by J. A. Hunter
“No, that’s not true. It is something, Pop,” I said. “I’m feeling overwhelmed. Seems like enemies are closing in from every side and everyone is looking to me for answers, except I’m not sure I have any answers to give them.” I faltered and ran a hand through my hair. “It was so simple in the beginning, but now it’s so big. Impossibly big. Everyone is depending on me, and every day it seems like the odds stacked against us get worse and worse, no matter how much ground we gain.”
My dad was quiet for a beat, swirling his drink, eyeing the liquid as it sloshed in his lowball glass. “Chesty Puller, God rest his soul, was maybe the finest Marine that ever lived,” he finally said. “Most decorated Marine in history. Him and his boys, they fought at the Battle of Chosin Reservoir—during the Korean War, this was. And it was hard fighting in the heart of winter. Brutal. The Chinese, well they sent in a flood of troops, and the First Marine Division suddenly found themselves cut off and behind enemy lines.
“Everyone wrote ’em off, Jackie.” He leaned in, forearms resting on his thighs. “They were surrounded by twenty-two enemy divisions. Outnumbered twenty-nine to one, with no support in sight. A lesser man, well he mighta given up. Rolled over and died just like everyone expected, but not Chesty. And not his boys. Oh no. Why Chesty, he said, ‘They’re in front of us, behind us, and we’re flanked on both sides. Great. Those bastards can’t get away from us now.’ And damned if they didn’t make it out—and not just make it out.” He leaned back. “The First Marine Division wiped out seven enemy divisions all by their lonesome.
“And that’s the key, Jackie. When you’re outnumbered and outgunned, it simplifies things. All the extraneous crap, it falls by the wayside. When you’re outgunned, it boils away everything until only one thing remains: survival. You just need to remember that your goal is to survive, and then you use every play in the book.” He stood up, then, and edged around the fire, a sad, tired smile on his face. By the time he made it to the other side, he was older, wrinkles blanketing his face, his hair entirely gray, his arms and legs whip-thin, his skin like old jerky.
I stood.
“It was good seeing you, Jackie. I never said it enough, but I love you. I’m proud of you.” He reached out a sun-beaten hand, patted me on the shoulder, then pulled me into a quick, tight hug. “I believe in you, son. Those bastards can’t get away from you. Not this time. Give the Vogthar hell.” And then he was shaking me...
“Come on, Jack.” His voice had changed, replaced by something feminine and familiar. “I know it sucks, but it’s time to get moving. Come on, we’re already running late.”
I groaned and cracked my eyes.
My childhood backyard was gone, the skull-studded firepit nowhere to be seen. Instead, I was in my posh master suite in the Darkshard Keep, just outside of Yunnam. The suite was spacious, luxurious, and expensive. The floors were polished granite, covered in places with thick area rugs of deep gray. There was lots of gleaming chrome, fancy modern art, and dark wood. It looked like an interior decorator with more money than sense had been set loose on the place. It was how the room had come, however—just another perk built into the system for the would-be dictators who’d funded V.G.O.
Abby was sitting on the bed next to me, already dressed in her red Firebrand gown. Wildfire. Hands down her best piece of gear. I propped myself up on my elbows, letting the silken sheet covering my chest slide free. I paused, searching Abby’s face. She looked so damned tired, her skin ashy and washed out, puffy bags lingering under her eyes.
“What time is it?” I asked, groggy.
“Seven fifteen,” she replied. “Fifteen minutes until we’re due up in the War Room to go over the morning briefing.”
I sighed, long and deep, then sat up the rest of the way and swung my legs out over the edge of the bed, feet touching down softly on cool, glossy stone. “God, I hate reports,” I said, pressing my eyes shut for a long moment and grinding my palms into my sockets, trying to clear away some of my exhaustion. “Seriously, some days I think I’d rather hunt down an endless stream of Vogthar than sit through one more tedious meeting.”
“Some days?” she said, a teasing edge lingering beneath her words.
“Come on, you know they don’t even need us there most of the time.”
“Most of the time isn’t all of the time,” Abby said, her voice now in front of me. I opened my eyes again. She was standing there, one hand extended toward me. “Besides, it’s good for them to see us—to see you—there. Taking charge. Offering suggestions. And your suggestions are always good.” She paused, smirked, and swiped a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know reading over shipping manifests might not be as glamorous as slaying insane gods and ancient dragons, but it needs to be done. So, get your ass up.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I reluctantly gained my feet, lurched over to my wardrobe, and threw on my armor and gear—fresh, clean, and blood free, though I couldn’t say the same thing for me. I was still covered in dirt and splatters of gore from the night before. I lifted one arm and took a sniff; the pungent scent of BO hit me like a fist to the nose. Yeah, it’d been a while since I’d last showered, and unfortunately deodorant wasn’t a thing here. I shrugged. If I had to sit through another stuffy meeting, at least I could make all the admin folk suffer a little with me.
I pulled on my boots last, then grabbed my hammer and slid it home into the leather frog at my belt. With that done, Abby and I left our suite behind. Once we were out of the room, we could’ve ported directly into the Command Center, but I needed the walk to get my body moving and my blood flowing—it helped to clear my head. We made it to the control room just as the rest of the Alliance Council members started trickling into their seats around the hulking mahogany round table, which had a huge emerald crystal lodged in its center.
Despite the fact that I hated the morning briefings, I found myself glad to be there.
The room with its vaulted ceiling, massive fireplace, and dark stone walls covered in thick tapestries had slowly begun to feel like home. The sense of familiarity was comforting. I weaved my way through the loose cluster of people still milling about, nodding politely to each, before dropping into my comfy leather chair like a sack of bricks. Abby took a seat to my right. Cutter was to my immediate left. Honestly, I was surprised to see him here at this ungodly hour—though he wasn’t exactly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
Nope, he was slumped over the table, head resting on his forearms, snoring softly as though he were alone in the world. Amara sat beside him, and she looked perfectly rested. I shot her a glance, then hooked a thumb at Cutter.
“Exhausted and hungover,” she said in explanation. “You are lucky he’s here at all—and I only accomplished that by promising him... Well, what I promised is unimportant.” She grimaced. “What matters is that he is here, as is fitting for the Alliance Spymaster.”
I snorted and leaned back in my chair, taking a bleary-eyed glance around the room at the rest of the staff and officers. Most of the people present were OG Alliance members—Anton Black, our quartermaster, Vlad, Chief Kolle, Abby—though there were a fair number of newer faces, mostly guys and gals like General Caldwell. Former politicians, business leaders, and military types who believed in what we were doing. We also had Imperial representatives. I spotted Erin Gallo—an Imperial Accipiter who had a tiny city way out east in the Barren Sands—chatting with Chiara Bolinger, who ran Wyrdtide with an iron fist.
They were talking intensely in hushed voices, shooting fruitive glances over their shoulders. Something was going on there, though I wasn’t sure what. At least until I noticed that Osmark, Sandra, and Jay were all missing. True, Jay sometimes skipped these things, running errands on behalf of the Empire, but Osmark and Sandra were never missing. Never. Those two seemed to thrive on red tape, supply reports, and stuffy bureaucratic snore-fests.
Worry bloomed in my gut.
Yeah, something was definitely wrong.
Once more I pulled up my interface an
d jotted off a quick message to all three, sending it with a thought. A wooden gavel rapped on the table a moment later, wielded by Anton—the acting council chair—calling the meeting to order. The rest of the leadership fell silent as Anton began to speak, opening up with the minutes from the last meeting, then launching into an exceedingly dry agenda. I pressed my eyes shut, listening to the monotonous drone of his voice as I rubbed at the bridge of my nose.
After what felt like an eternity in my own personal hell, Anton finally sat, only to be replaced by a colossal creature built entirely of stone, earth, bone, and moss. A crude humanoid thing that stood ten feet tall and sported enormous earthen muscles—his arms as big around as a telephone pole, his legs squat and powerful. Elegant runic script, pulsing with a dull red light, covered his giant arms, legs, and torso. He bore a gnarled staff in his oversized hands, and it was covered in even more of the odd glowing script.
Brewald. The Darkshard Keep Guardian and the living embodiment of the castle itself. He defended the place from would-be attackers, and basically ran the day-to-day business of the Keep when I wasn’t around, which was a lot these days. His role had also expanded significantly over the past months as I’d captured Rowanheath, unified the rest of the Storme Marsh cities, and taken back Vogthar strongholds. Though the magistrates I’d appointed oversaw the tasks and operations of each city, good ol’ Brewald kept the rest of us up to date with city maintenance and resource management.
Brewald’s report was slightly more interesting than Anton’s.
We went over the various cities under our command, and he rattled off logistics reports before we finally turned to the business of Darkshard and Yunnam itself. The Keep sat atop a powerful ley line, which generated a daily allotment of Dark energy, which Brewald could transmute and convert into physical matter, creating guards, upgrading buildings, and even crafting powerful magics to defend against potential aggressors. The ley line generated 1,000 points of Dark energy per day—though that number could be augmented by feeding Brewald Raw Darkshard Ore—and we usually let it build for several days before upgrading the Keep.
It had been a week since we’d last upgraded, and Brewald was sitting on close to 10,000 Dark energy points. There were still a number of fun exciting features to unlock—new weapons turrets, a moat guardian, an upgrade to the primary stable—but instead we spent the points in a more practical manner. Building extra barracks space. Adding a kitchen expansion to the dining hall. Reinforcing a few sections of the exterior wall. Nothing glamorous, but all of it necessary.
Eventually, Brewald was replaced by General Caldwell, who brought the massive emerald gem in the center of the table to brilliant life with a flick of his hand. He accessed a floating map of Eldgard, which hung in the air like a green specter, and ran us through troop movements, city defenses, and recent Vogthar advances. Caldwell, in turn, was replaced by Vlad—our Alchemic Weaponeer and head of the Alliance Crafter’s Guild—who briefed us on guild recruitment efforts, talked at great length about siege weapons, then concluded with a foot-long list of rare crafting ingredients he needed.
The guy’s appetite for rare ingredients was legendary, but the weapons he whipped up were worth the time and energy.
Abby went next, offering the council an after-action report regarding the assault on Glome Corrie, then launching into a brief about Glome Corrie’s available resources and economy. Dry as the Mojave Desert, though I learned that Glome Corrie was the biggest trading partner to Stone Reach, the Dwarven capital in the far-flung northern expanses. Chief Kolle went next, followed by Cutter—who managed to grunt out a few words that almost formed a single cohesive thought—who was replaced by Bolinger. She gave us an update about the Imperial operations, but made no mention of Osmark’s noticeable absence.
When I pressed her about it, she simply smiled, waved away my concern, and mentioned that he and Sandra were just indisposed with important business elsewhere. “They do have an empire to run,” she quipped, though to me it seemed like she was a little too relaxed about it. Maybe overcompensating for something else? Seemed possible. But if there was something going on, I didn’t necessarily want to air it in front of the entire council. I trusted everyone here, true, but it was best to regulate bad news whenever possible. So, I let it slide. For now. If I hadn’t heard anything by the evening, I’d start sniffing around a little bit more insistently.
Despite the fact that I would’ve rather been... well, almost anywhere, doing almost anything else, I listened attentively, retaining as much of the slew of information as I could, asked questions, and offered tidbits of feedback. Eventually, a Murk Elf serving woman named Sumana brought me a plate with crisp bacon, a crusty croissant, and a steaming cup of Western Brew in a porcelain mug. I promptly fished a gold Imperial mark from my pocket and pressed it into her hand in thanks. She was a saint. And if it wasn’t for her kindness, I’d probably miss half of all my meals.
I took a bite of the croissant—warm, buttery, and perfect—then chased it with a mouthful of bold coffee, savoring the aroma and the heat. A prompt appeared as I set the mug down.
<<<>>>
Buffs Added
Western Brew: Restore 150 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health regen by 18%; duration, 30 minutes.
Caffeinated: Base Intelligence increased by (5) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Vitality increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Strength increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes.
Remember, with enough good coffee, all things are possible.
<<<>>>
Once the regular reports were given, the doors swung open and Jo-Dan—more formally known as Joseph the Gravemonger—strode in, silencing the room with his presence. He was maybe six one and wore dark purple robes covered by heavy plate mail built from gleaming bone inscribed with emerald runes. He had a dark cowl pulled up over his head, and where his face should’ve been was just a gaping black hole. Staring into that hood was like staring into a bottomless chasm. Bony wings protruded from his back as if he were an Accipiter that had died and molted, and he carried a wicked scythe in one gauntleted hand.
“Morning, everyone,” Jo-Dan said, all butterflies and rainbows despite being a living monster. “Congratulations on taking Glome Corrie—that’s a big win. Big win.” He paused for a moment, seeming to look my direction before forging ahead. “Unfortunately, things are less awesome in other parts of Eldgard.” He waved a gauntleted hand, tapping into the power of the emerald on the table. The stone flared, the floating map of Eldgard springing to life once again.
“The Vogthar have been stepping up their game big time. Me and the other dungeons have recently formed an unofficial faction. The Mob, we’re calling it.” He cackled in that way only teenagers can. “Get it, like you’re in the Mob. But like dungeon monsters are called mobs.” No one laughed. Not even a smile. “Jeesh. Tough room. Anyway, me and the rest of the Mob are working to keep the lid on it, but we’re having a hard time. These Vogthar dudes are persistent.” With a flick of his hand, several lights appeared on the map—a slew of purple ones, some blue, a spattering of angry red, and a generous heaping of deathly black—all of them strobing manically.
“The purple dots”—these were the least numerous—“are the reclaimed dungeons. I’ve been helping the other dungeon lords and ladies take them back, and once we wipe out the Vogthar Dungeon Hearts, we’ve been able to replace them with new seedlings. Fresh troops, eventually. But for right now, those new dungeons are babies. They won’t be able to offer much by way of help for a while, so we gotta keep an eye on them. Maybe start cycling a few of the lower-level heroes through there to build up Dark energy. Still, it’s all good. But the bad news is all the rest of the dots...”
He trailed off. “The blue dots are dungeons we’ve managed to quarantine, but they’re still Vogthar controlled. The red dots are active Vogthar dungeons—we haven’t even touched them yet, and they’re seriously everywhere. Big concentration in the north, near Stone Reach, and those
things just seem to vomit out like an endless supply of the Vogthar. And they have a bunch of Darklings guarding them, which makes it even harder to break through. Worst of all are the black dots. Those are newly converted Vogthar dungeons. Almost as many of those as there are reclaimed dungeons.
“And check it out. The black dots are almost entirely here in the Storm Marshes. I’m just a kid, so what do I know”—he shrugged—“but if I did know anything, I’d say these dudes are gonna take a run at Yunnam. Maybe some of the other Storm Marsh cities. A bunch of the corrupted dungeons are clustered near Baan Luang too, so it might do to beef up security around there. Okay.” He swung his arms and clapped his hands together, tone light and cheery, as though he hadn’t just dropped a total bombshell on everyone in the room. “Any questions?”
Every hand, save Cutter’s, shot up.
The young dungeon lord sighed audibly, but then quickly worked his way around the room—no, there was no new movement in the Tanglewood. Yes, the dungeon near the Crossing had grown. How was he supposed to know what kind of dungeon boss spawned in these new locations?—until finally he’d answered every question as well as he could. Finished, and obviously ready to call it quits for the day, the dungeon lord offered a brief round of goodbyes, then ducked out of the room before anyone could stop him. Smart kid. Smarter than me. With a reluctant sigh, I settled in as the meeting continued in full swing.
Long live the Admin Grind...
Yunnam
IT WAS NINE THIRTY—A solid two hours since the morning briefing had begun in earnest—by the time I headed into the hallway outside the Command Center with Abby, Amara, and Cutter in tow.
