Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  Woodland Troll Corpse (level 11)

  Parts Missing: 0%

  Spoils in 122 hours (chilled)

  Only level eleven. A scout.

  Rowan sipped a refreshing breath. His gaze swept tall grass covered with a sheen of white, finding no other Troll. A single scout. Why couldn’t they just leave this tiny corner of the world alone for the time being? Meteors were still falling. So greedy of them.

  Rowan asked, “How long has it been dead?”

  Zaine, the lone guard for the previous night, answered, “Since an hour after dawn.”

  And it was ten minutes before seven right now. Their camp had to be growing suspicious. Not good. “Did it ask for tribute?”

  “Every last Soul Crystal—by order of the Troll King.” The tone he spat was hateful.

  Someone yawned behind. Skylar. “What happe— Whoah. Dead Troll.”

  “This isn’t good,” Viola said as she walked near. “They must have a new base nearby. The next closest is like seventy miles away.”

  Obviously.

  “Don’t remind me of their towns,” Zaine said. “Places of horror.”

  “I’d say. I couldn’t tell if the roads were muddy or littered with—” Skylar made a gagging expression.

  Malice darkened Rowan’s thoughts. He hissed, “Butcher it.”

  It took them a moment to understand he was being serious.

  “What?” Viola whispered. “Are you going to make us eat—”

  “No, just butcher it and tie the skeleton to the watch tower. Can you do that?”

  Her eyes enlarged to comical proportions. “Okay, Lord LeMort.”

  Skylar asked, “And what shall we do with the meat?”

  “Compost it, unless you have other ideas.”

  Zaine coldly said, “The tusks are quite durable. The skin makes poor leather, however.”

  “Ewww.” Viola’s posture angled away. “I’m not wearing that.”

  “Neither.” Who would want to clean dirty, fecal-stained leather? Absolutely vomit-inducing. These disgusting Trolls had caused everyone enough trouble. Their time was nearing, a great purge for the ages. The old would have to burn before the new could take root in these rich lands.

  Leaving them to work and make morning small talk, Rowan strode through the thawing grass toward the Town Hall at the center of the the base next to the Storeroom, the largest building by far at ten yards wide and fifteen long, larger than the minimum requirements even though it was temporary. Liluth had gone an extra yard and then some. No issue. Wood, and most building materials, can be easily recycled with magic.

  Inside, Luthias was smoothing out the last touches on a pillar of gold with Smelt. Well, calling that one foot tall cylinder a pillar was a lie. But it was pure gold, more than Rowan had ever seen or held. That one cylinder alone could be enough to buy a small house and car for Gabrielle and himself—if he were able to smuggle it into the real world. Maybe one day when technology was sufficiently advanced.

  In a splitting of fiery reddish-white light, Gabrielle appeared at the hall’s other end—a Demonic login effect. “I’m back!”

  An irrational voice in a far corner of Rowan’s mind had suggested she’d abandoned him. Stupid. “Hey. What was it about?”

  “Oh, one of the community managers wanted to talk to me about Tasha.”

  A surprise. “Why?”

  “If she feels singled out or anything, they may offer to change her character name and appearance.”

  He frowned. “That doesn’t sound fair. Any asshole could say they feel singled out. We could say that. We’re bloody wanted.”

  “Heh. That’s what I said.”

  “What did they say in response?”

  She tapped her chin twice. “That… they took that point into account, which is why the game designers are still debating. It probably won’t happen.”

  Still debating. Total incompetency. The super-intelligent AI could probably do a better job without their interference. How much were they being paid to waste time?

  Luthias glanced over his shoulder. “Are you talking about the creators?”

  “Yeah, those dickheads.”

  “Hehehe. Yup, and I asked about your dead family for ya.”

  Those slightly wrinkled Elven eyes lit up. “Do they bestow mercy upon me? I have tried my fullest to live righteously. Have my good deeds pleased them?”

  Rowan was almost guilty to lay the truth on him: “Look, man. They don’t care how you’ve lived your life. This entire world is just a game to them. They could erase you without a shred of remorse.”

  Those words struck Luthias harder than they should have, his legs stepping backward, his mouth hanging. Poor guy. But those were some nice pearly teeth, no crowding or unsightly gaps. Perhaps not so poor.

  Gabrielle poked Rowan’s arm. “Awww. Dun be so mean. They care… somewhat.”

  Luthias choked on his spit. “I can take the truth without a coat of sugar.”

  A sarcastic comment lingered on Rowan’s tongue. He roped it back into his stomach.

  Gabrielle said, “The community manager, Beth, said she was going to pass my suggestions to the designers.” She offered a jovial smile and a thumbs-up. “I have a feeling we’re gonna get a big patch soon. Se hinted at loads of new features comin’ up involving NPCs, which is you guys! That’s not even mentioning an interview they did last month.”

  Luthias’ expression enlivened. “I do not understand all that you said, but this is good news. The gods are kind.”

  “Yup,” Gabrielle said, “they’re nicer than Row thinks by maybe a strawberry or two.”

  Faenin and Liluth were at the door, their slave bindings quivering behind. Liluth said, “I, for one, do not trust the gods. All the gods.” Bitterness warped her tone. “They are tricksters. They are cruel at times. They abandoned our people during multiple times of need.”

  And now wasn’t the time for a pity party. Rowan stepped into a kingly posture. “Alright. Enough chatter. Let’s get on with the dedication. Luthias, is it ready?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Then let’s begin. Now.” Rowan strode toward the cylinder with forceful steps, Gabrielle at his side. His scuffing sandals echoed as every slave thread tightened with a quick sweep—no stupid moves here. No last-minute rebellions. The six statuesque Sun Elves stood in a semicircle before the altar.

  Two blacksteel braziers lit up, flickering shadows darkening Rowan’s pale face, the mithril dagger’s bluish-silver blade glinting, slicing his palm, then Gabrielle’s palm. Blood dripped smeared onto the cylinder, and vaporized into ruddy mist. The air filled with Demonic magic.

  Their crimson eyes shone as gold took on a blood-red hue and morphed like a soft block clay block. Invisible hands shaped it into a skull. Invisible tools carved fine detail: two forward-curved horns; runic markings down the sides; a menacing smile of exaggerated, pointy teeth; and eye sockets set deep above slits for nostrils.

  Abruptly, the magic lost most of its euphoric tinge and took on a gentle overtone of what Rowan could only describe as muted despair. Not his own despair, but an antagonistic despair against his enemies. Against all things. A pulse of this new darkness—pure dark magic—flooded outward from the grinning skull in all directions.

  Draesear’s phantom laugh echoed in Rowan’s ears, the dedication complete.

  Gabrielle pointed at the right side window. “Look. It’s so pretty.”

  His eyes followed. Swaths of grass began changing color into a darker shade of green, the hue on the bluish side, the blades serrated. A pine sapling by the bedrooms was no longer vertical, now twisted and angry, harrowing, as though nature herself had been offended. A watchful eye on its trunk did not blink, staring into the depths of Rowan’s mind, judging his many deeds.

  Corrupted Pine Tree Sapling

  It was done.

  Rowan was pleased with this new look. Well suited for a Demonic kingdom. Dark and gloomy—just how he liked his forests. He asked, “Is T
asha ready to meet up?”

  Gabrielle’s tranced eyes were bubbling with excitement.

  “Hey. Did you hear me?”

  She blinked four times. “Ah… Did ya look at the idol?”

  “Why?” He focused on those grinning teeth.

  Draesear’s Small Gold Idol

  Dedication Progress: 0.12%

  Oh.

  She giggled. “Dummy.”

  Then a beam of inky mana blasted upward from the skull, bypassed the roof, and blackened the sky. Waves of dark magic warred with the landscape; corruption spread at a slug’s crawl, one bush down the meadow warping into a thorny mess, then another, and another. A whole pine contorted.

  Rowan loosened the Elves’ bindings. “Is this supposed to happen?”

  Luthias calmly said, “Yes, but it is more pronounced for dark gods.”

  “How far will the corruption go?” Gabrielle asked.

  “A league for a town hall.”

  Zaine added, “Three for a Keep. Ten for a Stronghold.”

  “And a Castle and Fortress?” Rowan asked.

  Faenin’s breaths settled. He shook away his disgruntlement. “There hasn’t been a dark Castle in recorded history.”

  Rowan smirked. “Well, this may just be the first. You six have done well. Very well.”

  Gabrielle licked her lips. “I knew siding with ya was the right choice! How about a group hug?”

  “I like hugs!” Viola cheered, jumping at the chance.

  While the two girls embraced, and while Skylar and Zaine’s faces were pressed against glass, Liluth’s chin was dipped, her eyes a tad shameful. But exhilaration was in there—a lot of guilty exhilaration ripe for harvest. How could her people take her back now after this? She was finished.

  Luthias spoke up, his voice commanding, “This corrupting beam can be seen for many leagues.”

  Rowan nodded. “Viola. Skylar. Man the watch tower.” He tugged their threads.

  They muttered affirmatives and rushed out the door.

  “Awww,” Gabrielle mumbled. “I wanted to keep hugging. It’s so cold.”

  But Rowan was all business: “Can this mana enrage animals?”

  Luthias’ lips were grim. Instead, Faenin answered, “Apologies. I should have warned you.”

  Exhaling, Rowan wasn’t going to let irritation win over his reptile brain over silly mistakes. “Alright. Defensive positions, everyone. Longbows out.”

  “What about breakfast?” Zaine asked.

  On cue, Faenin’s stomach complained with a grotesque sound.

  Gabrielle perked straight. “Hehe. Of course, we can’t skip out on that.”

  Liluth sighed. “No, we can not. I will help cook.”

  “Yay! Thought I’d be cooking all alone.”

  Rowan did not protest as they hurried off. Fighting on a empty stomach was a disadvantage, and a creeping touch of anxiety urged him to prepare in any way possible. Every last stat point was going to count.

  38

  Three hours.

  The dedication was asking for three hours—no problem. Rowan let his mind dissociate to a limited extent. He saw through necessary calculating eyes; either this was going to be a success or a spectacular failure, and back-up character slots were always ready for the case of failure. He reminded himself: these Elves and bees were just AI, nothing more than data in a computer.

  The first hour passed with little gore and no bloodshed. An easy trickle of enraged animals charged at the base. The defenders held without trouble even on empty stomachs. Bodies of rats, possums, birds, and a lone wolf now piled by the tree line toward the mountain pass. Too bad they weren’t meaty animals.

  The second hour was tougher; waves of enraged, mutated insects rushed at the palisade, including a few spiders. But still nothing which Rowan, standing with the cousins atop the watch tower, could not handle with the town hall’s passive mana boost. His fire burned around the settlement and made for an effective buffer, grass and tree stumps incinerated down to soot.

  Defender’s advantage was making this almost too easy, but he wasn’t overconfidence wasn’t creeping up on him. He understood this settlement was but a baby being delivered. These wooden structures were not impressive compared to that Human town.

  A group mutated scorpions charged at the palisade.

  Letting dark mana flow, Rowan ignited hellfire between his palms and held it for the cousins. They muttered single-word incantations, longbows held at the ready. Snatching portions of flame, orbs of hellfire appeared at the tip of two nocked arrows. Explosive Arrows.

  The scorpions were erased in plumes of black and red. Easy.

  Two minutes before the third hour, Gabrielle climbed up the ladder. Her Shroud was active, a shallow crate hoisted on her ghostly shoulder. Aromas of mushroom-turnip stew seasoned the wind. “Breakfast’s ready!” she sang.

  “About time,” Skylar said ungratefully but not rudely.

  “Mmmm, smells delicious!” Viola said, taking a lidded bowl. She drank greedily.

  Rowan looked into Gabrielle’s cat eyes and found a similar dissociation, but worry was alive and kicking. He assured, “We’ve got this.”

  “We’ve got this, he says.” She smirked. “Why dontcha eat up first? Is there something wrong with my cooking?” She pushed a bowl to him. Cubed deer meat swam with chopped mushrooms, turnips, and plenty of herbs.

  “Your cooking is delicious as always.” Rowan lifted the stew to his lips. “And do these Elves mean that much to you?”

  She smiled merely, waiting for him to drink.

  So he downed seven gulps, not even chewing the liquefying meat. Giant Mole meat also had a characteristic taste, rich and earthy, reminiscent to beef but quite bitter. An acquired taste. He would say it was delicious if he didn’t know this was mole meat. And combined with Gabrielle’s sense of seasoning, this stew was the best he had in weeks. His stomach gurgled in delight, sloshing in happiness and definitely not disgust.

  When the bowl was empty, an expected tomato icon appeared above his health bar.

  Well Fed (412 Quality): +8 Flow, Constitution, and Resistance (6 hours remaining)

  Finally, Gabrielle answered in a horribly insulting impression of his voice, “Yup, they have sentimental value. Like my precious bees.”

  He pinned her with a fierce look, and said loud enough for her ears, “You know, I haven’t officially claimed you as mine, and your body is much more durable in this world.”

  “Officially?”

  “Out here in the lawless wild, there is only one way to make a marriage official. Like in the good old days.”

  “The good old days!” She blushed. She hadn’t blushed in a long time.

  He whispered by her ear, “Once things settle down, I’m building a special dungeon just for you.”

  “Hehehe. If ya say so.” With a hop, she slid down a pole next to the ladder.

  His gaze tracked her toward the embrasures in the palisade. She began chatting with Zaine—likely a pep-talk. The lad was still missing an entire left arm after all. And for a one-handed sword-fighter, he had made it through a dozen insect infestations without taking a single injury. He was a valuable chess piece, more valuable than the bees.

  Rowan steeled his resolve and pushed a jet of hellfire at a suicidal enraged bird, then another and three more. Tufts of blackened ash dispersed into the wind as Skylar gestured for another flame. Rowan gladly obliged.

  Through gaps between his fingers, through smoldering trees, coming from the mountain pass, a dozen Trolls were marching. Knights in steel plowed through corrupted foliage ahead of gowned staff-wielders and Archers in reddish leather. Between the two groups glided a hooded Troll in a bright ivory-silver robe. A sheathed sword was tied at its waist.

  It couldn’t be.

  The Trolls were savages. How could their society train Myrmidons?

  Rowan watched with unblinking eyes, watched their legs move with abrupt swiftness as though a god had pressed fast-forward on the show.
Speed Aura.

  A flock of enraged birds flew over the trolls and swooped down on them in unison. Every Troll Archer pulled back longbows. Two Mages pointed with bent staves. Fire and arrows shredded the flock. Burnt corpses drifted in the wind, falling onto their formation.

  A particularly large bird corpse, on fire, fell toward the silver-robed Troll. In an instant, that sword was drawn—and ignited with fiery blue mana. A sweep of the blade erased the corpse form existence.

  “Holy,” Skylar breathed. “How do they have a Myrmidon?”

  Rowan kept his face stoic, calculating. “Keep up the arrow fire.”

  “Should we start using the iron-heads?”

  “Yeah, at the squishies.” Rowan pumped extra mana into the flame between his fingers. The heat was calming.

  “Not the Myrm?”

  “It can easily dodge.”

  She hummed disagreement but didn’t voice any protest. “Okay, I trust you.”

  Flaming arrows, two by two every second, began arcing through the air at the Troll party. Each round detonated in a mini-fireball over their heads, but to little effect. The Mages simply countered with blasts of water. Steam and smoke clouded the corrupted forest.

  Rowan cut mana to the flame. “Piercing Arrows.”

  “Obviously,” Viola said.

  Skylar saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  The Trolls march onward. They were within two hundred yards. One-ninety. One-eighty. Gods, that Speed Aura was something else. They neared the field of burning stumps.

  Something in the smoke glinted, and faster than Rowan could duck, a sonic arrow darted toward the watch tower.

  Viola didn’t even scream as she fell backward, the arrow in her skull. Her body thumped. Rainbow feathers on the arrow’s shaft flashed twice, and her head exploded in a shower of gore. Blood, bone, and gooey pink flesh splattered Rowan’s face.

  Sun Elf Slave Corpse, Archer (Level 15)

  Parts Missing: Head

  Spoils in 92 hours (chilled)

  Dead.

  Forever dead. Not even a Soul Crystal could revive a headless corpse.

  A hollow numb emotion carved out Rowan’s innards. Viola had been one of the better Elves. She had shone with a cheerful personality rivaling that of Gabrielle’s… but not as crazy. She had been enthusiastic to join his ranks. And just like that, in a heartbeat, she wasn’t coming back.