The lash shot out, its five half-moon blades whistling and tinkling through the air, and slammed into the Reaver Champion’s cheek and forehead. They tore away, taking half the Champion’s face with them, leaving behind a grinning, leaking mess.
More ice javelins sank into Roark’s gut and back, obviously fired by multiple Shamans, but he barely felt their frozen touch. He whipped the lash at the Champion again. She tried to duck and roll, but the sucking mud pit held her fast. The lash tore away a chunk of her shoulder, dropping her Health bar into the flashing zone. One more hit and she would be finished.
Roark cocked back his arm and slung the lash at the Champion. The blades tinkled against one another musically as they described a perfect arc through the air. The mud pit vanished. The Champion leapt to her feet, diving inside the reach of the five-tailed whip, and sprinted at Roark, daggers raised and ready to kill. Roark jerked at the lash’s handle, ripping the tails back toward himself and the Champion. The half-moon blades sank into her back with meaty thuds, but the impact drove her into Roark. Her daggers tore into his chest and damaged left arm, draining away all but a sliver of the red liquid in his filigreed Health vial. It sat in the corner of his vision, flashing frantically.
But the lash had done its work and done it well.
The Champion slid down Roark’s chest, dead. Roark spun around, determined anger filling every corner of his mind, pulsing in time with the bloody aura surrounding him, in time with his flashing Health vial. Some faraway part of his mind tried to tell him to do something about that, but the majority of him paid no attention. It was time to kill some traitor Shamans.
Roark whipped the lash at the cackling, gangly Shaman in the corner. The blades cracked and slammed together at the end of their reach, just shy of slicing off the Shaman’s nose.
“Behind Roark!” Kaz shouted, desperation in his voice.
Still slowed by the multiple ice javelins he’d taken, Roark tried to throw up an Infernal shield behind him with his injured arm rather than turn around, but a line of text disrupted the spell.
[Your left arm has been injured! You cannot equip two-handed items, cast two-handed spells, or equip single-handed items, spells, or spell books in your left hand for 11 seconds.]
Understanding the message was almost impossible through the haze of anger. Before he could finish reading it, a Spray of Fire slammed into his back, courtesy of another Shaman. His Health wavered on the edge of death, and Roark felt outrage pulsing through his veins at the prospect.
Sufficient Health Potion.
The single clear thought managed to break through the blood rage enveloping him like a cloud. He grabbed his final bottle of the disgusting concoction out of his Inventory, raising it with galling lethargy. Ahead, he saw the javelin-firing Shaman cock her arm back, a blue glow building in her palm. He wasn’t going to get the potion to his lips in time to beat her spell. The gangly arm shot out, ice javelin whistling through the air at his chest. He tried to dodge, but knew he was never going to make it out of the way before the javelin landed and finished him off.
“No!” Kaz shouted, diving in front of Roark.
The icy spike impaled the Brute Thursr, tearing away the last bit of red from his Health bar instead of Roark’s. Kaz slammed into the floor, skidding a bit before coming to a halt at Roark’s feet, his wide onyx eyes glazed over with death.
Roark downed the Sufficient Health Potion, refilling his filigreed vial to nearly half. The bloody aura disappeared as his injuries healed themselves.
Just beyond the curve of the potion bottle, he saw the Shaman rearing back for another shot. Mac appeared out of nowhere, leaping off the wall behind the Shaman and driving his scorpion-tipped tail directly into her throat. At the same moment, a puff of inky smoke erupted beside the Turtle Dragon and Zyra stepped out of it, dicing the gangly Shaman with her poisoned blades. Together, she and Mac danced through the Shaman’s Health as if it were nothing.
Roark left them to finish off that one and turned back to the Reaver who’d shot the Spray of Fire at him. With his left arm mended, he could access his Infernal spells once more.
Briefly, he considered pulling out a cursed head and blasting the Reaver to pieces in one fell swoop. But no. That was too quick. Too painless.
As the slowing effect of the last ice javelin wore off, Roark whipped the Lash of the Waning Blood Moon at the scuttling Shaman. Its many blades wedged in the Shaman’s back, and Roark yanked it toward him, jerking her from her bare feet. As she slammed into the floor, Roark poured Infernal Torment into her. Plum-colored flames licked through her indigo flesh, and she rolled around the flagstones screaming. The purple in Roark’s Infernal Magick vial drained as he pumped the spell into the Shaman, but he didn’t stop or break eye contact with the turncoat until her corpse lay perfectly still and silent.
“Griefer, behind you!” Zyra’s leather-wrapped hand flashed out, a pair of the flechettes he’d made her flying past Roark’s side.
Roark spun, following their flight and whipping the lash around with him. The flechettes imbedded themselves into a wall of nothingness, followed by Roark’s whip as it wrapped around the invisible thing. Blood and gore splattered as the whip’s blades imbedded themselves in unseen flesh.
A reedy male voice screamed, and a level 19 Deadly Cutthroat suddenly appeared at the center of the whipcord. Roark scowled and burned this one alive in Infernal Torment, too. A few moments later, the Cutthroat’s body dropped to the floor, crackling merrily with the final tongues of plum-colored flame.
The last of the heroes and the traitors were dead.
THIRTY-SEVEN:
Sage Advice
“Well?” Roark turned to Zyra, gesturing from Kaz’s fallen corpse to the bodies of Azibek’s supporters strewn around the antechamber. The result of his Feet of Clay quest. “Are you going to say you told me so?”
Her hood shook slowly from side to side. “It’s not any fun to kick someone while they’re down if they’re already kicking themselves.”
Mac bumped against Roark’s leg, nearly knocking him down, and his sticky black tongue shot out to lick Roark’s hand. The Turtle Dragon nudged Roark’s hand with his noseless face until Roark scratched at the neck behind his scaly head.
Roark took a deep breath and blew it out.
“Thanks for coming to my rescue,” he told Zyra. “How did you know? Your shift downstairs isn’t up for another few hours.”
“I was on my way up to bring you these.” She tossed him a trio of newly mixed Modest Health Potions. “Macaroni found me and practically dragged me up the stairs.”
“Canny beast,” Roark mumbled, thumping Mac affectionately on his padded side. He stored the potions, then nodded at Zyra. “Since you’re already upstairs, care to help me loot these?”
“Better than going back down,” she said, stooping by the Shaman she and Mac had killed. “Azibek hasn’t thrown anything at us for hours. Probably waiting to hear back from his team of assassins.”
They spent the next several minutes combing through the corpses. The heroes had left behind an assortment of things, from herbs to Enchanted Daggers to PwnrBwner’s Gauntlets of Waxing Strength. There was even a Carved Ebony Wand with an assortment of second-, third-, and fourth-level spell slots. Roark’s guilty conscience briefly considered passing the wand on to another Magick-favoring Troll, but ultimately decided he couldn’t afford the luxury of guilt while he was leading this war. He would keep the Ebony and pass on the Plain Maple Wand instead, he decided as he moved to the next corpse.
The enemy Trolls didn’t seem to have much more than the weapons and armor Roark had given them, and for some reason this made the cold fury in his gut roil. Did he even have any right to be mad at the poor bastards? If there was such a thing as poverty among Infernal chimeras, then these high-level Trolls were living in the thick of it. Killing him had just been another attempt to survive down here. As Griff had said, they didn’t call it the Cruel Citadel because it was a nice pl
ace to settle down and raise a family.
When the final corpse was looted, Zyra straightened up and slapped her hands together as if to clear away unwanted dust.
“Coming back downstairs, Griefer? I could walk you to your study.”
“I doubt I need an escort,” he said without thinking. “Azibek can’t have had time to send up another team of assassins already.”
Zyra’s hood dipped as if she were staring down at the floor. “Obviously any one of the Mugwumps could be an assassin waiting for their orders. But if you’d rather get killed on the stairs or finished off in the tunnels, then by all means, in your infinite Jotnar wisdom, walk alone.”
Was it just his imagination or did she sound defensive? The razor’s edge usually in her voice was gone and in its place was something almost flustered. Even … embarrassed?
By the time Roark realized her offer to walk with him hadn’t had anything to do with her usual paranoia, she was already breezing toward the corridor to the throne room. Idiot. He could’ve kicked himself.
“Zyra, wait.”
She stopped in the doorway. “Yes, Lord Overseer?”
“I have some things I need to take care of up here first.” Roark found his gaze drawn back to Kaz’s still corpse. “Otherwise, I would’ve taken you up on your offer. I could always use your protection.”
Her rigid shoulders lowered a bit at that.
“Next time, then,” she said.
“Definitely.”
After the hooded Reaver disappeared downstairs, Roark headed to the smithy with Mac in tow. Kaz would respawn in two hours, Roark knew. This wasn’t forever-death, but it was a death his friend had suffered on his behalf, and the thought ate away at him. With all the Blacksmithing, Enchanting, and Tailoring levels Roark had accrued, it seemed beyond reason that Kaz—a Brute Thursr fully outfitted in armor Roark had made—had been killed. There had to be a solution, and Roark didn’t intend to leave the smithy until he’d found it.
He was still there an hour later when Griff popped his head in.
“Been lookin’ for you,” the grizzled old trainer said, sidling into the hot chamber. “About my short sword …”
“Right.” Roark pulled out the battle-scarred blade. “I wasn’t able to grind out any of the notches, but I did manage to Repair and Improve it to Faultless quality.”
Griff took the sword, smiling. “I think she looks her best with a few scars. We’ve lasted this long, her and me, and we ain’t gettin’ any prettier. We show our age here and there, but we keep on a-kickin’.”
Nodding, Roark turned back to the Gauntlets of Waxing Strength he’d taken from PwnrBwner_OG’s corpse and selected Destroy this item to learn its enchantment. Unlike the Unique Rose Mace of Thorn Tethers, the gauntlets’ Enchantment was not Divinely aligned. With the sound of breaking glass and a flash of golden light, Increased Strength appeared in his mystic grimoire under Enchanting Skills.
[Congratulations, you have leveled up your Enchanting Trade Skill to Level 8! You may now learn Enchantments from Indestructible and Bestowed weapons!]
It was the notice Roark had been waiting for. He pulled out the Lash of the Waning Blood Moon, tossed it onto the Enchanting table with all the gentle care and reverence befitting a gift meant to tie him to a bloody tyrant, and triggered the sigils that usually destroyed items for their Enchantment.
This time, however, the sound of breaking glass was replaced with the ring of a hammer on an anvil. Golden light flashed and the Enchantment for Blood Rage appeared in his grimoire.
Finally feeling as if he were making some progress, he pulled out the enormous pair of Faultless Obsidian Natagamas he’d forged. Their black hooked blades caught the firelight and sparkled threateningly. Then he selected the pair of Flawed Opals he’d saved back—one from griefing and one from a destroyed katana. They enhanced Damage-based Enchantments, perfect for the Blood Rage, which allowed the wielder to take half damage while inflicting two times as much damage per hit whenever their Health dropped below a certain level.
With the engraver’s awl, Roark worked the containment script into the handle of each natagama, then added a hash-marked crescent, a rune called Aryu. Combined with the opal and set into the weapon, Aryu would multiply the efficacy of Blood Rage. Roark chiseled the setting for the opals, then engraved each divot with the binding rune, Yasuc. Then he pressed each opal into its setting until the flash of amber light let him know the gem and weapon had become a single item, inseparable outside of complete destruction of either the gems or the weapon.
He held up one natagama to inspect his work.
╠═╦╬╧╪
Faultless Obsidian Natagama of the Rage Blackout
Damage: 43 - 59
Durability: 63 of 66
Level Requirement: 10
Dexterity Requirement: 28
Constitution Requirement: 42
Blade Class Weapon – Enchanted
When wielder’s Health drops below 15%, wielder goes into a blood rage, dealing 2x damage to opponents while taking 50% damage.
╠═╦╬╧╪
“Fifteen percent?” Roark cursed under his breath. By the time Kaz got down to fifteen percent Health, the reduction in damage would hardly help him. There was nothing for it. He would just have to level some more and try again later. He tossed the hooked blade back down on the Enchanting table, thinking he might as well get those opals back.
“Somethin’ on your mind, Griefer?”
Griff’s rough voice startled Roark out of his tunneled focus. He hadn’t realized the man was still there.
“You just seem to be a Troll on a mission,” the old fighter said, shrugging one shoulder. “Might be that sharin’ the big idea around would make the work go easier.”
A denial was on the tip of Roark’s tongue.
“Mai said Kaz would be respawnin’ after a while,” Griff continued before Roark could speak, skewering him with his one good eye. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that, now would it?”
With a sigh, Roark ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair. He didn’t want to explain this to the grizzled trainer—wasn’t even sure he knew how. And yet it felt as if Griff might be the only one who might be able to understand. Suddenly, his mind seized upon something the old man had said what felt like ages ago.
“Did you know Mai’s husband very well?”
Griff scratched his whiskered jaw. “We were never close, but he was a good lad. Did his best by her. That’s all I coulda asked of him.”
“But he died. Forever.”
“Aye, it’s true, but a man can’t hold that against him.”
Roark shook his head. “What I mean is … Have you had any other friends who’ve died forever?”
“A fair few,” the trainer said, cocking his head suspiciously.
“Where I come from—originally—there are no respawns,” Roark said, stumbling over the words as he tried to collect his thoughts into some semblance of order. “Not for anyone. Every death is forever. I’ve seen more than a few people I cared about murdered. Hells, my whole family. And after them, my first—” Danella’s sharp blue eyes flashed through his mind, accompanied by the word for all the ecstatic, childish feelings he’d had for the golden-haired thief. He traded it for something less melodramatic. “—my friend. Eventually, I got smart enough to stop making friends or forming any kind of attachments other than ones I could leverage to get closer to killing the man who’d caused all this death.”
“’Cause if you don’t have nothin’, you can’t have nothin’ stolen away,” Griff offered.
Roark nodded. He wished the old man would look somewhere else for a moment. It felt as if Griff could see too much of what Roark wasn’t saying.
“Kaz is the first friend I’ve had in years.” Roark looked down at the natagamas gleaming in the firelight. “He’ll respawn. This time. But what if next time he doesn’t?”
Griff pursed his scarred lips and moved his jaw as if he were chewing this ove
r.
Finally, he asked, “Think you coulda saved your family, Griefer?”
“No.” Roark had never had any illusions about that. He’d been a child, untrained and vastly outnumbered, lucky just to escape with his life.
“What about your friend?”
“If I’d been with her, yes.” From what he’d learned after finding her, Danella had been hung for pickpocketing an Ustar captain. Together, the two of them had done plenty worse than that and always gotten away safely.
“So now you think if you can fancy up a weapon strong enough, you’ll be protectin’ Kaz just in case he runs into something that can kill him forever-dead. Well, let me tell you somethin’ all us old folk know.” Griff’s eye seemed to stare into both of Roark’s as he grabbed Roark’s shoulder with one scarred, gnarled hand. “You can’t craft a weapon strong enough to stop death. You can shut people out all you like, but that don’t work, either. There’ll always be somebody like Mai or Kaz come along and screw up all your smart plans of being a one-man army. It’s just their nature. You gotta learn to protect ’em when you can and let ’em go when it’s their time.”
Roark frowned.
“That wasn’t what you were wantin’ to hear,” Griff said, slapping him on the shoulder. “But I ain’t here to tell you pretty lies, Griefer. It is what it is. The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can get on with learnin’ to live through it. Because let me tell you somethin’ else all us old folk know: endin’ up alone ain’t worth the price, but the Mais and Kazs out there are.”
After a few moments considering this, Roark nodded.
“Azibek is one thing I can protect them from. I just have to figure out how.” He raised an eyebrow at Griff. “I don’t suppose you old folks know any secrets about how to defeat a Troll several times my level in single combat?”
Griff tugged at his bristly chin. “Given the level difference, seems smarter to avoid single combat at all costs. Ain’t there any way around fightin’ him one-on-one?”
Civil War Page 28