Roark sorted through them until he found The Well-Rounded Alchemist’s Guides to Heavy Metals.
He grinned. “I’ll take them all.”
On his way out of the bookshop, Roark checked the countdown in the corner of his vision.
1:46:12
Just under half his time remaining. He could wander through the marketplace once more and see what sort of information he could pick up about Lowen and this Vault of the Radiant Shield. He considered finding Variok and inviting the merchant to the Cruel Citadel personally, but he didn’t want to chance giving away his disguise before it had outlived its usefulness.
As Roark made his way back through the magick- and brazier-lit stalls, the glinting of silver-set gemstones caught his eye. In a tent of lavish jade and gold fabric floored by opulent carpets stood several gaudy displays of everything from the most intricate and ornate collar to plain, unadorned rings. A jeweler hunched over a lantern-lit table, loupe in one eye, stone-setting pliers and one of a pair of earrings in his hands. The man held the earring so close to his face that from Roark’s angle, it looked as if he were holding it to his nose.
The notion called up the image of Wurgfozz twisting the rusty spike in his nose. That spike was about as far from these pieces of jewelry as their maker was from the rotting heads piled up next to Roark’s throne.
Roark faltered, mid-step. Inspiration. Sheer, genius, brilliant inspiration.
Forcing himself not to run, Roark crossed to the jeweler’s tent and ducked inside. Minutes later, he left with his hands full of glittering metal—earrings and nose rings of various sizes and quality. None of them magick. Still, he couldn’t keep the smile off his face. Those little beauties were going to help him defeat the fourth-floor Overseer and change the tide of the war.
TWENTY-NINE:
The Resistance
When Roark returned to the citadel, Zyra was below on her shift in the trenches, so he dispelled the Glamour Cloak and passed out the non-Alchemy tomes to the Trolls who’d expressed an interest in learning a Trade Skill. With that done, he hurried off to the smithy, eager to put his new plan into action.
Not surprisingly, he found Mac already curled up belly to belly with the forge. As always, the chamber was glowing orange-red and hotter than seven hells. Sweat popped out on Roark’s skin immediately. Stripping off the upper half of his leather armor didn’t even begin to alleviate the sweltering heat, but soon he was too engrossed in his work to notice it.
Roark spread the pieces he’d bought from the jeweler across the workbench. Six pieces in all. With their lack of Enchantments, the ear and nose rings had hardly cost their weight in gold. A steal.
He selected the simplest of the lot, a plain gold eardrop, and took it to the Enchanting table. With practiced motions, he inscribed a Curse similar to the Exploding Corpse … with one minor modification for size.
[Would you like to Curse this item? Yes/No?
Note: For every Curse you inscribe, Cursed! will extract a share of your Health equal to your Enchanting level x your character level.]
Steeper than the jeweler’s price to be sure, but still well worth the expense. Roark selected Yes. Along the curve of the eardrop, the ink blurred and twisted into the familiar blue-green runes of a Curse, glowing brilliantly for a moment before fading to invisibility.
Nausea roiled in his stomach as the Curse extracted its price from his Health vial—120 points—and he shivered violently as cold spring water ran through his veins, but soon his hefty Health-Regen had gone to work replacing what he’d expended. Within seven seconds, his filigreed vial was full of red liquid once more.
Roark turned the eardrop over in his hand, examining it. The metal was icy to the touch, a seeming impossibility in this fiery hell of a smithy, and a thin rime of pale frost coated its surface. Satisfied, he returned the newly cursed eardrop to the workbench and selected a silver nose chain.
Ideally, he would test this new weapon before taking it into battle, but he felt certain that without each and every piece of jewelry, he wouldn’t be able to defeat the fourth-floor Overseer. She was a level 33 Reaver Shaman, nearly double his own Soul-Cursed. He had seen his other Curses in action and felt the Experience gain from the deaths they’d caused. He knew they worked and he knew his inscription was flawless; he would just have to have faith that the rings would function as intended. There were always spell slots and blood cantrips to fall back on if he had to.
He worked steadily through the remaining ear and nose rings, pausing after each to recover his Health and avoid Enchanter’s Sickness. As the final inscription took, glowing blue-green and then disappearing, a page of text appeared, obscuring his view of the twisted rose gold nose ring in his hand.
[Congratulations, you have leveled up your Enchanting to Level 6! You may now inscribe any nonliving flat plane with a malicious spell, thereby hexing it for the next creature to touch the inscription.
Note: Only one hex may be inscribed per single plane, 20-foot radius. Enchanting table is not required to inscribe a hex.
Warning: Hexes do not distinguish between friend and foe or creator and enemy! Beware that you don’t trigger your own hex!]
Fascinated, Roark dismissed the page. After a moment’s consideration, he knelt down and wrote [Icy Torrential Downpour] at his feet. It was a relatively harmless spell to the Health, but depleted Magick as effectively as an ice tornado.
[Would you like to Hex this surface? Yes/No?
Note: For every Hex you inscribe, Cursed! will extract a share of your Health equal to your Enchanting level x your character level.]
With his newly increased level, that was nearly a fifth of his total Health. But, he reasoned, his filigreed vial had refilled while he read and his Health-Regen was fast enough to fix him up in a few seconds. He selected Yes.
Immediately, his vision swam, the world reeling around him, and his stomach heaved as the hex extracted its exorbitant price from his filigreed Health vial. If he hadn’t already been on his knees, he would’ve found himself dropping to them. But the ink on the flagstones drew his attention away from his suddenly ailing body.
The inscription glowed a deep wine-colored purple, and the letters ran into a strange angular rune, which stretched until it covered an Elite Salamander-sized space of floor. Amethyst light flared up for a moment at the edges of the rune, then faded until only the closest inspection would reveal it.
Roark waited patiently for his Health vial to refill, the nausea and weakness slowly dissipating, then he braced himself for the worst and stepped onto the rune.
Thunder boomed, shaking the smithy, and sheets of icy rain poured down on his forge-heated skin like a waterfall. Roark yelped through gritted teeth and immediately began to shiver, the shift in temperature too drastic to stand. In the corner of his eye, the purple liquid drained out of his filigreed Magick vial.
“Bloody hells!” he shouted gleefully, leaping out of the target area. The spell had worked perfectly! “Mac, did you see that?”
The Elite Salamander was on his feet, backed up against the forge as if afraid the rain would come for him next. Roark couldn’t help but grin. Hexes would open up a whole new world of attacks and defenses. He wanted to try a dozen of them right away, but scuffling and shouting in the corridor interrupted his elation.
By the forge, the wary Elite Salamander bared his Venomous Fangs and let out a burbling growl.
A hero who’d gotten past the griefing shift, perhaps? Roark shook the dripping water out of his hair and stored his inkpot and quill, then grabbed his rapier and headed out into the torchlit hallway.
Coming toward him from the throne room were Zyra and a hulking Thursr Knight. The Knight was bent nearly double, his head pressed to Zyra’s side and his empty hands raised. It took Roark a moment to realize the Knight was walking so strangely because Zyra had ahold of his ear.
“Just the Jotnar I was looking for,” Zyra said in a bitingly cheerful voice. “This cringing wad of scum had the nerve to
claim you said he could desert Azibek for us. He actually thought I would believe him just because he killed one of his fellow fifth-floor residents and chopped off their head in front of me.”
At this she tossed Roark a massive bleeding ball of teeth and hair. Roark sidestepped, more surprised than disgusted. The head bounced down the flagstones behind him.
“Damn it all,” he grumbled under his breath. If he’d been thinking, he would’ve bought extra pieces of jewelry. He cupped his chin in his free hand. “Maybe one of the Changelings has a nose ring I can trade for …”
“What?” Zyra asked, the obvious confusion still not enough to take the edge off the anger in her voice.
“Nothing.” Roark shook his head. “What were you saying?”
She yanked the ear of the Knight, eliciting a grunt of pain.
“This spy claims you sent an open quest to anybody from the Dungeon Lord’s armies—just bring up a head and we’ll welcome them in with open arms!” Her voice dripped sugary poison. “But I know you’re not stupid enough to send out a quest like that because I know anyone with half a brain would realize Azibek can order any of his cronies to chop off any of the others’ heads so they can come up here and cozy up to you. That’s why I know you’ll let me kill this liar for trying to deceive us.”
Roark shivered, partly from the breeze chilling his still-wet skin, partly from the Elite Reaver’s deadly tone.
“Tell her,” the Thursr Knight begged. “I didn’t fight back when she captured me. I could’ve killed her, but I didn’t.”
Zyra barked out a laugh as if that were ridiculous.
“I want to be part of the uprising,” the Knight insisted. “Please.”
Roark sheathed his rapier and swiped the dripping water from his brow. “I should’ve contacted you and Kaz to let you know about the quest.”
Zyra shoved the Knight away from her and threw up her hands, disgusted. She took a few steps away, then turned back.
“Can you add, Griefer?” she asked. All of the cloying sarcasm was gone. In its place was disbelief and fury. “Do you know how many Experience points this Knight”—she jabbed a finger at the big creature, who looked as if he wanted to disappear into the wall—“would get for killing a Troll from below, dragging the head up to you, completing your quest, then chopping you in half and completing Azibek’s Memento Mori quest?”
The Knight raised his hand to interject. “I-I wouldn’t do that.”
“Twelve hundred,” Zyra finished as if he hadn’t spoken.
Kaz poked his head around the corner. “Why is Zyra shouting? Kaz could hear it all the way from the antechamber. And why is Roark wet?”
“Later,” Roark said at the same time as Zyra snapped, “Your Lord Overseer is trying to commit suicide by sending out a quest to Azibek’s supporters.”
“Only the ones who’re tired of living under Azibek’s cruelty,” Roark said.
“It’s an open quest,” Zyra said, enunciating slowly as if he wouldn’t understand otherwise. “Everyone below the third floor got it. There’s no way to sort between those who are sincere and those who are pretending.”
Kaz came fully into the hallway.
“Roark’s quest was a good idea,” he said, raising his blocky chin. “Roark is fair and good and smart, and he only wants all Trolls to live a life as good as the Trolls of the first floor do! Kaz thinks the quest is wonderful.”
“You haven’t even read the quest, mate,” Roark said, running his fingers through his shaggy black hair.
“Kaz doesn’t need to read it to know that Roark’s quest was a good idea!”
Zyra gestured at Kaz. “Is this what you want? A legion of unquestioning followers?”
“Of course not!” Roark snapped. “Kaz, Zyra’s got a good point. There’s plenty of room for someone to take advantage of the quest. However”—he turned to search the depths of shadows in the angry Reaver’s hood—“it also has the potential to do us and whoever accepts it a lot of good as well. It is possible that we could be betrayed at any second, but if we’re watchful, we can mitigate the risk. Sowing the ideas of defection and sedition in Azibek’s ranks are well worth it. It’s already helped us retake the portions of the third floor we lost to the loyalists.”
Zyra and Kaz both opened their mouths at the same time, but Roark forged ahead before they could interrupt.
“But just to be certain,” he said. “I’m going to take out the fourth-floor Overseer tonight so we’ve got that floor on our side, as well. In the meantime, Kaz, could you get this new recruit into the griefing rotation?”
“Kaz would be happy to!” The Brute leapt into action, taking the Knight by his huge arm and leading him around the corner toward the antechamber. “Tuk came along just in time! Very soon Kaz’s griefing group will be retiring to train with the skill trainers and eat a delicious meal. Just wait until Tuk tastes stew! Tuk will not regret his choice. Not at all.”
When the pair was safely out of earshot, Zyra turned to Roark, hands planted on her hips. “You’re going to defeat Splatch? You realize she’s a level 33, right?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
“Of course the Jotnar has a plan.” She threw up her arms. “What sort of tricks do you have up your sleeve this time?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Roark said. “Just come along and enjoy the show.”
THIRTY:
Dual at the Crossroads
When Roark, Mac, and Zyra arrived on the third floor—the Elite Salamander just a splotch of distortion on the shadowy ceiling overhead—the latest battle with the Azibek loyalists was just coming to an end.
“You just missed the fun, Griefer!” Grozka called, sticking her massive boot on the throat of a Knight’s corpse as she pulled her halberd free. She waved a gauntleted hand at a gangly Reaver Champion and a tattooed Elemental Thursr. “We’ve another pair of Mugwumps bearing gifts.”
As the Champion and Elemental skulked over, holding out a gory severed head apiece, Roark cursed his shortsightedness again. Two more perfectly good severed heads and no extra jewelry! When he next spoke to Mai, he would have to ask her to make recruiting that merchant Variok a priority.
Zyra watched their approach with a Cursed Longknife in hand, twirling it in a way that looked menacingly nonchalant. The Champion eyed her as if trying to measure whether he could kill her before she poisoned him, but the Elemental stepped forward before the Reavers could come to blows.
“We wish to join you, Griefer,” the Elemental said, bowing as she held out her severed head to him. “Please accept these tokens of our sincerity.”
Giving himself a mental shake, Roark left off brooding over the wasted heads.
“Welcome to the rebellion,” he said, stowing their tokens in his Inventory for later use. He scanned the nave until he found a familiar face looting Troll bodies. “Druz!”
At the sound of her name, the Elite Thursr jogged over.
“Yes, Lord Overseer?”
Zyra laughed with pure delight—the sound sharp and wicked like the snap of breaking bones.
Roark glared sidelong at the hooded Elite Reaver.
“I didn’t even tell her to say that,” Zyra said, reaching into the depths of her hood to scrub away tears of laughter. “The new spawns must be learning it all on their own now. This is brilliant!”
Forcing himself not to grind his serrated teeth, Roark turned back to Druz.
“Just Roark,” he told her. “Griefer, if you prefer a title.” He gestured to the pair of Mugwump Trolls. “Could you show our newest allies upstairs and have Kaz add them to the rotation?”
Druz slapped a fist to her tower shield in a crisp salute. “Right away, Lord—uh—Griefer.”
“Thank you.”
Zyra giggled again as Druz showed the pair of them away.
“Do you have to work at being so frustrating or does it come naturally?” Roark asked her, starting for the crumbling archway below the chancel.
“I like to think I�
�ve always had a flair for it,” she said, shrugging.
“Going somewhere, Griefer?” Grozka hollered at his retreating back.
Roark paused and glanced over his shoulder at the mountain of a Troll. “I’m going to go secure the fourth floor. Hold down the floor while I’m gone, won’t you?”
The Floor Boss offered him a grin and smashed her weapon against a heavy shield. “About time. Show them the strength of your arm, Griefer. Make them pay in blood.” The clang and ring of rattling weapons—Grozka’s preferred sign of approval and respect—followed them into the entrance to the fourth floor.
Mac’s blurry form was waiting for him on the other side of the archway, clinging to the ceiling like a deadly shadow. Unlike the previous three floors, the entrance to the fourth wasn’t a staircase, but a maze of claustrophobic dirt tunnels just tall enough for Roark to navigate hunched over. Now and again he felt the cool, pebbled hide of the Elite Salamander bump against his shoulders from overhead as they proceeded. No torchlight flickered there. The only illumination came from colonies of green bioluminescent fungi lining the walls and the occasional Infernal shrine spattered with blood and glowing a soft purple.
Zyra stalked ahead, pointing out pit traps and checking around blind corners for ambushes.
On Roark’s first trip through this maze, he’d seen several sullen Dread Reavers and hungry-looking Elemental Thursrs glowering at them from shadowy alcoves. This time Zyra led them down empty corridors and in deliberately convoluted paths to navigate around any of the would-be assassins. Though the feeling of having a target painted on his back intensified the farther into the fourth floor Roark went, they made it to the place where several tunnels came together in a wide intersection without being attacked. Here the ceilings were high enough that Roark could stand up straight with room left to stretch his arms overhead.
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