by James Hunter
Contents
Summary
James Hunter's Mailing List
ONE Storm Clouds
TWO Beach Landing
THREE Living Legends
FOUR The Ruins
FIVE The Godstone
SIX Tutorial
SEVEN Threats and Promises
EIGHT Forge of Hephaestus
NINE Blackout
TEN Level Up!
ELEVEN Spider-Bacon
TWELVE War Blade
THIRTEEN Miracles
FOURTEEN Stheno’s Lair
FIFTEEN Boss Battle
SIXTEEN Victory Spoils
SEVENTEEN Recruits
EIGHTEEN Repairs
NINETEEN It’s Complicated …
TWENTY Training Day
TWENTY-ONE Dew Fountain
TWENTY-TWO Recon Report
TWENTY-THREE Grind Session
TWENTY-FOUR Rumble in the Jungle
TWENTY-FIVE Sneak Attack
TWENTY-SIX Recovery
TWENTY-SEVEN Hippolyta
TWENTY-EIGHT Heroes Return
TWENTY-NINE Temple of Apollos
THIRTY Heart-to-Heart
THIRTY-ONE Sea Centaur Scuffle
THIRTY-TWO Getting Crafty
THIRTY-THREE Power Level
THIRTY-FOUR Two Towers
THIRTY-FIVE Deep Trouble
THIRTY-SIX Ace in the Hole
THIRTY-SEVEN Rally
THIRTY-EIGHT Polyphemus Omega
THIRTY-NINE Bye Felicia
FORTY Victory and Pizza
Books, Mailing List, and Reviews
Other Works by James A. Hunter
Other Works by Aaron Crash
Books from Shadow Alley Press
About the Author
litRPG on Facebook
Gamelit on Facebook
Dedication
Special Thanks
Copyright
Summary
The gods walk again …
When Marine Corps pilot Jacob Merely crashes during a routine mission off the coast of Cyprus, he was sure it was game over.
After surviving the crash and pulling himself onto the sandy shores of a long-abandoned island, however, Jacob unwittingly stumbles headfirst into the ancient ruins of a dead city. Unfortunately, he also stumbles into an age-old battle between good and evil—and he is now its newest recruit.
The island once belonged to the Amazons, daughters of Ares, the God of War, and stood as the final bastion between the human world and the monstrosities of the Great Below. But Jacob’s arrival has awakened the old gods and disturbed the seal holding the ravaging darkness at bay.
Now, with the help of a sacred gem containing Ares’ power, Jacob must recreate the Amazonian defenders of humanity and fortify the island stronghold. And if he fails, Hades will unleash his army of the damned and the world of men will fall, giving rise to an age of walking nightmares.
James Hunter's Mailing List
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ONE
Storm Clouds
I didn’t want to do it. To break formation.
My AV-8B Harrier II jet streaked across the sky, leaving white contrails behind while the frothing Mediterranean Sea churned below. My squadron was off the coast of Cyprus, running a routine patrol op out of Incirlik Air Base in Turkey. Not a combat mission, but a display of force to let everyone know that the United States Marine Corps was there—standing by, ready to lay down fire and destruction at the drop of a hat. And we could if we needed to, since each Harrier was decked out with enough munitions to level a small army.
Not that it would come to that. It never did.
This was a standard run, no thrills, no frills, and since we were trucking along at Mach0.89—right around six hundred and sixty-two miles per hour—we’d be back on base in time for a full afternoon of World of Warcraft. Which was good because I had a World Boss raid at four.
Unfortunately, the unexpected storm rolling in from the west could ruin my plans. The blue sky abruptly gave way to a sudden swell of roiling dark clouds, booming thunder, and crackling streaks of lightning. I didn’t want to break formation, but heading into that shitstorm was a bad move. Might as well book a one-way ticket to Crashville, population me. Harriers were kick-ass flying machines, sure, but even they couldn’t stand toe-to-toe with Mother Nature. I eased up on the stick, banking slightly right, knowing I’d catch hell for the move.
“Gamer-Two, reporting,” I spoke into my radio. “I found a clear route through the storm. Eight-three-one-niner-niner-six. If you follow me, we can circle back around and get back to base in time for a sandwich, over.”
I didn’t much like my call sign, Gamer-Two, but it fit me. While the other guys were always hitting the bars and hanging out with local girls, I’d be at my laptop immersed in various fantasy worlds, fighting the good fight, beating up the bad guys, and collecting sweet, sweet loot. My squadron made fun of me, and that was kind of the point of my call sign. To make it worse, I wasn’t even named Gamer-One. Nope. I was Gamer-Two because everyone teased me that I always came in second place.
“Negative Gamer-Two,” came Sugar’s reply, cool and confident. Sugar was our squadron leader, and in the air his word was gospel. “Keep to the flight plan, over.”
“Seriously, Merely,” Earl Echo Earl’s voice crackled in my ear, “you break formation and I’ll nail your ass to the wall. You’ll be pulling barrack duty for the rest of your tour. Swear to God, you’ll never get to play another round of War Shit, or whatever the hell it’s called, again. You copy that, over?”
I ground my teeth, anger boiling up just below the surface. Everyone ragged on me—I was the butt of just about every joke—but only Earl Echo Earl was a complete asshole about it. Sugar was cool most days, but since Earl was next up in my chain of command, he held a lot of sway in my life. Worse, it seemed like he was always looking for any possible excuse to bust my balls. “Yeah, I copy that, over,” I replied, biting my tongue, and toeing the line.
A thunderous crack of lightning crashed as the last word left my mouth, the flare blinding me to the world as deafening sound resounded around me like a gong. The light disappeared a second later, but somehow during the brief moment I’d moved even farther off course. The clear patch of sky was closer now, but that meant I’d veered significantly astray from the flight plan.
“Correcting course, over,” I radioed in, but silence was my only response. “This is Gamer-Two, anyone read me, over?” I sent again, checking my gauges as I attempted to readjust.
Static filled my ears as the channel buzzed.
No one was responding—not Sugar, Butch, Cobra, Dizzy, Earl Echo Earl, Foxy, or Mini-Maverick. The lightning blast must’ve done something to my comm. I adjusted course farther, keeping a small patch of clear sky in view, but something was wrong. Really wrong. My dials spun wildly, my compass offered me off the charts readings, and a spark sputtered out of my control board. The stick fought me like a demon snake, jerking this way, then that, refusing to cooperate with me. What the hell was going on?
A second later, a second thundercrack enveloped me—this one even closer than the first. It sounded like a bunker buster exploding on impact, and the smell of ozone washed through the cockpit, knocking my sense of smell into tomorrow. Sweat broke out
across my forehead, and I blinked my eyes to clear away the stinging perspiration as I concentrated. Focused. It was clear I was alone. I fought with the stick as the first faint trickle of choking smoke invaded the cockpit, which was bad news bears.
A burst of sharp static filled my ears. It was Sugar, but his words came out clipped and strangely distorted. “Earl Echo Earl, down … lost engine. Lightning … careful … evacu—”
And then his voice was lost, abruptly cut off. There wasn’t even static. Rain washed down on the canopy of my Harrier like someone was pouring an ocean on me. For a second I couldn’t see, but the entire jet trembled, the seat beneath me vibrating as my Harrier hit something. An invisible wall of compressed air maybe. Except that couldn’t be right because when I burst through the far side, the storm was gone, vanished, and the rain was gone too. I felt my mouth drop open as I wheeled the plane sharply to the right.
Holy crap.
I was cruising through crystalline skies, but behind me was the storm in all its brutal fury. That wasn’t the weirdest part, though. No, there was some sort of force field—a curved, magic shield like the edge of an enormous soap bubble—keeping the rain and lightning at bay. Before I could wrap my head around what I saw, the shrill alarm of my engine going out pierced my ears. Maybe I was out of the storm, but I was obviously not out of trouble. The stick trembled in my hand once more, and the trickle of smoke washing into the cockpit turned into a tsunami.
I was glad for the oxygen mask providing me air, but I could hardly see between the sudden blast of sunlight and the gray smoke. My control panel continued to spark and spit, the gears and dials spinning insanely as lights flashed and buttons beeped. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. There was no way to avoid it—I was going down. Still, I fought to get my Harrier under control; I wheeled her to the side, and below me was a flash of green surrounded by azure.
There was an island down there, and if I could get my jet to cooperate, I might be able to land her on or near the white sands below.
But that couldn’t be right—there shouldn’t be an island below me. I’d flown this same route fifty times before. I knew this region upside down and inside out, including every spit of land. That was all part of mission prep. No, the island below shouldn’t exist. But there it was, a giant sprawl of green trees and white sand in a sea of blue like a giant middle finger to all reason and logic.
But if crazy magical barriers could exist, why not a giant uncharted island in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea?
Or was it uncharted? Was I still on Earth? Could I have passed through a portal into another world? At this point, I wasn’t ready to count any possibility out. Though it might not matter one way or the other if I didn’t get my Harrier down safely.
I pushed my fear, uncertainty, and morbid curiosity to the back of my mind as my training took over. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” I shouted into the comm to be heard over the blare of the alarms. “This is First Lieutenant Jacob Merely of the United States Marine Corps. I am going down. I repeat, I am going down at the following coordinates.” I squinted at my dash and caught just enough to spit out my longitude and latitude. “Uncharted island below. Left engine is gone. Fully loaded Harrier, over.”
I thought about the guns and missiles I carried. A five-barreled Gatling cannon, throwing twenty-five-millimeter bullets, mounted under-fuselage in the left pod with five hundred rounds of ammunition in the right. Two nineteen-shot LAU-5003 pods, four AIM-9 Sidewinder infrared-guided missiles, four AIM 120 AMRAAMs, and a pair of CBU-100 Cluster Bombs, plus a good old-fashioned canister of Mark 77 Napalm B. Nothing beats fucking napalm. As the Marine Corps is fond of saying, “If it absolutely, positively has to be destroyed overnight, call the Marines.”
I was going to be crash-landing my jet with an arsenal of top-of-the-line armament. If that weaponry fell into the wrong hands, some bad people could cause some wicked shit. Assuming I didn’t just blow myself up in the crash.
Again, I wondered if I was still on Earth and pondered Star Trek’s Prime Directive. What if a primitive society suddenly found themselves wielding napalm? I decided that was a problem for future me to worry about. With my mayday call out, I moved to the next item on the agenda:
Steer my smoking, spinning, beat-to-shit Harrier to a safe landing.
With a grunt and a heave, I managed to get her into a turn, scoping out the island, though smoke from my burning engine still impeded my vision. And that damn sunlight. God needed to turn it down a notch. My sweat didn’t help matters either.
The island was crescent-shaped and had two central mountains—one to the north and one to the south—with a deep valley between them. Cliffs lined most of the coast, and massive rocks protruded from the shallow waters, breaking the incoming waves around the isle. On the north side of the island, there seemed to be a clearing and some buildings made out of marble or stone. And were those columns? I squinted, brow furrowed. Yeah, definitely columns.
A big central building, which looked like the Acropolis in Athens, sat in the middle of the ruins. A wide avenue split the city in half and ended at a wall surrounded by a thick tangle of green.
What the hell?
I spun around the island; the east side had swaying fields of grass and a sandy beach. There. I could land there.
I was on the southern tip, about as high as the top of the southern mountain, when something slammed into my damaged left wing. Something big. It wasn’t a bird, but there were feathers and talons. Through the haze of gray, I saw huge claws ripping at the metal.
What the shit?
The smoke cleared for a second, and I caught a flash of the cruel face of a twisted old woman—some hag with wrinkles like cracks in rocks. The plane shuddered beneath me, hitching and bucking like a rodeo bull, and I knew in my gut I wasn’t going to be able to land the Harrier. It was a lost cause, and time to eject.
I took a second to grab my emergency gear, then seized the lever and ejected myself up and out of the Harrier. The canopy crashed off, flinging off into the distance as humid air swamped me. Then I was tumbling through the air, flipping head over heels, wind slapping at my face. A shriek mingled with the whistling of the falling jet filled my ears, and then some piece of debris struck my head.
I had a last thought, wondering if my parachute would auto-open, and then it was all darkness. Whatever was going to happen would happen. I knew nothing more for a long time.
TWO
Beach Landing
Warm surf woke me.
First thing I noticed was the sand in my mouth. I spat it out—or tried to, at least—but my mouth was so dry. My headgear had come undone and lay next to me, collecting briny seawater.
Another wave washed over me, this one heavy with the wet nylon of my parachute. At least that had worked. With a groan, I pushed up onto my elbows, glancing up at the sky. Still clear, no sign of the storm that had taken me down. Just the noontime sun, slowly cooking me in my flight suit. I spat more sand out of my mouth and unclipped the chute, careful not to let the ocean take it. I wasn’t going to waste any of my supplies.
I stood, freed from the chute, then shrugged off my harness, LPU life preserver, and oxygen mask. Next, I took stock of my limited supplies. Aside from my flight gear, I had a sopping wet rucksack, a beefy PRC 152 radio, a canteen, an IFAK medical pouch, my K-Bar combat knife, and my sidearm—an automatic .45, M1911, standard issue. I had seven rounds in the magazine, with one in the chamber, plus two extra magazines, which gave me twenty-two rounds total.
Not many. Certainly not enough to make me feel comfortable.
Hell, since it was distinctly possible I was stranded on an island in another dimension, I wanted to have the Harrier’s massive arsenal at my disposal. I remembered the thing that had ripped into my left wing. I had no clue what that thing was, but I did know it was aggressive, and it was the size of a German shepherd. And that meant it was dangerous. I ran a hand over the pistol grip, glad to have the weapon at my side.
Using a
bit of my water, I rinsed my mouth then took long gulps from the canteen. I let myself have three sips, but no more. There was probably fresh water somewhere on the island, but I needed to find it, and the island was big. It would take me at least a couple of days to search the place, especially with the lush sprawl of vegetation.
I took the radio out of my emergency rucksack, attached the whip-antenna from the pouch, and gave it a go. I got nothing but static even though I knew my squadron should still be in range. From what Sugar had said, it sounded like Earl Echo Earl went down. I idly wondered if he had hit the same energy shield or portal I had. I searched the sky for any sign of that barrier, but turned up nothing. All I saw was a few drifting clouds and a limitless expanse of blue. The sea continued to roll in onto the pristine white sands like it had been doing it for millennia.
Since my radio was useless, I couldn’t depend on anyone showing up to save my ass anytime soon. I had a little water left, but I needed to secure more, then see about finding shelter and getting food. I hadn’t seen life from the air, but that didn’t mean the island wasn’t populated. The ruined city I’d glimpsed during the crash might mean people, but maybe not, since it seemed deserted. Regardless, it meant water. I glanced at the sun and orientated myself.
After smashing through the barrier, everything had been smoke and chaos, but unless I was completely turned around, the ruins were on the northern edge of the island. The easiest course would be to follow the beach until I hit the ruins, but unfortunately, the north edge of the sandy sprawl ended in steep, jagged cliffs. Trying to climb those ridges would take a lot of time, and I wanted to be in those ruins by nightfall. My best bet was to angle through the jungle in the valley between the two mountains and see if there was a way into the city from there.
I made for the edge of the beach but then hesitated. Uncle Sam would be looking for my Harrier if not for me. Those things were expensive. Me? I was pretty cheap, though they had spent a pretty penny in training me to fly those bad boys. Better to leave a message before I went gallivanting into the bush. I took a minute to drag driftwood and rocks onto the beach, creating a massive X that Search and Rescue could see from the air. It was possible no one would ever see it, especially if I wasn’t on Earth anymore, but better to be safe than sorry.
