by James Hunter
A [Far-Seeing Crystal].
It was really a TV, one of a few in all of Eldgard, which allowed Abby and me to stream movies. From what I understood, each Keep had one of these puppies installed in the master suite.
I ignored all of that and headed past the sitting room and into the master bedroom, littered with closets, nightstands, armor display racks, and a bed big enough to fit five people, easy. The luxury of the suite made me mildly uncomfortable, but the bed was an exception. I’d slept on lots of different mattresses during my time in V.G.O.—everything from cheap straw pads to thin floor pallets—and this bed was the single greatest thing I’d ever experienced. It was like sleeping on a cloud, wrapped in pure, warm sunlight.
The lights were already on, and I could hear the pitter-patter-splash of falling water, coming directly from the connecting bathroom. “Jack,” Abby called out, her voice muffled by the thick bathroom door. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, I’m back,” I replied, before rubbing my palms into my eye sockets to dispel the sleep threatening to take over my body.
There was a click, and a moment later the sound of falling water faded and died. I turned away and stripped out of my gore-covered armor, placing it onto the wooden armor rack near the bed. The rack was almost as magical as the knockoff TV in the living room—certainly more useful. Just stash your armor on one of those for an hour, and abracadabra the gear was clean and ready to go. I slipped on a pair of linen pants and a soft cotton undershirt just as the bathroom door swung open, jettisoning a swirling cloud of steam into the bedroom.
Abby padded out clad in a pristine white robe cinched tight at the waist, her brown hair up in a creamy towel. She offered me a small, lopsided smile, which only served to showcase the deep bags under her brown eyes. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who’d pulled an all-nighter. She paused, canting her head to one side, her lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line as she studied me. Of all the people in V.G.O., she knew me best. She knew me before the game, before the Alliance, the power, and the responsibility.
“What’s wrong, Jack?” she finally said, genuine worry bleeding through the words.
I glanced away, not wanting to meet her gaze, unsure of what to say. In some ways, the appearance of the Malware Blade of Serth-Rog was as devastating as the appearance of the asteroid that’d wiped out a big chunk of humanity. I needed to tell her, of course, but I also didn’t want to saddle her with a burden like that, even if the info was bound to come to light eventually.
When I glanced back up, she was in front of me, her smile just a little wider. “Come on,” she said, hooking her arm through mine, then dragging me toward the far side of the room. Dark curtains hung down in a sheet, but with a snap of her fingers, they pulled back, revealing a glass sliding door, which let out onto a stone patio. A relaxing little nook complete with plush deck chairs, a small stone fire pit already alight, and a phenomenal view of the city, stretching out below. A trickle of golden light poked fingers up above the jagged mountains to the east.
She slid open the door and ushered me into one of the padded chairs. I groaned as the chair absorbed my weight and cradled my sore limbs and achy muscles. With a grunt, I slid down, letting my tense muscles relax as I propped my feet up on a wooden ottoman with a thick cushion. The brisk air washed over my skin, but the slowly smoldering fire in the pit kept the worst of the early morning chill at bay. I snuggled deeper into the chair, letting my chin drop to my chest for a second as I pressed my eyes shut, breathing deeply.
TWENTY_
Revelations
“Jack,” I heard a moment later—Abby’s voice slicing through the dull haze clouding my brain. “Jack,” her voice came again, “I have …” A slight pause. “Coffee.” Even as she spoke the sacred word of power, coffee, the rich aroma of Western Brew tickled my nostrils. “And food. Pancakes. Eggs.” She paused again, and though I had my eyes closed, I could almost see the smile on her face. “Bacon,” she finished. And there it was, the second word of power: Bacon. My stomach gurgled in reply, and suddenly my mouth was salivating in anticipation.
Begrudgingly, I cracked my eyes open, and was shocked to see that the sun was no longer loitering above the eastern side of the mountains—no, now it was descending, just the upper edge of the sun showing above the western slopes. But that was impossible. I paused, pulling up my interface to check the time. 5:30 PM. Wow. Somehow, I’d passed out in the chair and slept for nearly eleven hours. When I turned toward Abby, I was again shocked to see she’d ditched the bathrobe and towel, and now wore her standard crimson gown, covered in golden lace and runic sigils of power.
And, true to her word, she was carrying a heavy silver tray loaded down with savory food and a carafe of coffee, perched next to a porcelain mug. I stifled a yawn with a closed fist, then scooted up in my seat as she carefully set the tray down on a dark wood table, positioned between the two lounge chairs. My belly was protesting, insisting I devour all the food as quickly as I could manage, but I resisted. Right now, my brain was foggy, and I needed to fix that first. With a mumbled “thank you,” I leaned over and poured myself a cup of joe, savoring the scent and the warmth radiating through the porcelain and into my hands.
With enough good coffee, all things are possible.
“So,” Abby said, dropping into the chair next to mine, her gaze fixed not on me but on the sprawling city bustling with activity. “You ready to tell me about what has you so rattled? And don’t even try to pretend you’re not rattled”—she cocked one knowing eyebrow and stole a sidelong glance at me—“because I know you. Something happened while you were out running around with Cutter and the Spider Queen.” She leaned over, snagging a piece of crisp bacon from the tray. She took a bite, then leaned back in her seat, giving me the time I needed.
I took a long, slow sip from the mug, letting the warmth wash down my throat and fill my chest. “I found something, Abby. Something bad. Worse than Osmark, maybe.” I took another sip of coffee, my hand trembling slightly, then set the half-full cup down on the tray. “It’s a long, complicated story,” I said after a beat, “but I think you need to hear all of it. You’re right, though, it does have to do with the Spider Queen and the new pact we made with the Catacombs of the Forsaken.”
She turned toward me, rapt and attentive as I spun the tale, explaining first about Lowyth and her strange request, then moving on to our time down in the Catacombs with Jo-Dan. Abby listened carefully, interrupting me every now and again to ask pointed questions or draw out information and details I hadn’t even thought about. What limitations did Jo-Dan have? Did the dungeons have a way to communicate? How did they level up? What exact role did the Overmind Cernunnos play? I answered as best I could, then moved on to explain about what we’d uncovered in the Frozen Warrens.
I told her about the Vogthar, about what I’d seen through the portal in the heart of the Warrens, and Jo-Dan’s suspicions about what Serth-Rog and his Black Priests were up to. As I spoke, she became more and more somber, the color draining from her face while she unconsciously chewed at her bottom lip—a sure tell that she was as nervous as I felt.
“So we’re looking at a potential invasion,” she finally said, the words almost more for herself than for me. “Do you know when? Or what their targets are?”
I could only shake my head.
Sure, the evidence overwhelmingly pointed toward invasion, but so far even the Overminds seemed a little unsure about what exactly Serth-Rog and his boss, Thanatos, were trying to pull off. “But,” I replied, accessing my inventory, “I think we might have a way to get more leads, or at least minimize whatever they’re planning.” First, I pulled out the leather-bound journal filled with names. “I know we already have all the Crimson Alliance members in this thing flagged and under observation, but now we can find out for sure if they’re working for Serth-Rog.”
I flopped the notebook down on the chair’s armrest and pulled out the restricted Vogthar gear. “This stuff is usable only by people
with an evil alignment—anyone else is immediately afflicted with a nasty Plague debuff that hangs around as long as they have the restricted items equipped. So far, the only folks I’ve seen with evil alignments are followers of Serth-Rog. So here’s what I want to do. Let’s get this stuff distributed to all of the Keep magistrates, then pull in anyone under surveillance and see if they can use this stuff. If not, we let ’em go, if so, we lock ’em down and see what info we can get.”
She nodded, her brow furrowed as she retrieved the items, examining each one before it disappeared into her inventory. “Okay, I can make that happen,” she said as the last item vanished. “This is inconvenient timing, considering we have the Legion breathing down the back of our collective necks. But …” She paused and sighed. “But, I suppose it’s better now than when the Vogthar decide to move and it’s too late to do a damn thing about it.” She absently smoothed the folds in her dress, her gaze distant, her thoughts elsewhere.
Likely running down the list of all the folks she’d need to get on the horn. “Alright.” She reached out, placing a hand on my arm. “As much as I would love to lounge around with you and enjoy the view, we’ve got a lot to do.” She pressed her lips into a tight line, then squeezed my arm. “Unless you have something else, I’m going to leave you to enjoy your breakfast and get started on this right away.”
Her hand retreated from my arm, but before she could stand and go, I reached out, clasping her wrist. “There’s one more thing. And I think you’re going to want to stay sitting for this one.” Fear and anxiety sprinted across her face in turns. I licked my lips, offered her my most reassuring smile, then pulled the final Vogthar item from my bag: the Malware Blade. I held it gingerly by the hilt, not wanting the razor-sharp edge to nick me, even knowing that’s not how the Thanatos Virus worked. “This is what we really need to talk about.”
I carefully set the blade down on the table, near the serving platter.
She didn’t touch the thing, which was smart. Instead, she hunched over to examine the item like a cop eyeballing a murder weapon found at the scene of a crime. She was quiet for a few seconds, then promptly straightened and leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest as though to protect herself from some unfelt breeze. I didn’t say anything, though. I just watched her as she watched the sunset. Tears broke free and rolled down her cheeks, but still she said nothing.
She didn’t need to. We both knew what that dagger represented.
After what felt like a lifetime, she reached up and obliterated the tears marring her cheeks with the back of one hand. When she finally spoke, her voice was iron, sheathed in velvet, no hint of a weepy damsel in distress in need of rescuing. “This changes things,” she said. “Lots of things. A virus, of course it would be a virus. But who would do this?” She asked no one, the question hanging uncomfortably in the air. “Who would want to introduce a weapon like this?
“It can’t be Osmark, right?” she asked, not expecting an answer. “This kind of tech would endanger him, too. Besides, the Empire wouldn’t be able to use this stuff either—every Imperial I’ve encountered has a Light alignment. No, that doesn’t add up to me.” She reached up and rubbed at her temple, her eyes pressed shut. “No Dev could make something like that. This is bigger than any player, or even any faction. It’s got to be Thanatos the Overmind. He was always the worry. Repurposed military tech.” She sighed and opened her eyes. “Who else knows about this? Cutter? This dungeon boss, Jo-Dan?”
“No one,” I replied, sagging in my seat. “Just the two of us. I figured something of this magnitude needed to be handled carefully. But we can’t afford to wait too long. If Jo-Dan is right and these things are preparing to invade Eldgard, it’s a safe bet that their elite troops, at least, will be packing this kind of heat. I think we should take it to Vlad. If anyone can find an antidote to the Thanatos Virus, it’ll be him. The bigger question is when to take this to the Alliance Council. I mean, they need to know, but is now the right time?”
Abby frowned, her lips pulling down at the corners. “I don’t have a good answer, Jack. But I think you did the right thing. This will be a big distraction, and with the Legion less than a full day’s march from Ravenkirk, I think it’s better to wait. I’ll make sure the magistrates round up and inspect all the people on our watch list, but other than that, I say we deal with the Legion first. Stay focused, put Osmark down hard, then? Then we regroup and deal with this.”
She stood and needlessly adjusted her hair. Once more I saw the glimmer of a tear form in her eye, but that tear never fell. “We’re going to be okay,” she said, sliding over in front of me.
I pushed myself from the chair and wrapped my arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug. “Yeah. We’ve come through a lot. We’ll make it through this, too. We just put one foot in front of the other and never stop.”
She pulled away and stared up into my face, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. “You’re getting better at this,” she said, before straining up on her tippy-toes, brushing her lips against mine. “Now finish your food, then get back to Ravenkirk. We’ve got a war to win.”
TWENTY-ONE_
Final Preparations
“You gotta see this, Jack,” Forge said with a grin.
I sighed and nodded, following him into a cozy wooden house near the front gate of Ravenkirk as I rubbed at one temple. It had already been a very long and tiring night. First, I’d spent time mingling with the troops at the inn, buying several rounds of drinks to encourage them. Then I’d tromped off to the forge and impromptu alchemy lab, chatting with Vlad, who enthusiastically displayed and demonstrated all of the fancy new weapons and gadgets he’d cooked up. And there were lots of them, including an enormous gossamer net that would make retreat nearly impossible for the Imperials.
From there, I inspected the fortifications and trenches littering the field in front of the town, and touched based with Morgan Sellsword—an NPC and the mercenary in charge of a small platoon of competent, cutthroat mercenaries Abby had hired. After ironing out a few contractual details with him, I’d left the sellsword to his work and tracked down Forge, who was only too happy to take me on an exhaustive tour of the town.
I pushed all that from mind as I eyeballed the interior of the building. When the Imperials invaded, this house would be at the forefront of the fighting early on. From the outside, the house was unremarkable—I wouldn’t think twice about the place if I passed it on the street. The inside of the building, however, was anything but standard. The door had been reinforced with steel, as had the walls facing the main boulevard, which snaked its way through the center of town. One of the bulky hwach’a sat in front of the den window, staring out at the roadway.
A pair of reinforced sandbag barriers sat farther back in the room—fallback positions for when the Imperials finally breached the door—and beyond that was the entrance to the newly minted tunnels. “This is so badass,” Forge said, ushering me toward the square hole in the floor, which had a small wooden ladder leading down into the dark. “And those new dungeon fellas you recruited, the zombie ones? They’ve been a real help, Jack. Even taught us how to rig bone bombs, man. Like magical IEDs that explode whenever someone outside the faction gets in range. Come on, I’ll show you.”
He hustled over to the opening and clambered down the ladder, his heavy footfalls echoing up.
The tunnelway beneath the house was bigger than I’d expected—not large enough for me to stand upright, but I wasn’t moving at a crawl either. Come to think of it though, I was a lot taller than most players, and the Dwarven Battle Miners who’d built the majority of these passages would’ve been able to move about freely. The tunnels themselves were blocky and surprisingly neat: the rubble cleared away, the walls chiseled and smooth, wooden support struts decorating the way, ensuring there were no cave-ins. And though the tunnels were entirely underground, it was easy to see.
Vlad had built golden glass orbs—similar to the magical lightbulbs in
my master suite—which were jammed into the stone between the support arches.
“Now, it don’t look like much,” Forge said, glancing back at me over his blocky shoulder, “but hot damn if this place isn’t a death trap. Originally, we had plans to just blow the house entrances the second our troops retreated, but we adjusted things just a bit. Now the alchemic bombs are on timed delays, so a good number of enemy troops will get down here before those bombs go off, sealing off their way out. Then they’ll have to trek through here, and that’s bad for them. Look at this, Hoss.”
His steps faltered as he came up to a support arch that looked identical to every other support we’d passed. He tapped a finger against the pillar, pointing out three sharp red notches worked into the wooden post.
“These marks tell our folks what kinda trap is up ahead. So far we’ve already moved past a punji pit with poison spikes, a bone bomb implanted in the wall and concealed by illusion magic, and a deadfall that’ll crush the first enemy troop through. And this one?” He crouched down, one hand sweeping across the stone near the base of the pillar. There was a soft click as he depressed some trigger on the floor, and a panel in the right-hand wall slid open.
There was a soft rustle of movement from within the niche.
Curious, I slipped forward but quickly recoiled in shock. There was a deep hole, gouged into the rock face, and stowed away inside were a pair of electric-blue Portal-Crawlers, ready and waiting to spring on any foe unlucky enough to come through. And unlike the brown-furred spiderkin so common to the Storme Marshes, the Portal-Crawlers were deadly foes, capable of stepping through space and time at will. The spiders just stared at us with dead black eyes, their wickedly curved mandibles clicking open and shut, salivating in anticipation.
