Viridian Gate Online: Books 1 - 3 (Cataclysm, Crimson Alliance, The Jade Lord)

by James Hunter

  I avoided them all, weaving through the lightly packed street, greeting the villagers I knew and giving polite nods to those I didn’t, constantly scanning the passing faces. Searching for Cutter. I hadn’t seen him since leaving for Rowanheath a few days ago, and I wanted to have him along on this new quest. He was egotistical, petty, and often a pain in the ass, but he’d saved my neck more times than I’d care to count—not to mention, he really was the best thief the Alliance had. He’d begrudgingly decided to train our up-and-coming Rogues, but none of them held a candle to Cutter.

  A fact Cutter was more than eager to point out to literally anyone who would listen, especially if mead or Law-jiu—Murk Elf rice wine—was involved.

  I wound my way toward a new area the clansfolk were calling “the training ground,” which amounted to a shallow pit the size of a basketball court filled with gritty, gray swamp sand. The Keep now boasted an agility course, an archery range, and a melee ring, but Cutter preferred to work his recruits over on the training ground. He wouldn’t tell me why, but I suspected it had something to do with the fact that Amara—Huntress, badass, and daughter to the chief—lived within a stone’s throw from the site. Just a suspicion, but a persistent one.

  I rounded a bend, passing by a gnarled tree hanging with glowing moss, and nearly ran headlong into the man I’d come looking for. He pulled up short, a scowl painted across his face. “Jack,” he said with a terse nod, “just who I was coming to find.”

  “What’s up?” I asked, giving him a quick once-over. He was a Wode with the wiry build of a street brawler, short blond hair, and a strong jaw riddled with stubble. He wore dark leathers and a night-black cloak. A pair of daggers, etched with runes, were tucked into his belt. He looked terrible, though—purple bags hanging under his eyes, his clothes rumpled and stained with brown mud, while a spatter of blood decorated one cheek. “What the heck happened to you?”

  He grunted, dropped his hands to his hips, and scowled at me, his forehead furrowed. “It’s that bloody Chief Kolle, is what it is. The ol’ bastard thought it’d be fun to send Amara and me off on a quest to round up a bunch of Feral Bog Wolves encroaching on the southern border.” He paused and took a furtive glance around. “Little did I know, Amara intended to use me as bait. Pig-headed woman nearly cost me a leg.” He slammed a hand against a thigh, showcasing some serious bloodstains. “She’s trying to kill me, Jack. I swear to all the gods she is. Just a bloody, awful woman.”

  I smiled at him, slung an arm around his shoulders, and handed him what remained of my coffee—he certainly needed it more than I did. “She’s probably only returning the favor,” I said with a noncommittal shrug. “I warned you about tasking all your recruits with attempting to pickpocket her. Your chickens are coming home to roost, buddy.”

  “Whose side are you even on?” he grumbled under his breath before taking a slug of the brew. “And what brings you down here, anyway?” he asked after a second. “I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me now that you’re a big-shot faction leader. You finally got something fun for us to do, eh? Something with gold? And loot? Please tell me there’s loot involved. I need more loot and gold in my life, Jack, especially after that debacle yesterday.”

  I grinned, then launched into the story, telling him about the Jade Crown, our appointed meeting with the Dark Conclave, and the possibility of unifying the entire Storme Marshes under the Crimson Alliance Banner. Naturally, Cutter blanched when I told him both the chief and Amara would be accompanying us—at least for the first leg of the journey to the Dark Conclave—but mostly, he looked happy. Well, greedy might be a more accurate word, but for Cutter, happy and greedy were synonymous.

  “Count me in, friend,” he said, rubbing his hands together in covetous glee. It took us half an hour to round up Amara and Chief Kolle, then another ten minutes to navigate our way to Yunnam’s Mystica Ordo, but then we were off. Heading for the Conclave headquarters, located deep in the heart of the deadly bog.

  FIVE: Ancient Tomb

  “Down, Cutter,” I hollered as a [Spore Ape]—a huge gorilla-like creature covered in poisonous mushrooms—charged through the trees, the underbrush cracking and snapping as it ran. The thief threw himself into an agile roll, coming down in a pile of goopy muck, as I unleashed a burning Umbra Bolt at the incoming monster. The purple javelin of energy smashed into the Spore Ape’s sloping brow, knocking it off balance just long enough for Amara to hurl a conjured spear of black obsidian through the air, skewering the creature through the neck with brutal efficiency.

  The snap-crack of a breaking branch caught my ear and I spun, ducking below an incoming haymaker, courtesy of another ape—this one more mushroom than monkey—before slamming my warhammer into its exposed barrel gut. I threw my weight into the attack, triggering Savage Blow, which cost me 20 Stamina but earned me a 25% damage boost and a 15% Critical Hit increase. Sadly, though, the creature’s spongy flesh absorbed the blunt force damage with ease, and its HP didn’t drop by more than a handful of points. I twirled my weapon and backtracked, sidestepping a lumbering jab, only to catch a brutal front kick in the gut.

  My conjured Night Armor, wrapped snugly around me like a second skin, absorbed a big chunk of the damage, but the blow still left me bent over, clutching my stomach and wheezing for air. I stumbled back, an eyeblink away from triggering Shadow Stride and retreating to the safety of the Shadowverse, when a hail of arrows whizzed by—only inches from my face—sinking into fungus-covered flesh with ease. Spurts of green blood flew through the air as the creature toppled, its HP dropping to zero while a small cloud of mossy spores wafted up from its body.

  I scampered away from the cloud—not interested in being infected with deadly jungle spores—and wheeled around searching for more of the incoming apes. A handful charged in from the rear, but Amara held them at bay with waves of arrow fire while the chief waded through their numbers like a tank, clad in conjured plate mail of pale white bone inscribed with gleaming emerald runes. He lashed out with a gnarled staff of blackened swamp wood, cracking skulls and breaking arms with each blow. He twirled as an ape, missing one arm, bolted for him, throwing forward his free hand and unleashing a burst of pale-green light, which washed over the monster like the incoming tide.

  The ape faltered, stumbled, and fell as its body decayed in double-speed, the mushrooms wilting and shriveling as flesh sloughed away, leaving only gleaming bone behind.

  Wow. Necromancers were scary as hell.

  In seconds, the rest of the Spore Apes were down, the threat dispatched as quickly as it’d come. I ambled over to Cutter and offered him a hand, hoisting him from the sludgy mud. He gained his feet with a struggle, scowling down at the muck splattered all over his pants and arms. “Bloody hell,” he said, his words dripping with disgust, “I hate this place. Why did I ever leave Yunnam? Why? Sure, Yunnam is awful, of course, but this part of the swamp is a thousand times worse. Mosquitos as big as hummingbirds, snakes as fat as trees, water that smells worse than the sewers beneath Rowanheath”—he scrunched up his nose—“not to mention these disgusting beasties.”

  He trotted over to one of the dead Spore Apes, then crouched and riffled through its meager belongings. He grunted, stood, and planted a sharp kick in its ribs. “Ugly bastards don’t even have the good graces to provide decent loot. Just a handful of coppers and some stupid plant spores.” Though Cutter might not have been interested in plant spores, rare ingredients were coveted by Faction Alchemists, so I scuttled around from ape-body to ape-body, collecting the ingredients while Cutter whined like a spoiled little kid.

  “Honestly, I cannot fathom why anyone would build a city out here,” Cutter continued. “I mean there aren’t even any roads. How do they trade, eh? The city planner should be summarily executed for being so awful at life. I mean really, the guy had one job. One.”

  “There is no city,” Amara said, offering the thief a steely-eyed glower. No one could do a steely-eyed glower better than Amara. “Perhap
s it was once a part of a city, but no more. You know little of our people, but the six clans are deeply divided. Hostile, even. The Dark Conclave convenes on neutral ground—a sacred place, revered by our people—the final resting place of Nangkri, the Jade Lord, and many more of our sacred ancestors. Come, this way. It is not far now.” She guided us around a thick copse of palm trees, ducked beneath a tangle of low-hanging vines, then stepped aside, giving us a view of a swampy pit filled with brackish bog water covered with floating sheets of emerald moss.

  Out of the waters rose a curved mound like a small island, which looked almost like a natural feature. Swamp grass, lush and green, and a handful of stunted trees, intermixed with a spattering of brightly colored jungle flowers in vivid blues and reds, dotted the mound. Obviously, though, this was far more than just some natural hillock rising up in the otherwise flat marshes. This was a temple, though an old one, long abandoned. Stone statues of somber-faced Murk Elves, beaten down from long years of wind and rain, jutted up from the stagnant pool, while a stone doorway sat nestled into the side of the hill.

  There was a set of cracked and lopsided steps leading from the doorway into the bog water, which suggested that whatever this place was, it hadn’t always been submerged.

  “Gods, this is where the Dark Conclave meets?” Cutter asked with a disapproving sniff. “What in the hells do you have against comfort? Sure, you’re backward mud-people, but how about a tavern next time, eh? Someplace with a hot fire and something good to eat. Did you ever think the reason you’re so hostile to one another is because everyone’s wet, sweaty, and hungry? I’d be in a bad mood too if I had to battle past a horde of mushroom-covered jungle apes every time someone wanted to throw a get-together.”

  Amara moved in a blink, shoulder-checking the mouthy thief hard enough to send him flying forward, straight into the fetid water. “Oops,” she offered, face flat and deadpanned as she slung her slender arms across her chest. I sniggered while the chief simply watched on, smug and satisfied, his hands laced behind his back. Cutter emerged from the water a second later with a gasp, lifting his arms in disbelief as water ran off him in sheets.

  “What in the bloody hells is wrong with you?” he hollered before sweeping the wet hair from his eyes.

  “I slipped,” Amara replied with an unapologetic shrug, “much like your tongue.”

  “I’d leave those waters quickly if I were you,” the chief said with a quirked eyebrow. “There are giant moat leeches in there.”

  Cutter scrambled out of the rank water, cursing under his breath, as the rest of our small party scrambled across a set of stone lily pads, up the tilted steps, and through the stone entryway inset into the hill. Chief Kolle took the lead from there, ghosting into the darkness, leading us down a musty stone passageway, the floors damp, the air musty, the ancient walls covered in mossy growth and budding mushrooms. The passageway was unnaturally dark, lit only by a handful of flickering torches.

  The ground sloped steeply down, curving off to the right before snaking sharply left and ending at a spiral staircase, which drilled through the stone and deep into the earth like a corkscrew. It took us a few minutes to descend, everyone silent and watchful, only the sound of clomping feet, dripping water, and labored breathing to be heard. Eventually, the staircase let out into a cavern, which couldn’t possibly fit inside the sloped mound I’d seen protruding from the boggy swamp outside. Everything about the place was impossible.

  A wide clearing, covered in lush grass and blooming flowers, sat directly ahead; in the middle was a cozy campfire, burning brightly against the dark. Trees and craggy rock formations stretched off in the distance, while a gently burbling waterfall carved through the rock face on the right, trickling into a clear pond filled with brightly colored fish. The cavern walls reached up, up, up, and the ceiling—if there was one—was too high above to see. Just blackness, punctuated by shimmering specks of light like stars on a cloudless night.

  Cutter whistled softly as he spun in a slow circle taking it all in. “Holy bollocks,” he said, an atypical awe touching his words. “What is this place? How is this even possible? Are those …” He faltered, squinted, and craned his neck forward. “Are those stars?”

  The chief shook his head. “Chips of raw swamp diamond. This is one of the few places in all the Storme Marshes where they can be found. Very rare. Very valuable.”

  “Diamonds, you said?” Cutter replied while dollar signs practically flashed in his eyes. Amara gave him a hard, disapproving stare, to which Cutter simply raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Just making small talk is all.”

  “Daughter. Cutter. You must wait here,” the chief said, gesturing toward the low-burning fire. “But be warned, thief, do not venture far from the light of the fire.” He took a quick survey of the unnatural underground forest. “There are many dangers here for the unwary. The ancestral spirits of our people haunt this grove—no outsider is safe amongst the sacred trees. Stay with Amara and remain in the light.”

  He paused and turned to go, a hint of worry lingering in his eyes, but suddenly, Amara was by his side, one hand clamped down over his forearm. “Are you sure this is wise, Father?” she asked, her voice pitched so low it was almost impossible to hear. “I have a bad feeling about this. You know the Conclave will be displeased by his presence.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “They could levy sanctions against the tribe. Against you. They could even …” She left the rest unspoken.

  The chief smiled at her and placed one comforting hand over the top of hers. “All will be well, Daughter. There is no reward without risk and no change without challenge. Without change, however, only stagnation and death waits. This is a thing you know well—a thing we all know.” He carefully dislodged her hand. “This way, Jack,” he said to me, nodding at a small path snaking away from the clearing and through a spattering of trees before disappearing behind a small ridge of stone.

  I gave the gang a small wave goodbye, then slipped forward, trailing after the chief, taking great pains to stick to the dirt path. After only a few minutes, the light from the campfire faded and died along with the muted voices of our friends, leaving us in a tense silence and a perpetual twilight, broken only by the soft light from the diamonds far overhead. The path wound and curved its way deeper and deeper into the cavern, constantly and inevitably veering into the heart of the forest.

  The trees here were towering, ancient things, hung with strings of moss and dotted with somber purple flowers and patches of red-capped mushrooms. From what I could see, there was no wildlife of any sort, and yet, something—or maybe several somethings—seemed to dart from tree to tree and shadow to shadow just out of sight. Only a flutter of movement, but enough to leave me feeling supremely queasy and unsettled. I clenched the head of my warhammer in a white-knuckled grip, waiting for everything to go sideways. “Is there something in the forest?” I asked the chief at a whisper. “Like maybe something we should be worried about?”

  He glanced back at me, eyes flat, face solemn, and simply raised a hand as though to say, now is not the time or the place for such questions.

  After another few minutes, the path hooked left, cutting through an especially thick cluster of trees before opening up on an impressive glade. Grass, so vibrant it glowed with spectral light, carpeted the ground, while flowers ran amok, the colors so bright, the petals so pristine, they hurt to look at. A ring of stone archways, each composed of colossal gray slabs covered with swirling runes, encircled the little clearing, instantly bringing a fantastical version of Stonehenge to mind. In the center of the clearing sat another fire, burning in ghostly shades of violet.

  Seven great chairs—heavy wooden things, edged in gold—surrounded the unnatural flames; five of them were occupied by robed figures with heavy cowls pulled up, covering their faces. Behind and just to the right of each robed figure stood another man or woman, all Murk Elves, all of different classes—one clearly a Shadow Knight, another a Shadowma
ncer like me, a third a Plague Bringer, but all clearly Maa-Tál—and all staring at us with flat faces and cold, scrutinizing eyes.

  “Welcome, Jack,” the chief said in a reverent whisper, “to the Dark Conclave.”

  SIX: Dark Conclave

  The robed figures stood as we entered the clearing, dropping their cowls to reveal a trio of women and a pair of men, all with weather-beaten, gunmetal gray skin and violet eyes. They were old, all at least as time-worn as Chief Kolle, and a few were downright ancient. Though I’d never seen or met these people before, it was safe to assume these men and women represented the other Dokkalfar clans inhabiting the Storme Marshes. Chief Kolle dipped his head respectfully, padded over to one of the empty chairs, slowly—almost leisurely—took his seat, then motioned for me to stand behind him like the other warriors present.

  “I am Chief Dao, the First-Seat of the Conclave,” one of the female chieftains intoned formally. She was a squat sparkplug of a woman with a square chin, a mass of wrinkles, and shoulders as broad as any man. “Be welcome, Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani. Be welcome, Grim Jack Shadowstrider.”

  “No, there should be no welcome for them,” a man, sitting directly across from us, said with a sneer. “Why make us sit through this mummer’s farce? The Ak-Hani have opened the Storme Marshes to outsiders.” His face—flat and crisscrossed by a pair of deep, but long-faded, scars—puckered in distaste or maybe outright revulsion. “They’ve betrayed our people. Allowed outsiders into our lands. Brokered deals and made alliances with creatures of the deep bog, like the Spider Queen.”