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Civil War Page 24

by James A. Hunter


  That could come in handy. As he stood up from the sacrificial altar, the sacrificed Thursr disappeared and an ascending chime rang out. Two of them, as a matter of fact.

  [LEVEL UP!]

  Instead of the familiar golden light shining from his skin, however, a cloud of purple smoke sizzling with arcs of cobalt electricity engulfed him. War drums beat at the air with a pulsing, driving song of might, and the room filled with the stench of fiery slag. The violet tattoos up and down his ghostly pale body glowed from within as his arms and legs stretched and lengthened. Infernal power coursed through veins that stood out in his forearms making the flat straps of wiry muscle contract. His jaws creaked as his serrated canines grew into a set of two-inch-long fangs.

  The twisted, stumpy flaps protruding from his back swelled and stretched until they were nearly as long as he was tall, then strained open, catching an eerie gust of wind. Roark could feel it caressing the leathery appendages, cool and comforting. With an effort of will, he moved the wings, slapping at the draft, but they weren’t strong enough to lift him from the floor.

  Yet.

  As the smoke dissipated, the information for his newest Jotnar spell appeared on a page of his mystic grimoire.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Infernal Temptation

  Targeted Charm Spell

  Range: 60 feet or hearing distance

  Casting Time: Instant

  Casting Cost: 12% Base Magicka

  Infernal Temptation fills the target with the desire to serve only the honeyed voice of the caster, enslaving targets up to caster’s Intelligence level to the caster’s will for as long as caster maintains concentration or until the target can no longer hear the caster.

  Note: Infernal Temptation has a 50% chance to disrupt concentration-based spells.

  Note: Divine creatures are invulnerable to Infernal spells.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Roark dismissed the page and looked around the throne room at the former Overseer’s honor guard.

  The Reaver Champions were staring in awe at him.

  Roark ignored them for the moment, focusing instead on Macaroni. Like Roark, the vicious little beast had changed, evolved, though the creature before him looked nothing like the Hellbender he’d been expecting to find. He eyed his transformed friend for a moment and a spidery line of text briefly flared over Mac’s head: [Young Turtle Dragon]. It seemed that Trolls weren’t the only infernal creatures that could delay evolution in order to unlock better, more potent forms. That would certainly explain why it had taken the creature so long to evolve. The clever little beast—who wasn’t so little now—had been biding his time.

  Truthfully, he no longer looked like a salamander at all. Mac’s body was still squat and low to the earth, but a gigantic shell—equal parts snapping turtle and armadillo—of dark, ever-shifting color now covered his back. Powerful limbs protruded from beneath the shell, wicked obsidian talons adorning each foot, and his fat-padded tail had given way to a sleek reptilian appendage with a strange scorpion stinger on the end. At a glance, that tail reminded Roark of the Manticore’s tail; he wondered if a Young Turtle Dragon was the Infernal equivalent of the divine beast he’d summoned with his scroll.

  Mac’s head had likewise lost its flat, oval shape; in its place was a bearded serpentine face that looked surprisingly dragon-like. Equal parts turtle and dragon as the name implied. But then a long sticky tongue flashed out, licking at a round eyeball that was strangely out of synch with the other eye. Roark chuckled. The beast was definitely still Mac.

  The huge creature—twice the size of his former evolution—trundled over to Roark, impossibly silent as he moved, and batted Roark’s leg with his blocky head. Nuzzling him. Roark reached down and scratched at the beast’s extended neck.

  Mac offered a chorus of familiar cooing chirps in response.

  Roark patted the newly minted Turtle Dragon once more, then turned his gaze on Splatch’s remaining honor guard. Four of the Champions dropped their weapons and fell to one knee, bowing their heads in acknowledgement of his new position over them. But the fifth and final one straightened his back defiantly, glaring back at Roark, a matched set of glinting War Hatchets poised for attack.

  THIRTY-TWO:

  Hexorcist

  “Do you submit to me as Overseer?” Roark asked the rebellious Reaver Champion. If he needed to fight, there would be no better time than now, and he could sacrifice the Reaver on the sacrificial altar for the Constitution boost. It would be both efficient and advantageous.

  The Champion’s black eyes narrowed, fists tightening on the hilts of the hatchets until the crude handles creaked. A snarl curled the Champion’s lips. His soft leather boots gritted against the floor as he took a step toward Roark.

  Smiling, Roark reached for his rapier and dagger—both of which had grown with him. But with a puff of smoke, Zyra stepped out of the shadows behind the Champion.

  “I wouldn’t,” she said, pressing a Cursed Longknife to the Champion’s throat and another to his crotch.

  With a grunt, the Champion sheathed his hatchets. Zyra backed away.

  “Fine.” The Champion knelt on the dirt floor. “I submit.”

  “Good,” Roark said, hoping his disappointment didn’t show. He returned his rapier and dagger to his belt. “Anyone who can’t stomach my leadership is free to leave the citadel, but I’m afraid I can’t let you run down to the fifth floor and rejoin Azibek’s ranks. Make your decision before I finish altering the floor layout down here.”

  With that bit of business laid bare, Roark returned to the altar. Mac plodded over to the Hellbender’s corpse and flipped it onto its side with a powerful heave of his blocky head. He pawed at the soft underbelly with his talons, clearly trying to get to something, but unable to do so. Realizing what the salamander was after, Roark knelt and harvested the Hellbender’s heart, then tossed the spongy tidbit to him. Mac snapped it up and chirped gratefully, finally satisfied.

  “You deserve it, mate,” Roark said, slapping Mac’s new shell with his oversized hand.

  Zyra appeared at Roark’s side as he turned back to the altar.

  “Congratulations on the evolution.” Her hood moved slowly up and then down. Roark couldn’t see her face, but he felt sure she was evaluating his new form. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she crossed her arms. “You should have sacrificed that Champion as a warning to any of them thinking of turning on you ... Azibek would have.”

  “I’m not Azibek,” Roark replied with a shrug. The fact that he had considered doing as much was troubling enough. He didn’t need encouragement to act the despot at every turn from Zyra, too—not when he was having enough trouble keeping his humanity intact. He sighed in frustration. “Bloody hells, I need Kaz here to raise ethical objections to everything you say.”

  “Because part of you agrees with me.”

  “Not the better part of me,” he said, trying not to eye the way the snowy white ringlets spilling from the depths of her hood lay against the curve of her breast. The sweet, earthy scent of those deadly coquelicot blossoms played in his nose.

  With a start, he remembered his trip to the marketplace.

  “I nearly forgot.” He retrieved the Alchemy tome and held it out to Zyra. “This is for you.”

  She regarded the book with her usual suspicion of gifts.

  “Is this to distract me from questioning every bad decision you make?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Is it working?”

  “Yes.” She snatched it out of his hand. “But only because it’s one I’ve been wanting to read.”

  Roark grinned and left her to it.

  He was excited to scope out the new options available to him as the fourth-floor Overseer, but he decided to take care of his personal business first. He pulled up his mystic grimoire and selected his character page. He noticed immediately that he had a new message waiting for him.

  [You have unlocked the .error (): WϪRL0CҞ Class Speci
alty: Hexorcist!

  Hexorcists have tinkered too long and too intensely with the dark power of Curses! and as a result, have become Cursed themselves! Yet the Hexorcist is ingenious and clever, twisting the power of their own cursed nature in their favor, extracting ever greater devastation and vengeance against any who would stand against them! Hexorcists gain an additional 10% Experience from all enemies slain with a cursed item. All Curses! do 2n (where n is the character’s Cursed! skill level) more damage upon activation. As a Hexorcist, for every item you inscribe with a Curse, Cursed! will now extract a share of your Infernali Magick equal to your Enchanting level x .5 your character level. Additionally, Hexorcists gain access to the Cursed Spells Hex-Touch, Hex-Aura, and Hex-Armor, which can be inscribed in your grimoire as regular spells!

  Warning: Players can only have (1) Class Specialty, are you sure you would like to add Hexorcist? Yes/No?]

  With a furrowed brow, Roark read over the class description once, then twice, then a third time.

  If he understood correctly, this new class had no real downside—save that it would limit him from selecting another class specialization in the future. And the benefits were legion. Not only would he deal more damage with his cursed items, but he’d gain additional Experience with each kill. Perhaps best of all, it lowered the cost of creating cursed items and instead of paying the price of the Curse in Health, he could pay from his plentiful pool of Magick. Even if the new spells he’d gained access to—Hex-Touch, Hex-Aura, and Hex-Armor—were utterly useless, this was still too good an opportunity to pass up.

  He quickly selected yes, then pulled up his grimoire page, scanning the list of available spells until he found the new additions:

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Hex-Touch

  Lay hands on any enemy and trigger Hex-Touch; any creature with an Intelligence score lower than the caster is Cursed! for the duration of the spell. Hex-Touch inflicts a -10 against (1) Attribute Score—Strength, Constitution, Dexterity, Intelligence—of the caster’s choice for the duration of the spell! If the enemy dies while Cursed!, caster receives an additional 10% Experience! Hex-Touch can be inscribed in a second level, third level, or fourth level spell slot. Inscribing Hex-Touch at higher-level spell slots increases the duration of the Curse! Second level spell duration, 10 minutes. Third level spell duration, 1 hour. Fourth level spell duration, 8 hours.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Hex-Aura

  Those who would dare lash out at the Hexorcist best be ready to taste the sting of Cursed! retribution. The caster emits a 30-foot-radius aura, which moves with them for the duration of the spell and affects all allies in the area. Enemies take .5n Damage (where n equals character level of the Attacker) when they deal physical melee damage to those protected by Hex-Aura. Hex-Aura is a level 2 spell and can only be inscribed in level 2 spell slots; Duration, 2 minutes.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Hex-Armor

  Hexorcists are wily, cunning, and just as willing to embrace Curses as dish them out! You Curse! yourself, causing your Infernali Magick to absorb damage instead of your Health for the duration of the spell! But Hex-Armor also inflicts a -5 against your Constitution score for the duration of the spell! Hex-Aura is a level 2 spell and can only be inscribed in level 2 spell slots; Duration, 10 minutes.

  ╠═╦╬╧╪

  Roark nearly cackled in mad glee. This new class fit him as perfectly as a custom-cobbled pair of boots. All three new Cursed! based spells would be deadly effective in their own way, and the bonuses from the class itself were impressive. He closed out of the Skills section, pulled up his character screen once more, and distributed his point allotment—twenty in total, since he’d leveled up twice thanks to his tussle with Splatch. He dropped ten points into Intelligence, six into Dexterity, two into Constitution, and the remaining two into Strength.

  Brilliant.

  Supremely satisfied, he closed out of his character page and crouched down beside the altar, pressing his hands against the gore-splattered surface, calling up the Overseer’s Grimoire. The floating book appeared in the air before him, and he turned to the familiar Floor Design page, scanning the new options. Here, he had four hundred points to play with as opposed to the hundred available on the first floor.

  The traps caught his eye first. Though it seemed that Splatch had favored pit traps over all else, there were poisoned explosions, chests that turned into ravenous Infernal monsters when opened, cubes of gelatinous material that would hold the triggering party fast while suffocating them, disorienting miasmas, and a multitude of other brutal deterrents. Far greater diversity than he had access to as the first-floor Overseer. He rubbed his hands together and set to work.

  After some playing with the tunnel system—tweaking it to achieve maximum efficiency and subtracting the redundant passages—he removed the pit traps between the third-floor nave and his new fourth-floor throne room. It would be a waste to accidentally take out his own allied Trolls. Those changes left him with a decent hundred and thirty-one points. Roark spent the first fifty lining the tunnels closest to the fifth floor with nasty surprises for Azibek’s supporters. They would pay a hefty butcher’s bill for any incursions now.

  With that done, he turned to the room options. A grin broke across his face as he added an Alchemy laboratory in a little out of the way tunnel for Zyra. When it appeared on the layout, he filled the miniature rendering with shelves of ingredients and tables covered in flasks, beakers, mortars and pestles, and flame pans.

  Next, he added a barracks of sorts. Infernal chimeras didn’t seem to sleep, but he added beds anyway, so the Trolls under his leadership would have a place to relax, and coupled each one with a storage chest for their treasured belongings.

  After that, he added a series of training grounds, which sprouted from the central tunnel system like the roots of a sprawling oak—melee combat here, stealth there, archery and ranged weapons in another—and filled them with the necessary dummies, targets, and equipment.

  With all the necessities taken care of, he had just fifteen points left. He selected the tunnel where Zyra’s new Alchemy lab sat and added himself a study just across the way. The last five points went to bookshelves and a desk. It was small, but more than enough space to suit his purposes. After all, how much room did a man need to read?

  Roark accepted the changes and closed out of the Overseer’s Grimoire. Zyra was leaning against a nearby wall, paging through her Alchemy tome. He crossed over to her.

  “How is it?”

  “Deadly,” she said, a sinister enthusiasm in her dusky voice. “I love it.”

  Roark pasted a thoughtful frown on his face. “Set it aside for a moment, will you? I have something I need your opinion on.”

  He led the Elite Reaver out of the throne room, through the tunnels. Though she’d put the book away, Zyra seemed enthralled with thoughts of malicious poisons and potions. She didn’t speak as they walked, and Roark didn’t make any effort to draw her out. It would be better if she were distracted.

  “Here,” he said as they came to one of the freshly installed doorways. He gestured for her to precede him inside.

  Zyra stopped on the threshold as if she’d been hit with a Paralyze spell.

  “Is this …” Her voice came out an awed whisper.

  “Yours? Yes.”

  She took a hesitant step forward, her dark fingertips tracing a rack of flasks, then turned to inspect a shelf filled with various flowers and chemical salts. She tested the weight of a pestle. Lit a tiny fire pan beneath a beaker and watched the teal liquid inside boil.

  She looked like a street urchin given her first real present—utterly beautiful and yet somehow faintly sad. Roark’s heart ached in his chest watching her.

  “I’m hoping you’ll keep us stocked with more Health potions and virulent poisons than our enemies can possibly combat,” Roark said, stepping into the laboratory behind her. “It’s just another scheme in my endless conniving.”

&n
bsp; Zyra whirled as if only just now remembering that he was there. Before he could move to defend himself, the hooded assassin disappeared in a curl of inky black smoke and reappeared at his side. Her dark hand clasped his with a ferocity that said everything she couldn’t.

  THIRTY-THREE:

  Chain of Command

  Well, this was simply disastrous. This whole dungeon situation was spinning wildly out of control. Over in the Vault of the Radiant Shield, he now counted twenty-three prime anomalies, all led by a modding player called “Lowen.” They’d captured three floors, which was no small feat considering the difficulty tier of the Vault of the Radiant Shield, though there was at least one small silver lining there: no secondary anomalies. Assuming Randy could figure out how to quarantine the prime anomalies—which, admittedly, he hadn’t accomplished yet—he could lock down the entire dungeon.

  No, the bigger threat was the Cruel Citadel, which Randy had taken to calling the Rogue Dungeon around the office. There was still only the single primary anomaly, Roark the Griefer, but the secondary anomalies were spreading like wildfire. This Roark had corrupted over half the dungeon with his bad code. Changing scripts, altering floor plans in unconventional ways, even recruiting more NPC skill trainers. And now he’d captured the fourth-loor Overseer position. And he’d done it at an exceptional speed by bending the game mechanics in a way they were never made to bend.

  The modder had even managed to unlock a new class. Hexorcist? What?

  At this rate, he would capture the entire Cruel Citadel in a matter of weeks at best, and when he did, the entire dungeon would become a secondary anomaly. And then what? Would the virus spread? Randy pursed his lips and shook his head. He had no idea. He’d never seen anything like this. There was simply no precedent for it.

 

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