Viridian Gate Online- Doom Forge

by J. A. Hunter

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  “Without his Keep,” Cutter said, “I knew the bastard would have it on him. But I also knew full well that pickpocketing the bloke was gonna be bloody monstrous. He’d be on the lookout for an obvious play like that. So instead of subtle, I went overt. Stabbed him in the neck and filched his prize right out from under his nose while he smashed my nose in. The battle rage had him by the throat. He was so intent on grinding me into the dirt he never thought to check his inventory.”

  I grabbed Cutter around the neck and pulled him into a bear hug. “You’re a genius, man. Crazy. But a crazy genius.”

  “In the Union, we say the plan is only crazy if it fails. So in this case, sheer, utter brilliance. You did forget to mention how handsome I am, though,” he said, then paused as he caught a glimpse of himself in a murky puddle of water. He visibly winced. “Well, maybe not at the moment. Though this is nothing time and a little beauty rest won’t fix. And speaking of beauty rest, I know where we can hole up until this whole thing blows over. That fella I was chatting with before the nine hells broke open? He’s the local Thieves Guild Esquire. And as a Gentleman, I have safe passage in any chapter house in Eldgard. One of the perks of the job. Come on. It’s not far now.”

  Respite

  CUTTER SENT OUT A MESSAGE to the rest of the crew complete with a map marker for the local Thieves chapter house, which turned out to be an apothecary in one of the classier sections of Cliffburgh. And not just any apothecary, but the 1st Ranked Phoenix-Class Apothecary. I still wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but Cutter seemed clued in and was only too happy to explain. Apparently, the Svartalfar were an orderly folk and put great stock in knowing exactly how every cog in their society fit together. And to that end, they had a rigid hierarchy, which applied to everything from crafters and adventurers to businesses and temples.

  Seven Classes—Dragon, Kraken, Phoenix, Manticore, Centaur, Warg, Boar—all named after mythical lore beasts, each with 13 ranks apiece. Each person was assigned a class and rank, though technically multiple people could fill each class and rank. Not so with businesses or crafters, however. Each city could only have one 1st Ranked Centaur-Class Blacksmith and if that blacksmith advanced, they would become the 13th ranked Manticore-Class Blacksmith—knocking another blacksmith down in the process. Dragon was the highest class, and it turned out that there were no Dragon-Class businesses anywhere outside of Stone Reach proper.

  According to Cutter, earning 1st Ranked Phoenix-Class in a town this size was no small feat.

  The rest of the crew met us at the safe house half an hour later. Full night had long since come—sunsets, though spectacular up here, didn’t seem to last long—and the cloud-filled sky obscured the light from the moon. Abby, Forge, and Ari arrived first, hoods up (or veils up in Ari’s case), heads down, while Amara arrived a few minutes later, practically hauling our new acolyte pal, Carl, behind her.

  Inside, a silver-haired woman, probably in her late forties or early fifties, manned a glass-fronted counter filled with a variety of potions, all top end and worth their weight in gold. She smiled serenely at us as we pushed our way in; a little brass bell above the door tinkled, announcing our presence. I whistled softly. As far as fronts went, this one was awful convincing. The woman certainly didn’t look much like a Thief, and the wares lining her racks seemed legit.

  Wooden shelves edged the walls, each near to bursting with carefully labeled ingredients. Tied bushels of bronze phottan. Glass jars of ground Furious Osipa and powdered Slater. Tinctures of Hidglow Root. Many of the items I recognized from my journeys—Deadly Baneshade, Creeping Faemoss, Spiced Ginger—but there were about a thousand other things I couldn’t even begin to put a name to. One shelf held book after book on alchemy, potion brewing, and harvesting. They had titles like Herbology of Eldgard, the Spelunker’s Handbook of Crystals and Gemstones, Fundamentals of Potion Permutations, and Junior Alchemy for Budding Botanists.

  Small tables, all polished to a dull glow, dotted the floorspace, showcasing some of the rarer and more valuable ingredients—everything from Dragon Scales and Troll Hearts to polished gemstones—along with a variety of alchemic equipment. Those I recognized from my time spent hanging around with Vlad in his workshop. Glass beakers, stone mortars and pestles, empty vials, brass goggles, engraving awls, even steampunk-looking respirators. None of it was as fine as what Vlad used, but for a beginner to intermediate Alchemist or Potions Master, this place was probably just this side of heaven.

  “Please come in, come in.” The woman stood and beckoned us forward with slim hands and a warm smile. “Please, get in and take some of that chill from your bones.” Amara was the last to enter, prodding and shoving Carl like an unruly toddler who needed constant attention. “It’s so lovely to have you all,” the shopkeeper crooned, her voice gentle, soothing, pleasant. A grandma whispering sweet words to a favorite grandchild. “Quite lovely indeed.

  “Not often we get such a crowd in here. Especially not at this hour, goddess no.” She resumed her seat and folded her hands on the glass counter before her. “So, how can I help you this evening, hmm? A spot of Crimson Polkweed, perhaps, or maybe you’re interested in my pre-brewed wares.” She knocked gently on the glass case before her. Inside were a myriad of potions. She had elixirs that temporarily increased attributes or fortified skills. Some that even granted incredible abilities for short bursts of time.

  “Afraid not,” Cutter said. “Friends of Marcus’s. Here for his evening tea.”

  “Ah, of course. That makes sense.” She nodded sagely, hands drifting toward some unseen thing below the counter. There was a click and a bookcase behind her swung inward, revealing a short hallway and a set of descending stairs. “Well, all the same, welcome to Maggy’s Mystic Elixirium. Ring if you need anything, lovelies.” She waved us through.

  Cutter led the way, the rest of us trailing behind him down the stairs, which let out into a scene that was far more familiar. A traditional inn not so different from the Broken Dagger back in Rowanheath. A quaint tavern filled with time-worn tables and hard looking men and women—mostly Dwarves—in dark leathers festooned with throwing blades and long-handled knives. I immediately spotted Cutter’s cowl-wearing contact from the Smoked Pig nursing a drink in the corner all by his lonesome.

  After a few brief words with Cutter, the man stood and ushered us down a short corridor, which connected to a sprawling training complex complete with a sand-lined sparring pit, a melee room with straw mats and practice dummies, and a knife throwing range with targets propped up at the far end. Off to the right was a Room of Doors overflowing with practice doors and padlocked chests. A trio of hooded thieves occupied the room, fiddling around at the various locks, deep in concentration.

  Our taciturn guide directed us to a connecting hallway studded with more wooden doors, though these clearly weren’t of the practice variety. I’d been at enough inns and guild chapter houses to recognize guest quarters when I saw them. We stopped at a pair of adjoining rooms at the very end of the hall.

  “This is where you’ll be staying,” our guide said, gesturing toward the doors. “And if you need anything else, let me know.” He paused, stealing a sidelong look at Cutter. “It’s not every day that we have a Gentleman in residence, let alone a rebel king.” He shot a glance at me. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed and politely saw himself off. He looked shadier than a three-dollar bill, but dang if he wasn’t the politest Thief I’d ever met.

  I watched him go, waiting until he disappeared from view. “Alright,” I finally said, once he was gone. “We’ve got some catching up to do.”

  The guest room was nice, though nothing fancy. A pair of twin beds, a scuffed wardrobe, a deeply creased leather club chair, and a small nightstand with a chipped porcelain basin on top. There was an accompanying pitcher of water nearby and a brown towel that had seen better days. Still, a room was a room, and this one was safe. Well, as safe as a room in a thieves’ guild could be.


  “So,” Abby said, rounding on us as I closed the door with a click. “Are you finally gonna fill us in? What in the shit happened back there? Is Peng dead or what?”

  Forge held up a blocky hand. “Before we start bumpin’ our gums, what do we want to do about this guy?” He nodded at Carl. “I mean, I can go stick him in the other room if you want. Won’t take but a minute, and I’m more than happy to watch him. Make sure he doesn’t try to rabbit on us the second we turn our backs.”

  “Let’s just ask him. Well, Carl? You want to know what’s going on?”

  He hesitated for a moment, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, balling and unballing his blocky fists. “No,” he finally said with a firm shake of his head. Sober, his Philly accent wasn’t quite so noticeable, though I could still pick it out from time to time. “Look, I might be a terrible acolyte, but I’m not a moron. I was too drunk to put it all together before”—he tapped at the side of his head with one thick finger—“but I’ve sobered up, okay. And I’ve also been doin’ some math on the way over. You guys are Crimson Alliance.” He faltered, looking around as though the room might have ears. “And not just regular Crimson Alliance. You’re him, aren’t you. The Jade Lord?”

  I nodded.

  “Yep, that’s what I thought,” he replied. He pursed his lips. “In that case, I definitely don’t want to know what’s goin’ on. I’m out. I’m not a hero. I’m not an adventurer. I just want to live out my second life as drama free as I can, you know? Drink honeyed mead. Eat good food. That’s pretty much the extent of my ambitions. And, no offense, but wherever you guys go? It’s trouble.

  “I mean, I’ve known you guys for all of two hours, and already I’m on the run and hiding in the guts of the Thieves Guild. It’s nothing personal—you guys all seem alright—but I don’t want to get dragged into any business with the Alliance or the Empire. Me? I’m not a fan of politics. And when little guys like me get caught between powerhouses like the Alliance and the Empire, eh, we have a way of getting crushed in the mix. So nope.” He folded his arms, working to keep his hands from quivering and his voice from trembling.

  “Only one problem, friend,” Cutter said. “Your problem isn’t with Jack. It isn’t with the Alliance. It isn’t even with Osmark and those bastards in the Legion. That Risi bastard back at the tavern? The guy looking to put your arse on a first-name basis with the reaper himself? That was Peng Jun. And he isn’t with the Empire, friend.”

  “He’s part of something way worse, Carl,” I said, meeting his eye and refusing to look away. “He’s a Darkling. And not just any Darkling. He’s the right hand of Serth-Rog. And they won’t just crush you, they will kill you. And I’m not talking sending you for respawn. If they kill you, you stay dead. And a guy like Peng won’t hesitate to do it. Not for a second.”

  “No, no, no,” the acolyte said, breaking into a nervous pace, his brown robes swishing around his feet as he walked. “Shit. I don’t want this. None of this. I don’t even know what you all want from me! I’m a nobody, okay? Not sure if you were listenin’ back at the bar, but I’m a 13th Ranked Cleric in a Boar-Class temple. I’m literally the worst rated Cleric in the whole city, and I even failed at that. Why would anyone even be interested in me?” He shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I don’t get it. Not any of it.”

  “Well,” Abby said, “remember how you said you were a part of a super boring order that no one ever visits? Turns out that’s not exactly the case. Your order is actually a crucial part of a world-event quest. Pretty important one.”

  “What the hell you talkin’ about?” he blurted, eyes bulging as he ran his fingers through his lank hair. “The Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer are dedicated to a minor forge visage. Dude’s been in a coma for like five hundred years—and that’s if he ever existed at all. And even assuming he does exist, no one knows where his shrine is. Buried somewhere inside Stone Reach according to temple lore. But past that? Phft. No one has a clue. Why would anyone be interested in that?”

  “Because of these,” I said, reaching into my inventory and pulling free the three Doom-Forged relics, which I promptly laid out on the nearest bed. There was a collective gasp around the room.

  “How did you get the third piece?” Abby asked, inching over, running her fingers along the chunk of strange ore.

  “Turns out Cutter is even sneakier than we thought. While everyone else was making a break for it, he stabbed Peng in the neck while simultaneously lifting the item.”

  “Does that mean Peng’s dead?” Forge asked, a hopeful edge to his words.

  I frowned and shook my head. “No such luck. He made it out along with one of his casters and one of his lieutenants. But we gave them one hell of a run for their money.” I quickly filled them in on the rest of the battle and our escape through the back while Devil held down the fort.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Carl said once I’d finished recounting my story. “But obviously I’m missing something here. Are those supposed to mean something to me? Because I’m drawing a big, fat blank here.”

  I lifted the pommel from the bed and tossed it to him. “These are relics,” I said, “created by your comatose deity, Khalkeús. And we need to find him because he’s the only one that can put these pieces back together again.”

  Carl’s eyes went hazy, presumably as he read the item description, his jaw dropping a little farther with every second.

  “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” he said. “No. This can’t be happening. These things aren’t even supposed to be real! The Doom Forge is a legend. And like a really obscure one.” He paced frantically, the swish-swish-swish of his robes carrying over the pregnant silence. “Okay, so let me see if I have this straight. You want me to help you find an Aspect—who no one has seen for five hundred years—in order to get him to build you a weapon capable of killing a god. And I’m guessing this other guy, Peng, wants the same thing?”

  “That is an accurate description, yes,” Amara replied, hands folded behind her back as she watched him like falcon eyeing a mouse in the field.

  He deflated a little, looking positively defeated. “There’s gotta be someone else better for this job. I mean, I’m a failed acolyte. I feel like I’ve made that clear, but just want to hammer that home. Failed as in washed out. There are a bunch of full Clerics who are bound to know loads more than I do.”

  “Right,” I said. “And what are our chances of getting into Stone Reach without some help? And even if we do get in, what are the odds that one of those guys is going to talk to us? You don’t even want to talk to us, and we just saved your life. Plus, we’re on sort of a tight deadline. We’ve got about forty-eight hours to pull this off before I drop dead.”

  “Forty-eight hours!” He visibly blanched as horrid realization dawned on him. “Oh no. I’m the chosen one. Oh sweet Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. I’m the chosen one.” He took a deep breath, holding it for a long three count before exhaling loudly. “Wow, does this suck.” He doubled over, breathing hard, clearly on the edge of a panic attack.

  “Trust me,” I replied. “I know the feeling. But here’s the thing. You don’t have any options here. Peng will keep coming for you. And even if you manage to go to ground long enough to throw him, eventually he’ll just go kick in the doors of your order and start indiscriminately killing until he gets the answers he wants. Obviously, you’re on the outs with your order, but I’m sure you don’t want to see the place razed to the ground. So, help us prevent that from happening.”

  Carl plopped down on the opposite bed and tossed the Doom-Forged Pommel onto the mattress with the other items. He slouched forward, forearms resting on his thighs as he stared morosely at the items across from him. After a time, he sighed in resignation and nodded. “Yeah, okay. Guess I’m in. What do you need from me?”

  “What we really need,” Abby said, taking a seat across from him, “is access to your temple in Stone Reach. I’m sure they have some books or artifacts that hold the clue to finding the D
oom Forge, wherever it is.”

  “Well, there’s the first problem. See, I’ve been temporarily exiled from Stone Reach and from the temple. That’s part of the whole me-being-a-failed-Acolyte thing I mentioned before.”

  “What happened?” I asked, taking a seat next to Abby.

  Carl squirmed a bit, glancing this way and that, not wanting to meet my gaze. “So... turns out I might have like a little drinking problem.” He cracked his fingers. “Just a tiny one. One night I was on library duty. The worst shift in the most boring place on the planet. I might’ve got a little drunk on the sanctified wine, which is not really that big of a deal by itself. But I also accidentally—and I can’t stress that enough, this was a completely honest to God mistake—set a bunch of sacred texts on fire. Most of them were replaceable, but one of them was a third edition. The Biographical History of Eitri Spark-Sprayer. Only known copy.”

  “Eitri Spark-Sprayer,” I said, tapping a finger on my chin. “That sounds awfully familiar. Where have I heard that before?”

  “That is easy,” Amara replied promptly. “Eitri Spark-Sprayer was a friend to the Dokkalfar and a close confidante of Nangkri, the Jade Lord himself. After Nangkri’s death, he forged the Horn of the Ancients for Chieftain Isra Spiritcaller.”

  I snapped my fingers. Yep, that was it. The Horn of the Ancients was still back in the Darkshard vault. It was a one-off item that would let me call back the honored Dokkalfar dead to do battle on my behalf. I’d earned it as part of my reward for taking down the Sky Maiden.