by J. A. Hunter
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Personal Message:
Osmark is late to the rendezvous. Any idea where he is?
—Jack
<<<>>>
I sent the message with a thought, drumming my fingers idly on my warhammer as I waited for a reply. A full minute passed, the rest of the crew rustling impatiently while the thunderclap of warring bodies overhead drifted down. Otto, in particular, seemed perturbed and antsy. Abby’s Risi companion had posted up at the edge of the inn, stealing glances between the city’s front gate—totally overrun now—the battle overhead, and the looming Keep with its hundreds of needle-thin spires. I could understand his apprehension, since Glome Corrie was the home of his people.
From what I knew about Otto, he’d spent the majority of his life away from the Risi capital and stronghold, doing battle against the Empire as an emissary of Òrdugh an Garda Anam—the Order of the Soulbound. It had to irk him something fierce that Glome Corrie, which had resisted the Empire for ages, had fallen first to Imperials under Osmark, only to be lost again to Carrera and his lackeys.
“Well?” he finally grunted after another half-minute. “There could be resistance inside the Keep. They need us to move, Grim Jack. Now.” Otto wasn’t the most tactful, but he was damned good at his job—waging war, commanding troops, and killing things.
I considered it only for a moment before nodding. I wasn’t sure where in the hell Osmark was, but if he couldn’t bother to be here, we’d just have to move forward without him. I gave marching orders, and we beelined across a wide courtyard in front of the Keep’s main entry.
A huge, black wrought iron fountain dominated the scene, showcasing the founding of Glome Corrie: a violent tableau of armor-clad Risi defeating Imperial slavers. A booted foot planted in an Imperial face. A hook-bladed sword gutting a wide-eyed soldier. A Risi general standing atop a heap of corpses, a bronze flag leaning against his burly shoulder. The fountain’s interior was all copper and gave the water within the look of freshly spilled blood. A whole pool of it. We stole around the fountain and through the entrance. Its formidable steel portcullis had been left wide open just for us.
Forge’s handiwork on display.
There were a handful of dead Vogthar dotting the hallways, but no resistance whatsoever.
The Libertas had done their jobs alright.
Cutter led the way, eyes restlessly scanning the hallways and tapestries for traps or any sign of ambush. We hooked through various hallways—two lefts, a right, a straightaway followed by a switchback—passing a myriad of mostly abandoned rooms. Though there were no Vogthar, we spotted a handful of maids and Keep workers. All NPCs who scattered at our approach. We’d have to check them and make sure they weren’t Converts or Darklings, but for now they offered no overt hostility, so we let them be.
After a few minutes of hard trudging we came to the central tower.
There were thick steel doors on the bottom level, but these too were wide open, showcasing an enormous spiral staircase that shot up like a corkscrew made of stone and iron. We hiked our way upward, but it was tough going. Bodies littered the steps, mostly Vogthar but more than a few Alliance members. Since their bodies were still littering the ground, it meant they were Citizens—NPCs—who would never respawn. I stepped over a Vogthar ground-pounder, split nearly in two, and paused by the corpse of a Dawn Elf woman in shimmering robes. The crimson hammer of the Malleus Libertas was painted bright and bold on her chest.
I didn’t know her name, but I’d seen her around Darkshard Keep on more than one occasion, running drills, eating meals with friends. She volunteered with the kids in her free time. Well, she had volunteered, though she never would again.
I was responsible for this. For her. The attack had gone off perfectly, and still there were deaths and corpses. I cleared my throat and pulled my gaze away, continuing up. We climbed at least ten flights before finally arriving at the top of the ever-winding stairs. Heavy obsidian doors blocked the way into the Keep’s control room. A cluster of hard-eyed Alliance guards stood ready, their faces covered in grime and dirt, their weapons bloody. There were five of them—a pair of tanks, a spellcaster, and a rogue.
One of the tanks, a barbaric looking Wode clad in heavy leathers and thick gray fur, offered us a salute. “Welcome to Knife Breaker Keep, Lord Grim Jack,” he said, waving for the second tank to open the doors. “General Forge is inside, and we’ve secured the area against the Vogthar.”
The control room itself was a bastion of utility and function, though very little comfort.
Its circular walls were crafted from black, implacable stone. Wrought iron candelabras sprouted from the walls, yellow tallow candles poking up and shedding greasy orange light. A fireplace—easily as tall as I was and twice as wide—adorned the far wall, a roaring flame burning merrily away despite the invasion. The furniture scattered through the room was dark wood, boxy and uncomfortable with an Oriental flair to it. A huge, rectangular table dominated the center of the room, high-backed leather chairs scattered around it at even intervals.
A variety of maps—some depicting troop movements, others showcasing enemy positions—were pinned around the room or scattered across tables. There were also papers everywhere. Reams and reams of parchment. I slipped over and picked up a curling sheet of white paper, quickly scanning the contents. A logistics report at a glance. Unfortunately, I’d become overly familiar with reports like those since becoming the faction head of the Crimson Alliance. This report listed foodstuffs, crafting supplies, wagon requirements, and a slew of other seemingly mundane details.
Though dry and boring, the logs were an important find. A talented quartermaster, like our own Chief Logistics Officer, Anton Black, could figure out a ton from a report like this. With just a little bit of work, he’d be able to calculate out how many men were in transport, where they were headed, and how long it would take to get them there.
“I want all of this boxed up,” Forge barked as though reading my thoughts from across the room. The Risi warrior casually stepped over the corpse of a monstrous creature—a golem built from snow, rock, and old bone—then picked up a handful of papers. There were Vogthar bodies scattered around the room as well, but everyone seemed to ignore the carnage and gore as though this were just another day at the office. And in many ways, it was. “Every map, every scrap of paper,” he continued. “All of it could be important. Nothin’ gets left behind, oorah?”
“Oorah,” came the barking reply from the rest of the men and women busy pillaging.
There were thirty of them, and though they weren’t all Marines, most of them were former service members. All had quickly taken to Forge’s no-nonsense leadership and warm character. There was a full squad of Dark Templars present, Maa-Tál in the Dokkalfar tongue. Shadow Knight, Plague Bringer, Umbra Shaman, Necromancer. Even a fellow Shadowmancer—an Indian woman named Navya. Forge also had a standard assortment of tanks and spellcasters, summoners, Clerics, and Rogues at his disposal.
I couldn’t help but note the difference between these rogues—serious and straightlaced to a man—and the off-color men Cutter employed within his fledgling ranks. Night and day.
“Grim Jack,” Forge bellowed with a wide grin, eyes twinkling as he spotted me. “Well, holy shit, is it good to see you made it here in one piece. Some of the crew was worried when they heard you were planning to take the walls all by yourself, but not me.” He shook his head, a series of crow’s-feet branching out from the corners of his eyes. “Nope. I told ’em you’d do it. Hell, Bobby over there”—he hooked a thumb to a Warlock in deep purple robes—“owes me five gold marks.”
“You didn’t do so bad yourself,” I replied, cocking an eyebrow and sweeping a hand around the room. “Any sign of Peng or his thugs?”
Peng Jun hadn’t always been with the Vogthar. Once upon a time, he’d been one of Osmark’s chief backers—part of what Osmark called the Chinese Contingent—though it seemed Osmark and Peng had never been on the friendliest
terms. But that had changed when the Vogthar took Glome Corrie, Peng’s faction capital. The Chinese general had promptly flipped on the Imperials, instead throwing in with Carrera in exchange for power and the right to retain his city.
“Naw.” Forge snorted and shook his head. “Surprised the shit right outta me, to tell ya the truth. Bunch of these horn-headed turdbags”—he nudged a nearby Vogthar body with the toe of his boot—“and the guardian over there.” He waved at the downed golem. “But no sign of Peng, which is odd since this is his stronghold. Seems like he’d be all over this place like stink on shit. Didn’t even find any of his Blue Lantern Boys hanging around.”
“I wonder,” Otto said, glancing around, “what could be so important that he would leave Glome Corrie lightly defended? It doesn’t make sense. This is one of the Vogthar’s most important captures. I wouldn’t have been overly surprised to find Carrera himself in residence.”
“Well, maybe these papers will offer us some clue,” Ari said, zipping away and lighting down on another supply roster. Her body glowed a spectral blue as she pulled up the corner of one sheet, her face scrunched up in concentration as she read.
“Could be,” I replied idly, feeling tired to the bone and ready to get back to Darkshard and grab a few hours of shut-eye. “Amara, make sure anything that looks important gets tagged and brought back to Darkshard for the debriefing tomorrow morning. Otto, I want you to get this place squared away. There’s still a battle raging out there, but the second the Keep is firmly ours, I want the city’s defenses working for us.”
“Are you sure?” Otto replied, hands folded behind his back. “That seems like a job for whichever magistrate you have lined up to govern Glome Corrie.”
I pointed a finger and shot him a wink. “You’re it. Assuming you want the job, that is. I can’t think of anyone who would do better.” I glanced over my shoulder at Abby, who was positively beaming. She’d been the one to suggest that Otto should be given the post. The Risi general spoke of Glome Corrie with something that bordered on reverence. No one would take better care of the city. No one.
“With respect, I’m local,” he countered, worry briefly flashing over his face. “So far the Alliance has only appointed Travelers to preside as magistrates—”
“Something we intend to fix,” Abby cut in. She laid a gentle hand on his forearm. He looked extremely awkward and uncomfortable with the gesture. “Congratulations, Otto,” she whispered, almost too softly to hear, “you’re home. And you deserve this more than anyone. Now, go show everyone what you can do. Give them absolute hell.”
He offered her a stoic nod—just the ghost of a grin on his lips—then wheeled around and started barking off orders. Pride flared inside my chest. I stole a look toward Cutter and Amara. Citizens had sort of gotten the short end of the stick in V.G.O., and though a lot of players still didn’t think about them as being human, being alive, in the way we Travelers were, we intended to change that. Cutter, as the first Eldgard NPC to earn the right to respawn, was already something of a reluctant civil-rights leader. Or its figurehead, anyway.
I turned away as Forge shuffled over and cleared his throat. “Jack, Abby,” he said, “minute of your time?” He paused, looking left, then right, and dropped his voice. “Alone.”
I frowned, confused, but nodded and followed him over to the far side of the room, out of earshot of the rest of the crew. There was a nearby wall tapestry, pulled back to reveal an enormous vault, the heavy door yawning wide.
Forge took one more tentative look around, then slowly pulled an item from his inventory. It looked like the hilt of a sword, though without blade or pommel. The handle was bone white and covered in glowing scrimshaw etchings that burned a pale gold. “One of my boys, he found this inside the vault. Bunch of other stuff in there too—gold, weapons, armor. All rare stuff that’ll go into the guild treasury. But this thing is...” He hesitated, stealing a glance over his shoulder. “Well, it’s real different, hoss. Seems like it might be a big deal.”
He handed me the item.
Arcane energy, potent and wild, thrummed along the length of the handle, running up into my hand like a jolt of lightning. I’d felt power like this before. Just once, after defeating the Lich Priest, Vox-Malum, and looting his corpse. Even without pulling up the description, I knew this thing belonged with the pommel currently stashed away in my inventory. Still, best to check. Nervous sweat broke out across my brow and goosebumps raced along my arms as I pulled up the item description:
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Doom-Forged Hilt
Item Type: Relic
Class: Ancient Artifact
Base Damage: 0
Primary Effects:
Doom-Forged Relic 1 of 3
A Piece of the Doom-Forged Weapon
Once, eons ago, in an age long since forgotten to mankind, a powerful weapon was created to balance the colossal forces of the universe. A weapon so great even the gods feared its blow. Legend tells that after the Doom-Forged weapon was crafted by the Dwarven godling Khalkeús, the weapon was split apart by the gods and goddesses who feared its might and scattered across the realms so that it would never be assembled again. Perhaps it is time for the gods to fear again...
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“Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?” Abby asked, her voice a low whisper, though tinged with excitement.
“Yep. Doom-Forged relic. Two of three. We almost have the whole set.” I traced my thumb over the engraved hilt of the strange weapon—or what would eventually be a weapon, assuming I could find the final piece. “I wonder why Peng had this in the safe instead of on his avatar?”
“Aw, that’s easy, friend,” Cutter said, slipping up next to me like a shadow. Abby shot him a furious glare. “And before you get all uppity,” he said, returning her glower, “yes, I was eavesdropping. Clearly. But, as the official spymaster of the Alliance, that’s my job. Besides”—he shrugged and gave her an easy smile—“I was bored out of my bloody skull with the rest of those wankers. I don’t mind your crew, Forge, but gods are they a stuffy lot. Very professional. Extremely dull. No one wanted to throw dice, and you shoulda seen the look they gave me when I suggested we break out the mead.” He shook his head. “As though I were the mad one for wanting to celebrate our victory with a flagon of good drink.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “The relic, Cutter. Why would Peng have kept it here instead of on his person?”
“Like I said, easy,” he replied with a cocked eyebrow. “Pickpockets.” He rubbed his hands together as though relishing the very thought of subtle thievery. “A master thief can steal an equipped item, but even an average thief can snag an unequipped one. And a legendary item like one of those relics is fair game, so long as it isn’t soul-bound and assuming the thief in question has the skills to pull it off.”
“How skilled we talkin’?” Forge asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Could you do it?”
“Don’t be daft,” Cutter replied with an offended grimace. “I could steal a horse out from beneath its rider, and they’d be none the wiser. But even most mid-level thieves that’ve earned a place in the Union can pilfer an unequipped item. Carrying something like that can be a security risk. But these things here”—he waved toward the huge wall-mounted safe, near the back of the room, flanked by a hanging tapestry—“they’re unpickable. The safe belongs to the Keep owner and is only accessible by him, unless he specifically gives permission to someone else. The obvious pitfall, though, is that if the Keep falls, the vault and all its loot end up in the possession of the new owner. Peng must’ve thought this place couldn’t fall.”
Good to know. Still, that didn’t explain why Peng was gone. What could be more pressing than holding down his own stronghold, especially since he was storing a Doom-Forged relic here? I had no idea, though I doubted it was good.
I pulled up my interface and checked the time: 1:37 AM. God, it was late, or early, depending on how I looked at it. I stifled a yawn with my fist.
Only six hours until the next Alliance staff meeting—well, whatever Peng was up to, it would have to wait until tomorrow. For tonight, I needed sleep and I needed it bad before I passed out where I stood. Still, as I made to leave, I couldn’t help but wonder about Osmark. Just what in the hell had happened to him? Hopefully, the staff meeting would shed some light on that as well.
Admin Grind
I WAS SITTING ON MY back patio, a lawn chair beneath me, a hoodie protecting me from the cool breeze blowing in the night, carrying just a hint of the ocean to my nose. The dark had settled a while ago, but it was late summer, so just a touch of purple and pink lingered on the horizon. In front of me, a fire roared. I smiled. The firepit itself was a ring of concrete and poking up from its center was a pillar of char-blackened skulls. It reminded me of something that should’ve been inside V.G.O., but no—my dad had really owned a skull firepit just like that, IRL.
Said those skulls belonged to all the enemies of the Corps. He’d loved that firepit.
“You okay, Jackie?” a voice asked. I glanced up, startled, and found my old man sitting across from me. He reclined in a lounge chair of his own, his legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, an old-fashioned clutched loosely in his hand. Always old-fashioneds with him —a triple shot of Jack, a splash of club soda, a dab of bitters, a slice of orange. I eyed him for a long moment, feeling a sudden surge of sadness well up inside my chest. He was younger than I remembered.
His brown eyes sharp, his skin tight and tan, his high and tight lightly sprinkled with gray. It was how he’d looked back during my high school days. Fifteen years ago.
“You okay?” he asked again, before raising his glass and taking a long pull. “You’ve been quiet all night. Distracted.”
“It’s nothing,” I replied, shaking my head. Some part of me knew this wasn’t real—Dad was dead, Mom too, both taken by the asteroid—that this was a dream. But I didn’t care. I leaned forward, raising my hands, offering them to the flames dancing among the pile of skulls. I never took my eyes off the man, since I had no idea when I’d see him again. If I’d see him again.
