by J. A. Hunter
I knew at that moment, there was no way to win this fight. None.
I’d come unprepared, and I’d made the same mistake the Imperials had time and time again: I’d underestimated my opponent. I’d assumed Osmark was dangerous as a person, but not necessarily as a player. Well, he’d just taken me to school and taught me how wrong I’d been. So, the only options left here were dying or running. Going out in a blaze of glory might’ve appealed to some, but not me. I wasn’t too proud to admit I’d made a mistake, and dying would only compound that mistake further.
Time to run, then, which is what I should’ve done in the first place.
Shadow Stride was still on cooldown, as was Night Cyclone, but Umbra Bog wasn’t, and I also had one other major trump card: Devil. But I needed to be quick.
I took one deep breath—in through the nose out through the mouth—and dismissed the waning Dark Shield in the same instant I conjured Devil from the Shadowverse. A cloud of smoke erupted in front of me as the Drake appeared, but I was already concentrating on Umbra Bog. I stashed my warhammer and cast the AoE hold spell beneath Osmark’s feet. Black tendrils sprouted from the ground like sickly, oversized tree roots, and they immediately snagged Osmark and any Imperial troops inside a twenty-foot radius.
I could hear the continued buzz of gunfire as the turrets whirled, but now, the bullets and rockets slapped against Devil’s scaly hide instead of mine. The Drake let out a furious roar of challenge, then hunched down, craned his neck forward, and spewed deadly Umbra Flame out in a wide arc. I ignored all that, shuffling over to Devil on bloody feet while everyone else was distracted. Get us out of here, I sent, grabbing onto the reins and pulling myself into the saddle.
The Drake didn’t even bother to respond. He just crouched, let out one more ground-shaking, bone-rattling roar of defiance then broke into a lumbering gait straight toward Osmark. I felt a jerk as his head slammed into something, but then we were in the air, his wings pumping as he carried us above the camp. In a matter of seconds, we were thirty feet up, but instead of heading out, Devil wheeled around, giving me one more view of Osmark. He stared up at me, smug satisfaction oozing off him in waves.
“That’s right, Jack,” he called at me, cupping one hand around his mouth, “run away. Run as far and as fast as you can. But don’t get too comfortable, because we’ll be seeing you again very soon. And then you and I will settle our business properly.”
TWENTY-FIVE_
Calm Before the Storm
I stumbled through the shimmering portal and into the dense tangle of trees on the edge of the Avilynn, wheezing for air, fumbling a Health Regen potion from my belt. The gateway snapped shut behind me with an audible pop, cutting short the cheers echoing from the Imperial camp in the distance. I shuddered thinking about the beating while my cheeks burned with a combination of anger and embarrassment. Osmark had played me like a fiddle. He’d made me look stupid in front of the entire Imperial camp, and had undone weeks and months of hard work.
Rumors about that fight would spread like wildfire, boosting the morale of the Legion while casting an ugly shadow of doubt among our troops.
After all, if I couldn’t beat Osmark one-on-one, what chance did we have against the entire Legion—especially since we were so badly outnumbered?
No. I crushed that line of thought in its tracks. I’d lost a battle, but that was far from losing the war, and we’d set things right at Ravenkirk. And I couldn’t lay the fault entirely at Osmark’s feet. He’d played me, sure, but only because I’d allowed myself to be played. Taking out all of those low-level Imperials had left me feeling cocky, and that’s what Osmark had exploited. I never should’ve let him bait me into that fight—I’d done that, not him, and I needed to own it.
I would own it, and I’d do better in the future. Maybe I couldn’t fix the mess back in the camp, but I’d never underestimate Osmark again.
I popped the cork from the Regen potion and downed the contents, sighing as sweet relief flooded through my system in a wave, repairing burned and lacerated tissue, plus a myriad of other aches and pains. I tossed the bottle into a bush and set off for the town, its lights shining in the night like happy fireflies beckoning me onward. I pulled up my interface as I walked, checked the time—just after three in the morning—then pulled up my Faction Inbox.
It was too late in the game to change our defenses, but the Alliance officers needed to know what I’d seen. I quickly tagged the relevant names—Cutter, Abby, Otto, Forge, Vlad, Chief Kolle, Anton, General Caldwell—then jotted off a quick message:
<<<>>>
Faction Message: Ravenkirk
Emergency Officer meeting at the Ravenkirk Inn. Wrap up whatever you’re doing and be there in fifteen.
—Faction Commander, Grim Jack
<<<>>>
“Halt, who goes there?” came a whip crack voice as I closed out from my interface.
I paused and lifted my hands skyward as a trio of Murk Elf Rangers materialized from the night-brushed landscape like angry ghosts. They wore terrifying bone helms painted with swirling Dokkalfar symbols for strength and honor; each also carried a recurve bow, all of them drawn and trained on me. I knew without a doubt that if there were three I could see, there were three more I couldn’t since Murk Elf patrols typically ran in squads of six—their holy number.
I lifted my face and lowered my hood, and I knew with their racial Night Eye ability it would be next to impossible to miss the Crown of the Jade Lord perched on top of my head.
“Apologies,” the guard said, her words flat and largely unapologetic. The Murk Elves were like that, though. They could apologize to your face while implying by their tone that you were the one in the wrong.
I waved the not-apology away with one hand. “None needed, Ahrak,” I replied, using the Dokkalfar word for worthy guardian. “You’re doing your job. Keep doing it well,” I said, thinking back to how easily we’d managed to infiltrate the Imperial camp. She nodded her reply, and in seconds, the three visible guards vanished, cloaked in Stealth and swallowed by the night as they resumed their patrol of the town’s perimeter. I worked my way through the side streets and toward the Fragile Fiddle.
I shouldered my way through the door and into a mostly abandoned common room.
A welcoming orange fire roared in the stone hearth and our temporary innkeeper, Kether, tended to the bar, polishing glasses with a white rag.
The small platform in the corner, meant for a bard, was empty, and most of the tables were vacant, save for one, which was loaded down with piles of food and good drink. There were meat pies with flaky crusts, thick stews with steam wafting off, plates of hot bread, and turkey legs stacked in a pile. There was even a large batch of apple crisp; the aroma was a combination of tart and cinnamon sweet, which was absolutely mouthwatering.
Anton, Chief Kolle, Cutter, Amara, and Vlad were present—lounging around the table, picking at food without much vigor—but General Caldwell, Otto, and Abby were still absent.
Most of the gathered crew greeted me with wide smiles and friendly hand waves, but Cutter nearly bounded out of his seat with a grin, his gaze brightening. “Bloody hells, is it good to see you, friend. After that row back in the camp, I wasn’t sure you’d get out in time.” He paused, his face growing oddly somber. “The reports aren’t so good, Jack. Four of the crew haven’t reported in—dead probably, though three out of the four will respawn. Neriah, though …” He trailed off, shaking his head, brow furrowed.
It was hard to remember everyone in the Alliance, but it was easy to picture Neriah in my mind. A whip-thin man garbed in dark leathers, wielding a pair of wicked blades, his cowl constantly pulled up to hide his scar-etched face. I’d met him back on my first day in V.G.O.—he’d been standing guard in the Broken Dagger and later helped me and Cutter gain access to the Plague Tunnels beneath Rowanheath. Cutter wasn’t one to get overly sentimental, but I knew those two were friends with a long history.
I said nothing, but headed for the table and plopped down on his right side, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” I said, my voice low, feeling a twinge of guilt as if this were all my fault somehow.
“It’s nothing you did, Jack,” Cutter replied, shrugging free of my hand. “He knew the dangers going in—we all did. You. Me. Amara. Bloody Nick. Jessie Blackhands. Mark the Shive. And Neriah, too. ’Sides, I’m surprised that sod made it this long,” he joked, a lopsided grin on his face that I knew he didn’t feel. “A thief’s work is dangerous, mate. And a saboteur’s work even more so.”
I nodded, not wanting to press him any further. “What happened back there anyway?” I said, reaching over and grabbing a fat turkey leg dripping with grease from a nearby platter. I took a huge mouthful, and salty, savory flavor exploded across my tongue like a bomb blast. God, the food here was good.
“A mistake,” Cutter replied with a grimace, every tired eye in the room fixed on him. “Some blighted tosser stumbled across us after we planted the last bomb. The bloke wasn’t even supposed to be there—he ducked off for a bit of shut-eye, and practically tripped over us in the process. Rotten luck is what it was. Nothing more. Nothing you can even plan for.” He dropped his face and lifted a tankard full of ale, swishing it absently, eyes tracking the swirl of amber liquid.
The front door swung inward with a crack, admitting Abby and Otto, both looking frazzled and harried by the sudden summons.
“Jack,” Abby said, her words cutting through the somber tension, her eyes locking on me like a homing missile. “We got your message—is everything okay?”
She hurried across the floor as Otto secured the door, barring it from the inside with a thick plank of wood.
“There should be one more coming,” I called out to Otto, ignoring Abby’s question for the moment. We had a lot to do, and I didn’t want to waste time by going through the story more than once. “We’re waiting on General Caldwell.”
“No,” Chief Kolle intoned from across the table. “He sent me a reply. He’s out with the scouting forces—it would’ve been impossible to make it back in time, not to mention unwise. The Legion is already up and mobilizing in response to the attack. Likely our maneuver has bought us a little time, but not as much as we’d hoped. Now, why don’t you tell us what this is all about, Jack?”
Abby sat down next to me and slipped her hand into mine, our fingers intertwining, before giving my palm a little squeeze. “Whatever it is, Jack,” she said, leaning her shoulder into me, “it’ll be okay. We can handle this. We can handle anything.” Though she looked half-dead from exhaustion, she offered me a fierce smile that said, we will not be conquered.
I sighed, squeezed her hand back, then cleared my throat. “It’s hard to know where to start here—we raided the camp and dealt out some pretty significant damage, but it wasn’t without costs and casualties. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. What I really need to talk to you about is Osmark. He and I finally went toe-to-toe, and well …”
I faltered, the words a bitter pill in my mouth. “He mopped the floor with me,” I finally said, hanging my head. “But it’s more than that. He was fast, strong, smart. And he had tech that I’ve never seen before. Not even close. He had guns …” I told them about the rest of the encounter in fits and starts, trying to explain exactly what I’d seen, but failing to do it justice. Vlad—more than anyone else—stopped me often, asking for very specific descriptions as he scribbled furiously on a notepad.
“This, I think,” he said as I finally finished, “must be the work of the Artificers.”
“Artificers?” Abby and Otto asked almost as one.
“Da,” the Russian replied with a nod. “The steamwork pieces we apprehended in the last caravan is the work of a specialty class of engineers, known as Artificers. Perhaps,” he said, scratching thoughtfully at his chin, “Osmark himself is such a weaponeer. Until now, we have seen precious little of these Artificers because Osmark has been capturing them. Erasing all signs of them. Perhaps he has done so for this reason—so that we will not know what to expect until it is too late. Like I said earlier, Jack. Pizdets, nam pizdets. We are screwed.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“So you’re throwing in the towel?” I asked, skewering Vlad with a steely glare. “Just calling it quits?”
The Russian snorted, shook his head, and folded his arms. “Not at all. I’m Russian. Russians, we never quit. Never. You give us nothing but beets to eat? We will make borscht, eat it for every meal, and be happy about it. How do we win? I do not know, but”—he leaned across the table and slapped me on the shoulder—“we will not quit. And perhaps there is a way yet.” He hesitated, a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Yes, perhaps. But I must get back to my lab. There are experiments to run. Potions to brew. But you, Jack?” He cocked an eyebrow, cataloging me. “You should sleep. A long day is ahead of us, and you must be in fine form at the helm.”
“He’s right, Jack,” Abby agreed. “You’re the most powerful player we have. I know you don’t want to rest while the rest of us work, but we need you ready. Osmark will be here in a few hours, and if anyone is going to be able to take him out, it’s you. So go, we’ve got this covered.” She stood and yanked on my arm, gently but insistently.
I looked around and found supportive faces staring back at me. “Thanks, you guys,” I said. “I mean it.” Then because I hate goodbyes—and I hate being stuck on the spot even more—I turned and headed for the stairs leading up to the guest rooms. “I’m not going back to Rowanheath, though,” I called over one shoulder, my hand gripping the wooden rail. “I’ll be close by, so please wake me up the second you need me.” I tromped up the steps, my feet aching, my legs tired, as the murmur of conversation kicked up behind me.
The stairs let out in a wide hallway flanked on either side by stout wooden doors. Most of them were closed and locked—no doubt being used by the day shift players, who’d be up in a few hours—but one door near the end of the hall stood ajar. I pushed my way into a tiny room with heavily scuffed floorboards, a crudely built wardrobe next to a cloudy window, a small pedestal with a basin of steaming water, and a narrow twin bed covered by a green woolen blanket.
Not the Master Suite of Darkshard Keep, but I didn’t care. At this point, all I wanted was some shut-eye—the where didn’t matter. I stripped off my armor, tossing it unceremoniously into the cabinet, splashed a little hot water across my face and neck, then flopped onto the bed. I rolled onto my back with a groan, not even bothering to wedge myself under the covers. I blinked, my eyes growing heavy, when a new message dinged in my ear, drawing me back from the edge of sleep.
Stifling a yawn with my fist, I pulled up my interface, only to be inundated with a flood of notices:
<<<>>>
Ability: Shadow-Spark
Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 6
Cost: None
Effect: Umbra unlocked. All Shadow-based skill stats are increased by 3% per Shadow-Spark level (Current: 18%).
<<<>>>
Skill: Stealth
Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 14
Cost: 20 Stamina
Effect: Stealth 29% chance to hide from enemies (+18% augmented Stealth).
<<<>>>
Skill: Backstab
Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 12
Cost: 20 Stamina
Effect 1: A brutal backstab attack can be activated while an adventurer is in Stealth. 7x normal damage with a knife; 5x normal damage with all other weapons.
Effect 2: 13% increased chance of critical hit while backstabbing.
<<<>>>
Skill: Blunt Weapons
Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 17
Cost: None
Effect: Increases blunt weapon damage by 37%; increases blunt weapon attack rate by 8%.
<<<>>>
Skill: Medium Armor
Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 9
Cost: None
Effect
1: 23% increased base armor rating while wearing Medium Armor.
Effect 2: +5.5% additional increased base armor rating for every piece of Medium Armor worn.
<<<>>>
Huh, apparently killing all of those Legion soldiers had done some serious good for my skills, even if Osmark had beaten me into the ground. I idly looked the notifications over, too tired to really care, then dismissed the lot of them and pulled up my personal Inbox. My blood immediately began to boil as I saw the name attached to the message: Robert Osmark.
<<<>>>
Personal Message:
Jack,
I wanted to let you know that I didn’t enjoy crushing you in front of my men, and despite what I said, I do respect you—you’re smart, tough, and resourceful. You may not have achieved much in your previous life, but you’ve accomplished some truly impressive feats inside V.G.O. Moreover, I believe you aren’t in this for power, fame, or money. I think you’re fighting for something you truly believe in, and that too is admirable.
I doubt you’ll believe me, but I see a lot of myself in you. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, Jack. My mother died when I was young, and my father worked long hours as an IT service rep. I made myself, Jack. And V.G.O.? This was my dream, the thing I believed in more than anything else.
So, as I said, I see a bit of myself in you. And for that reason, I’m willing to extend the olive branch one last time. Honestly, I have very few illusions that there will be a peaceful solution to our situation, but regardless of what you may think, I always prefer diplomacy over violence. But make no mistake, Jack, I can be very violent if I need to. I don’t like hurting people, but I’m good at it. And very soon violence will be the only option left on the table. You’ve seen my forces, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Please believe me when I say I have weapons you can’t even begin to imagine.
