail. The Elite Salamander sunk his Venomous Fangs into the Shaman and chewed away at her Health, but from down the corridor came a blast of purple light. Those purple-black flames flickered through Mac’s skin, but the bloodthirsty beast only dug his teeth in deeper.

  Roark threw up his Infernal Shield and bolted forward, pulling free his Kaiken Dagger. He planted the blade in the Shaman’s eye socket, finishing her off before she could scream—and more importantly, dragging Mac out of the Torment caster’s line of sight before they could finish off the ferocious salamander.

  In the wake of this last death, heartbeats passed in silence. Moments stretched into minutes, the tension in Roark’s shoulders clenching tighter the longer the stillness dragged on.

  No one wanted to commit suicide by running into the bottleneck from either direction.

  Only another Jotnar could cast Infernal Torment.

  Azibek had sent up one of the few Jotnar in the citadel—perhaps even the Jotnar Soul-Cursed from the Troll High Court. As Roark thought this, he immediately dismissed it as ridiculous. The Trolls on the High Court weren’t the type to dirty their hands fighting. They were like the nobles of Traisbin who’d flipped allegiances to support Marek Konig Ustar because they thought that would protect them. The Trolls on the other side of the bottleneck—Jotnar included—had most likely been ordered to fight or die by the Dungeon Lord. Of course, the only way any of them would gain any Experience from this senseless battle was by striking the killing blow on Roark.

  Roark found himself grinding his teeth at the thought, fed up with the utter uselessness of this endless war. He could be smithing something right now. He could be in the marketplace, trying out his new glamour spell while selling off the extraneous weapons and armor or searching Mogrifa & Mogrifa with Zyra for an Alchemy tome. But no, he was stuck down here killing off Azibek’s hordes, sending untold levels back to the great unknown, conveying wave after wave of his own Lesser Vassals to their deaths.

  “Enough!” His bark boomed down the corridor, shattering the silence and causing several of the Trolls at his sides to flinch. “Do any of you lower-floor Trolls even want to be here or is Azibek forcing you to fight?”

  There was no reply from the other side of the bottleneck. Only the subtle creak of leathers and the faint clinking of armor down the passageway hinted that Roark’s troops weren’t standing there alone.

  “Can’t you see we have nothing to gain from killing one another?” he yelled. “We could be working together right now, attaining higher levels while repelling the heroes who plague our citadel rather than hamstringing one another.”

  Another space of silence.

  Roark had started to think he would go unanswered again when a craggy voice shouted back, “That’s rich coming from the hero-lover! Azibek said you cut off all the hero killing because you’re bosom friends with the outsiders! If bringing in non-mobs like strays is what we’re in for when you take over, I’ll pass.”

  “Hero-lover?” The accusation was so ridiculous that, at first, Roark almost couldn’t comprehend it. When it finally hit, he threw back his head and laughed. “Do you even know what they call me, mate? The Griefer. I didn’t earn that name by coddling heroes. There hasn’t been any traffic to the lower levels since I took over the first floor because my floor has become too efficient at killing them.”

  A bark of laughter echoed down the corridor. “Typical honeyed lies from a Jotnar!”

  “Then what does that make Azibek’s claims?” Roark called back. “On my floor—and not only my floor, but the two others allied with me—we’ve wor
ked out a griefing rotation to obtain the most levels in the shortest amount of time. How many times were you killed by a fellow Troll just short of evolution? How long did it take you to scratch your way up to where you are now?” Roark waited a moment, allowing the skeptic to think back on all the bitter losses and frustrations suffered.

  When he deemed that enough time had passed, he opened his mouth to explain that they were stronger together than alone. Instead, Druz—the Elite Thursr wielding the tower shield and club—pushed forward into the bottleneck. Miraculously, no spells or spears slammed into her.

  “I was a level 3 Changeling on the first day of this civil war,” Druz yelled, her voice like the roar of a lion in the small space. “I followed Roark the Griefer into battle willingly and died at one of your hands. I respawned at level 1 in my first-floor home and was immediately put back in the griefing rotation. Eight hours later, I was a Thursr! Did Azibek ever do that for any of you?”

  A wave of murmuring filtered down the corridor.

  “You’re not going to listen to that bootlicker, are you?” the skeptic whined. “The Griefer told her to say that!”

  “Nobody tells me what to do!” Druz boomed, slamming her club against her shield. “I am my own Troll, not some Dungeon Lord’s slave!”

  As several of the Trolls behind Roark added their shouts of affirmation to support the outspoken Elite Thursr, it occurred to him that, in spite of her relative newness, Druz was one warrior he was very glad to have on his side.

  At the opposite end of the bottleneck, among Azibek’s supporters, the conversation was shifting from hushed murmuring to angry growling. Dissention was growing in their ranks.

  Roark seized the opportunity.

  “Anyone who wishes to join me can come forward now,” he shouted down the corridor. “You’ll be given the exact same treatment as the first-floor natives. I’ll put you into the griefing rotation so you can start killing heroes and earning levels. You’ll have a share in anything looted from the bodies and access to the finest weapons and armor. We also have trainers. You can buy levels in your melee skills or learn a Trade Skill, if you’ve got the gold, all working toward raising your level.”