by James Hunter
Accept: Yes/No?
<<<>>>
I read over the quest with intense interest, then accepted without hesitation—of course I wanted to learn more about the Downfall and whatever awesome quest came along with it. True, I had bigger things to worry about right now—like building my faction and the coming war against the entire Imperial Army—but I was still a gamer at heart, and the idea of partaking in some awesome adventure with uber-loot as a reward practically gave me shivers. By the time I dismissed the notification, Cutter padded toward me with a slim leather-bound notebook in one hand and a midnight-black dagger in the other.
The book didn’t look like anything too special—certainly no ancient arcane text bursting with secret spells—but that dagger was familiar.
It looked identical to the ceremonial blade Gentleman Georgie had shown us earlier: the one capable of ripping the soul from someone’s body. Cutter held the knife by the pommel with his thumb and forefinger, dangling it out in front of him like it was a dead animal he couldn’t stand to touch. “Think you should probably take a look at this, boss,” he said, thrusting both items toward me, eager to be rid of them. “I worked with Georgie for a long time,” he said offhandedly, “and the man always kept a hidden stash. This stuff was in a secret wall compartment behind the torturer’s rack.”
I reluctantly accepted the dagger, flinching away as the unnaturally cold steel touched my skin and crawled into the flesh beneath. I turned it over in my hand. The weapon had a double-edged blade of black, folded steel and an ornate ebony handle, intricately carved with scenes of torture and brutality: A Wode man being sawed in two. A Murk Elf woman being drawn and quartered. A surly Dwarf facing the headsman’s axe. The pommel, heavy and round, bore the same demonic face as the bas-relief I’d seen on the door leading into this hellhole. Aside from being frigid and sickening to look at, the dagger also felt wrong.
Evil, even.
It was slick, almost oily in my grasp, and reeked faintly of rotten fruit and decaying meat, somehow sickly sweet and pungent all at the same time. It also felt alive. Alive and malevolent, like a deadly diamondback baring venom-slick fangs, waiting to bite. Holding it was like holding death itself. I stowed the dagger in my pack, eager to have it out of my hand, and brought up the item description:
<<<>>>
Black Hexblade of Serth-Rog
Weapon Type: Bladed; Dagger
Class: Unique, One-handed
Base Damage: 25
Primary Effects:
+10 to Strength
+10 to Dexterity
+100 pts Cold Damage
+5% to Critical Hit when Backstabbing
Unique Usable Effect:
Soul Sacrifice: Activate Soul Sacrifice when an enemy is at Critical Health to suck the soul from their body and send it to the Frozen Realm of Morsheim. (Charge: 1)
Note 1: Using Soul Sacrifice will permanently destroy this weapon!
Note 2: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice causes the player to permanently lose 5 points of Spirit!
Note 3: If a player does not have an “evil” alignment, Soul Sacrifice activates the Entwined-Fate Debuff, causing the player to die when the victim dies, and respawn in their normal location!
Note 4: Any Player killed using Soul Sacrifice will become a Spectral Reverent; their respawn point will be changed to Skálaholt, capital of Morsheim, until they can find a way to return to the land of the living!
The Black Blade of Serth-Rog is granted only to the darkest, most bloodthirsty servants of Serth-Rog: the Black Priests of the Hexblade. It is a wicked artifact, forged from the essence of the Dark Lord Himself …
<<<>>>
Reading over the description made my blood run cold.
This was a blade that could kill players—maybe not forever, but I had to imagine being trapped as a Spectral Reverent in the realm of Morsheim couldn’t be a good thing. I didn’t know how many of these weapons were floating around Eldgard, but this was definitely a game changer even if the price for using it was awfully steep for anyone without an “evil” alignment. Deeply troubled, I closed out of the description and opened up the little leather-bound journal Cutter had discovered.
It was chock-full of names. Just page after page of names: maybe two hundred total with no other information. I looked up at Cutter, confusion evident on my face.
He pressed his lips into a tight line and shrugged. “I’m not sure either, but ol’ Georgie went through a lot of trouble to hide it. Must need some sort of cypher, but whatever it is, it has to be important.”
I nodded mutely, thumped the book against my palm, and slipped it into my bag along with the Hexblade. Obviously, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but maybe Abby, Otto, or the chief would have some extra insight.
With the room cleared and the prisoners free, we made our way to the end of the short dungeon and discovered a port-stone—the boss room equivalent of a port-door—which dumped us at the entrance to the Plague Tunnels. It would’ve been nice to avoid wading through the stink and muck of the sewers proper, but at least we didn’t need to fight our way back through halls bursting with murderous zombies and nightmarish Rat Kings. Another few minutes of morose backtracking brought us to the Rowanheath entrance and into crisp night air, watched over by a silver moon high above.
Cutter’s friend Neriah was waiting patiently for us at the sewer mouth with a stocky Dwarf, who turned out to be a rep from the Smugglers Guild.
Baxter the Shifty was his name.
A handle like “the Shifty” didn’t exactly inspire my confidence, but Cutter seemed to know and trust him—as far as Cutter trusted anyone. I was eager to get back to Yunnam, so I immediately cornered the surly Dwarf and launched into the details of our upcoming raid. Or at least I tried to. The smuggler shut me down in an instant, first demanding assurances that the situation below had been taken care of, then politely informing me that smugglers didn’t deal directly with outsiders—no matter that I was the leader of the Rebel-aligned faction.
Oh, no.
Smugglers had agreements, he solemnly informed me. They had contracts and middlemen. Smugglers had more important things to do than vet outsiders, so they only dealt with fellow professionals, which apparently meant someone with concrete ties to the unofficial Thieves’ Guild.
Someone like Cutter.
Cutter, of course, gave the man a slick, confident smile and a polite bow, before launching into a brief account of what had happened below, flashing Georgie’s golden rapier to prove the problem had been dealt with. The sword mollified the Dwarf, but Neriah, on the other hand, nearly choked when he saw the thin blade and the glint of gold.
“No, that can’t be? Is that …” Neriah said, trailing off without finishing the question, just staring bug-eyed at the rapier like he’d seen a ghost. “You know what this means?” he asked, stealing a secretive glance in my direction.
“Course I do,” Cutter snapped, a hard edge to his words. “I’m not a new fish, you sod. Georgie was a like a father to me—I know this organization better than anyone. Anyone that’s left alive, anyway,” he finished weakly.
“Cutter, we need to talk about that—” Neriah began.
Cutter silenced him with a curt slash of his hand. “I know, Neriah. I know. But later. We’ve got a lot to do and I can’t afford to get distracted. None of us can. Once we’ve dealt with Rowanheath, we’ll straighten all this out as well, understand?”
Neriah gave him a sidelong glance—a measuring look—then nodded deferentially. “Of course. You know I’ll hold my tongue, but you can’t expect such developments will remain a secret for long,” he finished, shooting a quick look toward Baxter the Shifty. “Now, why don’t we go over here and work things out?”
Cutter clapped me on a shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jack, I know the plan,” he whispered into my ear. “I’ll get these knuckleheads sorted out right as rain.” He strutted forward, slung an arm around Baxter, then pulled the smuggler off into the d
eep shadows. Neriah trailed behind, his shoulders tight with tension and anxiety.
“Wonder what that was all about?” I mused out loud.
“Who can say?” Vlad replied, sliding up next to me, hands on his hips. “This is a strange world, my friend—it seems like everything is one quest after another. No doubt that sword has triggered some sort of event. This friend of yours, is he an NPC or a real person?” He said NPC slowly and deliberately, as though unused to the term.
“NPC,” I replied in a whisper, trying to make sure Cutter couldn’t possibly overhear me. “But I don’t think you should use that term. From what I’ve been able to find out, they might actually be aware. Not necessarily of the outside world, but maybe aware of themselves and this world. Best to avoid insulting them.”
“Of course,” the man replied thoughtfully, lacing his hands behind his back. “I am a weapons designer—we’ve been using advanced tech in my industry for decades. Smart missiles. Fuzzy control systems for cyber hacking. Advanced Bayesian networks for intelligence analysis and information mapping. What we have done … it is amazing and frightful. At times, I find the line between what is and what isn’t blurry, you understand this?”
“I know how you feel.” I sighed, looking at Cutter, currently hunched over, tracing out operational details with a stick in the dirt. Maybe I’d never know if he was real—at least real in the way I was—but in my mind, he’d ceased being an NPC. He was a friend now, no matter what else he was. “Okay,” I said, turning to our new Alchemic Weaponeer in the making. “We’re sort of on a time crunch, and we need to get back to Yunnam ASAP, so where do you need to go to finish your class quest?”
“It is not far from here,” he replied, gaze distant—clearly, he was looking over his interface map. “I need to bring the ingredients to a local Apothecary. A woman by the name of Reann, who runs the Boiling Cauldron. It shouldn’t take but a minute. I know you are in a great rush, but I would greatly appreciate it if you would accompany me. Since this Yunnam of yours is all the way in the Storme Marshes, it will take me a great deal of time to travel there on foot. Much easier if you can just teleport us there, I think.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I said with a rueful grin. “We won’t leave without you.” That was the understatement of the century—there was a ton riding on our boy Vlad, even if he didn’t realize it yet.
By the time Vlad and I were done talking, Cutter was back, and Neriah and Baxter were stealing into the shadows, quickly swallowed by the night. “All set,” Cutter assured me with a tired smile. “The Thieves’ Guild will be in place—they’ll help get our guys in position around the city, and the smugglers are on board, though there’s some serious worry about our multi-legged friends. Still, everything should be fine.”
“Good enough,” I said as we headed off for the Boiling Cauldron.
THIRTY: Final Preparations
It was a quarter to seven in the morning—the sun just beginning to peek its face up over the trees—when we finally stepped through a shimmering portal and directly into the heart of Yunnam with our newly minted Alchemic Weaponeer in tow. All I wanted was a hot meal, a hot bath, and a full day to sleep and recover, but I knew I’d be lucky to get a nibble and two hours of rest. We had a war to start, after all, and according to my interface, we had just shy of twelve hours to get everything done. There were portable Shadow Cannons to construct. Mercs to deploy. Our ragtag crew of fighters to equip and stage. Not to mention a platoon of spiderkin to wrangle and tame.
I definitely wasn’t going to get much sleep, but I was likely to be dead soon, so I figured I could rest then.
“This is not what I was expecting,” Vlad noted as we hoofed it toward the port pad in the center of town. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he added. “Aside from my starting location, Rowanheath is the only city I’ve ever known, and this …” His words trailed off, a grimace creasing the lines of his face as he surveyed the town, with its strange stilt houses and crude streets. “It is more rustic than I was envisioning. But, as my people say, bez muki net nauki. Adversity is a good teacher.”
Cutter grunted and laughed. “You’re the wackiest bloke I’ve ever met—second only to Jack, here. But keep your head up and you’ll do okay, friend. Probably make us all bloody, filthy rich in the process.”
The line for the port pad was surprisingly empty, so we made it to the Keep in record time and in a matter of minutes were shuffling into the Command Center, which was still bustling with activity. Men and women were running about, some taking orders, others giving them; some scribbled furiously on parchment, while others offered steaming cups of Western Brew Coffee to anyone who needed it. Here in Eldgard, coffee might’ve been expensive as all get-out, but there was nothing better suited to keeping an exhausted workforce on their feet than a good cup of joe. That was science.
I snagged a porcelain mug of the aromatic brew from a passing server, and took a grateful sip. It was scorching hot, but so good I wanted to cry. It tasted like home. Like the real world. Like my shitty apartment and disgusting couch. I pulled the cup away from my lips and sighed.
Both the chief and Abby were in the same seats they’d been in before I left for Rowanheath; they were talking in low tones as they pored over a paper map, marking out troop locations and attack routes. They both looked positively beat: purple bags loitered beneath their eyes, and the lines of their faces seemed to sag beneath the weight of exhaustion. Abby shook her head at some remark, then reached up and gently messaged her temples, before brushing back an unkempt strand of hair. True, sitting in the comfort of command central couldn’t possibly have been as physically wearing as what I’d endured in the Plague Tunnels, but the mental fatigue was undoubtedly worse.
I weaved my way through a knot of people arguing about mine worker shifts, and headed for the command table, practically dragging Vlad behind me. I plopped down into a chair next to Abby with an audible groan, letting the leather draw me in like the comforting arms of an old friend. Oh God, it felt so good to sit. To just sit. To be still, even if only for a second. I took another relaxing sip of coffee; the liquid hit my belly with sweet warmth.
“Jack!” Abby exclaimed, turning bloodshot eyes on me. “Thank god you’re back—how did things go in Rowanheath? Did you get everything sorted out with the Smugglers Guild?”
“It was a close call,” I said, melting further into the chair, “but we fixed things. There was a big side quest with a bunch cultists,” I explained, “but long story short, the smugglers are in place and ready to go. There are some details we’ll need to go over”—I glanced at the chief, remembering my new Jade Lord quest chain—“but it can all wait until later. Tell me what’s happening here.”
She blew out her cheeks and ran a hand through frazzled hair. “To be honest, I feel like everything’s falling apart, Jack. Otto’s leading the mercs to the rendezvous site now, but we’ve had a big hang up with those asshole spiders. Apparently, the Queen will only talk with you, since you’ve apparently proven yourself a ‘worthy adversary’”—she put the term in air quotes and offered me a furious eyeroll—“and then there’s the Shadow Cannons.
“We’ve got tons of engineers working on the schematics, but no one can do what we want. No one. They can improve the design, reduce the build time, increase damage … but portability? Nope.” She slumped forward and dropped her face into her hands. “I feel like a failure, Jack,” she mumbled. “Everything was going so smoothly for a while, and then it’s like someone just started picking at the loose ends. Now, poof, it’s all coming undone and I don’t know how to fix it.”
The chief planted a hand on Abby’s shoulder and gave her a brief, reassuring squeeze. “You have done admirably—you may be a Wode, but you have the heart and commitment of a Dokkalfar, young one. No one could do more than you have done.” He gave her another squeeze, then turned his steely gaze on me. “Is there any other way we can achieve the distraction you want without the cannons?” he asked. “Perhaps we
could find enough spellcasters to mimic the effect?”
I blushed sheepishly and felt a wave of guilt surge through me. I should’ve forwarded Sophia’s message to Abby—why hadn’t I thought to let her know? Because I’d been so focused on what I was doing, I hadn’t bothered to think about what was going on here. Jerk move. “We’re going to get those cannons up and operational,” I said, waving Vlad over and gesturing for him to take a seat.
“I’m sorry, Grim Jack,” the chief replied with a shake of his head. “We have tried everything, but it is a thing that cannot be done. We must find another way.”
“It can be done, and this is the guy who can do it.” I hooked a thumb toward Vlad, who’d slipped into a seat across from me. “I’d like to introduce you to our newest faction member, Vlad Nardoir, from Saint Petersburg.”
“I’ve never heard of this Saint Petersburg,” the chief hedged, eyeing our new friend. “And this one is a Hvitalfar. Are you sure we can trust him?”
“We can absolutely trust him. And the important thing is Vlad can change those cannons. I’m sure of it. Just get him those schematics, stand back, and watch him work.”
Abby sat up, eyes squinted as she stared at me then Vlad in turn, suspicion and relief warring for control of her face.
“You’re certain of this?” the chief asked in the same instant Abby blurted out, “Bullshit.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “No bullshit,” I replied, “and yes, I’m very sure he can do it. He’s an Alchemic Weaponeer, and I’ve got it on very good authority”—I thumbed my nose knowingly and mouthed Sophia—“that he can do the deed. He’s one of only a handful of people in all of Eldgard who can, and he just signed up with our faction.” I saw an ember of hope burst to life in Abby’s eyes, while the chief simply flopped back in his chair, thoughtfully stroking his chin.
The gears were clearly cranking away in his head.
“Let us say this is true,” Chief Kolle said after a spell. “We have so little time to accomplish this task. Even if we have every engineer working on this project, there’s no way we can manage the feat in time. We have less than twelve hours to build twelve cannons and get them positioned outside Rowanheath.” He shook his head. “I don’t see how it’s possible.”
