by J. A. Hunter
Especially since Vlad hadn’t been responding to my PMs, which meant he was probably elbow deep in some project and didn’t want to be disturbed. Which further meant that I was going to have to convince him to abandon whatever said project was to come do some adventuring. Thankfully, I imagined the idea of seeing the workshop of a deity-level crafter might be enough to sway him. And if not? I’d brought something along to sweeten the pot just a bit.
I passed by the staircase leading to the Enchanter’s Workshop and immediately felt a pang of guilt. Betty was up there, I had no doubt, stooped over her workstation, busy etching delicate runes and arcane sigils into who knew what. A small part of me felt like stopping in and just unwinding for an hour or so to clear my head. But I’d already wasted too much time running over to Darkshard Keep to pick up the gold I needed to pay Lars Blackblade for our new commissioned items along with the horn of Isra Spiritcaller, which I had a feeling might come in handy during the Judgments.
There just wasn’t enough time.
But someday—someday when things were a bit less hectic, when the fate of the world wasn’t suspended by a piece of dental floss—I’d do something normal. I’d develop a craft, maybe even settle down for a bit and leave some of the epic questing to others. Today, however, wasn’t that day. Instead, I picked up my pace, beelining for the staircase at the back of the guild hall that led to Vlad’s workshop and personal quarters.
Begrudgingly, I trudged my way up the circular staircase—the Devs behind VGO certainly had a thing for turrets, towers, and minarets—which eventually dead-ended at a bulky spell-inscribed door. I pounded on the door with the side of my fist, thunk-thunk-thunk. “Vlad, it’s Jack. You haven’t been answering my PMs, and I need to talk to you right now. Super urgent, can’t wait.”
Nothing, but I’d been told by the Crafter’s Hall chief steward that he was in. So, I knocked again, this time more insistently. THUNK-THUNK-THUNK. “Come on, Vlad. I know you’re in there. I’m not sure if I can bust this door down or not, but if you don’t open up, I’m gonna give it the good old college try.”
“Jack?” came a muted reply. There was a rustle of movement through the door: the scuff of boots, the rustle of papers, the tinkle of glass, followed by an ever-present string of muffled Russian cursing too quiet to make out. After a moment, there was another thump and the squeal of a wooden table sliding across the floor. “One moment, Jack. Is just one moment,” Vlad said. Finally, the door opened and my Russian weaponeer—a Dawn Elf with golden skin and a sheet of platinum hair, sporting a leather work apron—appeared in the doorway, his lips turned down into a near permanent scowl.
He was actually pretty even-tempered, I knew, but he always looked like he was on the verge of unleashing an ass-chewing of epic proportions. Just his nature.
“Jack,” he said again, the characteristic scowl replaced by a rather warm grin. “Is so good to see you. And my deepest apologies for, how is it you say, ‘Blowing you up.’”
“Blowing you off,” I corrected.
“Ah, yes. Blowing you off. Your American idioms, they are a strange goose. But please, come, come.” He pulled the door wide and waved me into the chaotic sprawl of his office.
I stepped in, taking a quick survey of the room.
The lab was a total mess, just like every other time I’d ever visited him. Books were scattered everywhere—propped up on tables and chairs, lying open on the floor—while loose papers, filled with scribbled notes, sat in disorganized stacks. There were plates and empty bottles of mead lying haphazardly near a twin bed with rumpled sheets. A series of shelves lined several walls, loaded down with ingredients of one type or another: everything from bee stingers and amber sap to powdered diamond and goopy jungle muck. Against the far wall sat a sprawling table covered with glass beakers, lengths of tubing, impromptu Bunsen burners, mortars and pestles, and vials filled with finished potions.
And that was only the beginning. There were also stranger things—miniature models of siege weapons, blueprints, discarded pieces of armor. Honestly, it looked a bit like the lair of some mad scientist. Which, upon reflection, was completely accurate. Thankfully, this mad scientist was on our side.
“You said is urgent thing?” He reached up and mindlessly scratched at his neck. “Am all ears and ready to listen.”
I headed over and grabbed an empty chair near his desk. It felt incredibly good to sit after hiking up the unending flight of stairs to his tower office. “I’m on a quest,” I said with a sigh, “absolutely top secret and I need someone I can trust on this last leg of the mission.”
“So, it is a normal day for you then?” he replied with a smirk. “I kid. But, in truth, you are always on top secret mission, da? I cannot remember a time when there was anything else.”
I barked a laugh and nodded in agreement. He wasn’t wrong. “Fair point, Vlad. But this one is something else entirely. It’s a Death-Head quest.”
His face paled visibly. He’d helped me take down the great Sky Maiden Arzokh on my last Death-Head quest, and it had nearly killed him a hundred times over.
“Jack, I owe you my life... but I remember last such mission. Was not a pleasant experience. Besides, if it is fighting you need, there are many other more skilled at combat than me. If you need, I could call my personal guard, the Ebenguard, to assist you. They are trustworthy, of that there is no doubt.”
I’d met the Ebenguard a handful of times, and they all seemed like good people, but it was the same problem I had with bringing on someone from the Malleus Libertas. I needed someone I could trust implicitly. “Nope, I can only take one person on this mission, and I think you’re the perfect fit.” I launched into the tale of Eitri Spark-Sprayer, Khalkeús, and the Doom Forge, walking Vlad through our discoveries and the potential ramifications. By the time I was done, Vlad looked like someone had drop-kicked him off the side of a building.
“Vlad needs a drink,” he mumbled, turning his back on me and shambling toward a flask on the table, filled with clear liquid. Without hesitation, he lifted the flask and took a long steady swig, his head back, his eyes closed, his long hair hanging down like a curtain. Finally, he lowered his head and pulled the glass flask away, half the liquid gone. “Is vodka,” he said in explanation, holding it out toward me. “Would you like? I think is appropriate considering circumstances.”
I shook my head. I already had enough working against me—I couldn’t afford to be drunk on top of everything else. “So, what do you say?”
“Let me see if I have correct. You want me, Vlad, an Alchemist with little combat training, to go with you into deadly dungeon. No turning back, no potions, must fight enraged god. Chances of certain death are high. And we must do it with only six people.” He paused, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “Seems like a bad deal. As my people are wont to say, bari derutsya, oo holopov chubi treshat.”
After his involvement with the Sky Maiden, I knew this might be an issue, which is why I’d come prepared to bargain.
“No, you’re totally right,” I said, raising my hands in defeat. “And I thought you might feel that way, which is why I brought you a gift.” I opened my inventory and pulled out the strange silver rod I’d lifted from Peng’s Anti-Mage. “I bet you’ve never seen one of these before, and I know that because I’ve seen just about everything before and this was a new one to me. It’s called an Arcane Dampener, and it has the ability to create a dome that nullifies all magic in the given area of effect.”
Vlad’s eyes had grown to the size of teacups and burned with greedy hunger. “Where did you find this thing?”
“Took it from one of Peng’s inner circle. This thing nearly killed us, and I bet if a certain Alchemic Weaponeer had a chance to study it, he could make some pretty cool stuff.”
Vlad’s wide eyes narrowed. “You are bribing me?”
“Pfft, no. I’m making a peace offering.”
“Bribe. Peace offering. Is all the same in Russia.” He shook his head and waved his han
d. “It is not matter, I will come.”
I laughed. “Just like that?”
He shrugged, then held out his hands expectantly. “Death is nothing compared to innovation. I will gladly die for something like this.”
“Awesome,” I said, handing over the silver rod. “Then get what you need, we’re heading to Stone Reach.”
AN HOUR LATER, I DROPPED the sixth member of our raiding team off at the temple to rendezvous with Abby and the others, then I made my way over to Blue Blazes on level three with a reluctant Cutter in tow. I’m sure Forge would’ve given his right arm to make the trip with me, but he, Amara, and Ari were off running fetch-quest errands for Carl, who needed a cartload of crafting ingredients and spell components to get the uber-cleric ritual off the ground. Carl was busy sleeping, and Abby was scouring the texts, but Cutter—who was always looking to skirt work and manual labor whenever possible—had just been skulking around in the chapel.
Drinking oodles and oodles of ceremonial wine.
“Mind if I ask you something, Jack?” Cutter said as we rounded a corner, boots clacking on the cobblestones.
“Always, man. What’s up?” I glanced his way and saw something truly frightening: Cutter looked uncertain. He never looked uncertain. And even when he was genuinely out of his depth, he had a way of making you think he knew exactly what he was about. “Everything okay?” I asked, feeling a genuine bead of worry.
“It’s probably nothing,” he said, shrugging a shoulder, glancing down, refusing to look me in the eyes. “Being a right mule-headed bastard, I reckon. Overthinking things.”
I stopped walking and rounded on him, dropping a hand onto his shoulder. “You know you can talk to me, right? We’ve been together since the beginning. I wouldn’t be where I am without you. Now tell me what’s wrong.” Not a question, but a demand.
He glanced up, an uneasy lopsided smile on his face. Then slowly, he reached into a pocket at his side and pulled free a golden ring, inscribed inside and out with fine silver runes. My stomach lurched. “I’m thinking about asking Amara,” he finally said in a whisper. “Have been for a while. Even before the thing in Rowanheath, with the Guild, I mean. I think I always sorta knew she was the one, but I thought she bloody well would’ve turned me down. Now that I’m a Gentleman, though? She’ll say yes, won’t she?”
I had to shake my head, because it was like seeing Cutter for the first time. He was scared. Not scared of dying or of failure, but of a pretty girl rejecting him. I laughed and pulled him into a hug. “Don’t be a moron. Of course she’s going to say yes.” I let him go, holding him at arm’s length. “And she would’ve said yes before you were a Gentleman. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She loves you, man. She used her one unrestricted gift from an Overmind to turn you into a Traveler. She did that instead of saving herself. Trust me, man. You’re not an easy guy to love, but Amara? She does. Don’t ask me why, but she does.”
“Really think so, eh?” he said, shuffling on uncertain feet. But instead of looking pleased, the smile slipped away like the last breath of a dying man. “That’s the other thing. I...” He faltered. “Well, I was thinking about asking her before the Judgment, but... What if I die, Jack? I mean, based on everything Carl said about the trials, it seems certain I’m going to die. And I know”—he stuck both hands up, forestalling my interruption—“I should respawn. But. But I haven’t bloody died yet, and I can’t help but think, what if Sophia mucked it up, eh? Wouldn’t be the first time these Overminds got something wrong. What if I die and I don’t bloody respawn? I can’t ask her to marry me then leave her like that. I’m not some bloody sentimental type, but it wouldn’t be right to break her heart like that.”
“Just between you and me? You should totally do it. Even if things do go wrong, she’d want to know how you feel.” I smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “But don’t worry about it. You’re going to be fine, Cutter. Everyone is—”
The words died on my lips as I doubled over, a lightning bolt of white-hot agony frying my nerve endings in an instant; black invaded at the edges of my vision, and a host of white stars exploded across my eyes. I dropped to the street pavers, clenching my stomach as blood bubbled out from my lips. God, but it hurt. Everything suddenly hurt so, so much. It felt like there was a wildfire rampaging through my whole body, burning down everything in its wake.
After what felt like a lifetime—but was actually only a smattering of seconds—the agony started to dull around the edges and a prompt flashed:
<<<>>>
Debuff Added
Gut Check: As a result of the Death-Head Mode, your body is slowly dying! You’ve been afflicted with a Gut Check, which temporarily strips 10 points from all attributes until you exit Death-Head Mode!
<<<>>>
I blinked the notice away, and Cutter helped me to my feet, concern plastered across his face. This time, though, he didn’t bother asking what was wrong. He knew exactly what it was, and he knew what it meant: time was running short. The artificial sun above us was already sinking toward the western horizon, the light overhead gray and dour. We only had a handful of hours left to get ourselves ready for the Judgment, and there was so much to do.
Still, I didn’t rush ahead—this thing with Amara, it was important. In some ways, just as important as the Doom Forge. Maybe more so.
Sure, saving the world was a necessity, but making the world a place worth saving—a place worth fighting for—was a necessity too. And this thing with Amara was that. “I don’t have all the answers,” I said. “But if you feel that way, you need to tell her before it’s too late. Because here’s the thing. Even if you survive this mission, there are still Malware blades out there. And there’s still an Overmind who would like nothing better than to grind the world into dust. No one knows how long they have, so it’s better to say what’s in your heart while you can. Because if you don’t, you’ll regret it forever—and so will she.”
He grimaced and nodded, his gaze hazy and introspective.
We hustled the rest of the way over to the Blue Blazes, both of us silent.
In next to no time we found ourselves in front of the rather plain workshop from the day before; there was still no line. We headed inside, the brass bell announcing our presence to the otherwise empty shop. A moment later, there was a grunt and a thud as the door behind the service counter burst open and a bedraggled Lars Blackblade trundled out, looking like he’d aged fifteen years and then had a gang beat the ever-living crap out of him with crowbars and lead pipes. I mean, he looked tired, sure, but it was far more than that.
His formerly thick salt-and-pepper beard was now wispy and entirely silver. His leather workman’s apron was still grimy and covered with soot and ash, but there were also streaks of what could only be dried blood splashed here and there. As before, he was topless under that apron, but his arms and shoulders were surprisingly thin and littered with deep cuts and swollen lacerations, red with infection. Seriously, what in the hell had happened to this guy? The more I looked on, the more I revised my opinion. He hadn’t been attacked by a gang and beaten with crowbars and lead pipes... no, he’d been mauled by a pack of hungry, ill-tempered bears.
Despite that, though, the Dwarf hardly seemed to notice. Quite to the contrary, he seemed excited.
Lars flipped up his goggles and tromped over to the counter, leaning against the slick wood as he offered us a big smile. “Damn near killed me, but I did it. All seven commissions, all done in a single day. It’s my personal best.” His face grew somber, losing some of his joy for a moment. “It did actually almost kill me, though, so I hope you boys brought my gold as promised. Probably shoulda charged you twice over for this kinda order, but I’m a Dwarf of my word, and the deal is the deal, as my folk say.”
“Yeah, we brought the gold,” I said, reaching into my inventory and pulling out a sack of coins big enough to beat a horse to death with. I dropped it onto the counter with a thump that rattled the floor. “But first, are you ok
ay? You look...” I wasn’t sure how to proceed without just flat out insulting him, but I decided honesty was the best policy. “Terrible,” I finished. “You look like you just crawled out of a raid against an angry mountain lion.”
He grunted and waved a heavily butchered hand through the air. “Comes with the territory. We Soul Smiths don’t just put our soul into our work, we put a fair amount of blood and flesh into it as well. Ain’t a pleasant experience, that much I can tell you, which is why we take so few commissions, but the results speak for themselves. My items are one of a kind, and second to none. And the contract I’ve made with the gear will pay me long after the wounds are gone and your gold here”—he nodded at the bag—“is spent. Now, let me show you the fruits of my labor.”
Carefully, he laid out seven items on the counter, placing each down as gently as though it were a newborn baby.
First, a glassy orb, black but shot through with twisting skeins of red and gold, called Asima’s Will. I pulled up the item description and took a long look.
<<<>>>
Asima’s Will
Weapon Type: Relic; Off-Hand Weapon
Class: Ancient Artifact
Base Damage: 0
Primary Effects:
+100 points fire damage
+7% cast speed
All spell costs are reduced by 9%
+10% resistance to arcane and elemental damage
Secondary Set Effects:
Increases Rain of Fire damage by 12%
+1 Fire Eater; +1 Residual Heat; +1 Phoenix Rising
Soul Smith’s Blessing 1: +450 XP per kill
Soul Smith’s Price: -200 XP per kill
Restriction: Useable by Firebrands only!
