Deadline

by Domino Finn

  "No. I'm okay. This way."

  Even though the stairwell was close to Christian's office, Tad took the circuitous route and passed by the collapsed hallway. He pointed out the situation to Ramon, who insisted on checking the Superdome. Tad nodded and waited outside. As the paramedic checked for life, Tad leaned down and scooped up Abbie's pistol. He tucked it into his pocket just as Ramon returned. His face had gone ashen.

  "Christian's this way," Tad instructed, once again leaning on his crutch and hoping he hadn't made a mistake.

  1910 Brain Age

  The buildmaster general of the Black Hats trudged forward. His knees ached, and he blamed Talon for bringing it up. He wouldn't have considered how his knees felt had it not been for their fearless leader. Now the friendly jape had mutated into a cruel torture device as every other step sent a pinch through his nerves.

  The old man sighed. He had a failing left eye and now a bum right leg. He wondered how long it would be until half his mind went as well.

  The NPC shook himself. Was that his programmed personality talking? This was a simulation, after all. As far as he knew, Haven wasn't packaged with an aging model. Surely that precluded degenerative diseases.

  But if that was the case, why in the hell did his bones ache? A health potion would do away with the pain temporarily but it'd be back a few hours later. If there was a sure fix, he hadn't found one.

  As general of the army, Trafford could've ridden one of the wagons. Nooner's company of oxen pulled plenty of them. Feeding an army wasn't a trivial affair, and a couple of the wagons already had space for the injured. That said, the old man couldn't bring himself to do it. As practical as he was, he was also a man of the people. If the Black Hats lacked a stable of horses, so would he.

  The march thus far hadn't been very arduous. A straightforward affair along the southwesterly road, the army advanced with ease. The dark sky gave way to the morning sun, but the air was still crisp. Now, with the daylight hours compounding, their fortunes were beginning to turn.

  With the growing heat and their path headed into the canyons, the terrain was beginning to object to their presence. Nothing too untoward. Uneven, rocky ground to upset the wagon wheels. A gradual incline to put more effort behind each step. And the more Trafford marched, the more the canyon walls closed in from both sides. For the second time today, he ordered the formations to narrow.

  "The Cloven Path," noted Grimwart bitterly.

  General Trafford snorted. "Isn't there a better way to get the army across the mountains?"

  "This is the best way," said Grimwart. "We avoid half the swampland. Skirt the great lake. Forsooth, it is better to march on a major roadway."

  "Aye, if you can call it that."

  The grayed whiskers on Grimwart's lip curled as he smiled. "There are no good ways to or from Oakengard. Such hardship lends resilience to the famed fortress."

  "Lends pretentious mystery too," muttered the general.

  Trafford didn't know what was so great about the famous crusaders anyway. When his city was beset by a titan, they hadn't helped. When the rogue Bishop Tannen executed a coup, the best assistance the crusaders could offer was to march away. Time and time again, Stronghold had held against much worse odds than anything the knights had ever faced. But he had to admit, they had the whole inaccessibility thing down. The Cloven Path was a real pain in the ass.

  "At least we have the road," huffed Trafford in resigned agreement.

  "Yes," nodded Grimwart. "Until the Godsbog."

  "The what now? I thought you said this road skipped the swamps."

  "It skips half the swampland. But you can't get to Oakengard without going through the bog."

  "Great coogly moogly, of course you can't." The old general rolled his eyes and wondered why he hadn't stuck with shopkeeping. If rocky elevation was already proving troublesome, Trafford didn't want to see what muddy pits did. "Can the wagons get through?"

  "The road breaks down for several stretches, but logs have been laid out to mitigate the worst of the goop. These narrow formations will be necessary. Stray off the path too far, and you may discover a sinkhole." Grimwart's black stallion nickered uncomfortably. The colonel looked back and frowned. "It's a mystery to me why, but Artax is deathly afraid of the swamps."

  Trafford shrugged. "Then we'll continue in a line until we approach the fortress."

  The colonel bobbed his head in consideration as he patted his horse's nose. "What concerns me most is walking into an ambush. This terrain is flush with monsters. Rogue catechists are on the loose. The swampland is home to the pagan horde. Our men no longer have the tactical advantage of horses. After the Cloven Path, I suggest we transition to advance-and-secure maneuvers."

  Trafford's brow furrowed. "Hold a forward position while the rear advances and does the same? No can do, Colonel. Time is our biggest enemy, speed our greatest asset. If we miss the deadline, we lose the war without raising a single sword."

  "And if we stumble into an ambush and get routed on the way, the time we saved will matter little."

  The old man frowned. He was a practical man, and that came in handy when dealing with the logistics of moving five hundred people across the Midlands. Grimwart was more focused on strategy, which again proved useful when those five hundred people had swords. If the crusader colonel was afraid of a goblin ambush, Trafford had to respect that.

  He opened his world map and grumbled. The immediate area of the Cloven Path was just now filling in. He'd never been here before and the swamps, mountains, and waterways were all grayed out. Grimwart stepped close and opened his map, revealing heavy familiarity with the land and the route.

  Oakengard was nestled in the southwestern corner of the Midlands. That surprised Trafford. He'd known the NPC fortress was far west but had never seen it in relation to the rest of the map. It was high in the mountains, eastern flank protected by the nigh impassable range of Sunscrapers. The western and southern edges of the map were the literal ends of the world, at least during the beta. A field of blue was said to wall off the fruitful lands beyond. For now, the only approach to Oakengard was from the north.

  As enlightening as the crusader's map was, patches of the swamps, mountains, and beyond the lake were dark. It was a testament to the unknown and the extremes of the unforgiving terrain. It also highlighted exactly how many places their enemies could hide.

  "What we need," contemplated Trafford, "is a way to scout ahead quickly enough while allowing the army to maintain its expedited pace."

  Dune casually strolled up the line to meet them. "You rang, old man?"

  "That's general to you," he snapped. "But you just read my mind. How much of that did you hear?"

  "All of it." The ranger smiled coyly. "Shouldn't Shadow Talon be the one giving us the lay of the land, though? He's the one with the scout class kit, and teleporting should allow him to safely check miles ahead."

  "It doesn't work like that. The void pearl will only teleport someone to another party member, and even that has limitations because Hadrian somehow locked us out of Oakengard. But that's beside the point. I haven't heard from Talon in a few hours, and he's not answering my chat requests."

  Both Grimwart and Dune were surprised by the news, but the ranger recovered with a sigh and a smile. "Well, well. Maybe it's because Talon knows ol' Dune here's the best man for the job."

  General Trafford grumbled. The kid was cockier than all get out, but with Talon busy, he was the best man for the job. "Think you can find the horde before they find us?"

  "Piece of cake," replied Dune. "You know what? It's gonna be fun being a Black Hat."

  He twirled his cape as he went to collect his party. Trafford locked eyes with Grimwart, both hoping the ranger's antics wouldn't get them into trouble.

  1920 Where the Wild Things Are

  Izzy Sakata strolled through the Blackwood, staff in hand.

  The last time she was among the forest of charred trees she had a party at her back. The three
had nimbly scouted the terrain and snuck into the Black Keep's roof access.

  The pixie snorted. Those were simpler times, when all they cared about was leveling and questing and loot. Things would play out differently now. The wild king wouldn't fall for the same trick twice, and Izzy lacked Talon's skill with climbing.

  It was all moot, however, as she had no intention of subterfuge. Talon had given her free rein to deal with this as she wished, and while she didn't feel especially suited for the assignment, she was determined to do it her way. That meant throwing out the disciplines of stealth and intuition and detecting secret passages. Given the unofficial relationship between the Black Hats and the wildkins, a direct approach was more appropriate.

  So here she was, a matchmaker of sorts, except she was a marriage counselor without a marriage. The rub was making the relationship official. With the aloof wildkins, it was a tall ask, but the best chance they had of making it happen was dealing with Theoderic in person. Let him save the poetry for the doves.

  The dead forest rested in a sunken valley surrounded by mountains. The trees were barely clinging to life, creating a canopy of patchwork leaves above the blackened branches. As with the wildkins, life was finding a way. Small birds perched in dry alcoves. Rodents scurried underfoot. The Blackwood wasn't lush with activity, but it wasn't the barren hellscape it appeared from a distance either.

  As Izzy's boots kicked ash from the ground, she thought it ironic the dry field would've been a lake bed without the dam lining the southeastern end of the Black Keep. The old castle was a pyramid built of petrified wood. The dam, crumbling stone patched with rotting logs and piled bones.

  A dry lake, black trees, and thousands of brittle body parts keeping everything a devil's breath from destruction. The wildkins really knew how to set the mood.

  Izzy marched forward in the open, a trail of ash painting a straight line to the double doors of the Black Keep.

  Numerous footfalls reached her ears like whispers. Izzy glanced to her flanks and noted movements. Nothing overt, but a ducking head here, a foot sticking from behind a tree there. Of course. The wildkins were already aware of her presence.

  A moment's walk later, Izzy realized the rodents and birds had all but disappeared. Then the large gates of the Black Keep groaned open. In what she deemed proper deference, Izzy halted her progress. The gaping blackness in the old castle's maw was daunting, as were the hooded figures that scurried out. A low, rumbling growl filled the sparse wood.

  Izzy rolled her eyes. The warden of the Blackwood was putting on a show with his prisoners. She supposed it came with the territory and settled in to wait it out.

  Her cool confidence wavered as the back of her neck bristled. Someone breathed close behind her. Too close. The pixie spun around.

  "Pray tell, pray tell, what bringeth a Black Hat to my wood?"

  It was the ruler of the Blackwood, the wild king himself. Lean, bare-chested, wearing only ragged leather pants, boots, and a stag skull fitted to his face like a mask. His voice was clear and commanding, with just enough mirth to have you second-guessing his intentions.

  Izzy took a stabilizing breath. "A purple plague."

  The seven-foot tall man strode to within a few yards of her. His sinewy chest was painted with broad antlers. The king studied her as she studied him. His eyes were locked on her lavender skin.

  "Not me, you dolt. Another purple plague."

  If the wild king took offense at the slight, he didn't show it. "Explainst thyself."

  Izzy's eyes scanned the perimeter of the wide circle the wildkins were forming around her. They shuffled and traded places and peeked over bushes and shoulders at a safe distance. The Blackwood prisoners had no such reservations. They were humanoids of various castes and kin, all with solid hoods over their faces. They didn't need eyeholes because they didn't need to see. They were nothing more than thralls of the warden.

  She glanced toward the keep and watched Hood approach. Where the wild king was calm and fair, the warden of the Blackwood was anything but. He was an eight-foot brute wearing mismatched plates of armor and lengths of leather and chain. The metal links clinked and trawled the ground around him with minds of their own. The warden's black hood had eyeholes, though she wished they didn't because the glowing white eyes within threatened to pierce her sanity. By comparison, the two-handed executioner's axe the monster wielded in a single hand was the least threatening thing about him.

  Monster he may have been, he was also an asset. Endowed with cursed damage, he was one of the few weapons effective at circumventing the healing magic of Cleric Vagram and the catechists. Izzy wore a bold countenance but inwardly shivered as the warden drew close. Theoderic signaled the warden to halt his progress. She wondered if that was for her benefit and if she'd shown weakness. Hand tight on the winter staff, Izzy raised her voice for all to hear.

  "You probably already know, but in case you've been living in a cave"—Izzy's eyes flitted to the Black Keep—"Haven is set to launch in two days."

  The stag skull cocked. "Such events be of little note to me and mine."

  "On the contrary, those holding power in the cities will enjoy promotions, of a sort. Hadrian will be permanently ingrained into Haven's power structure. His grip on the land will tighten."

  "That be why we reside isolated from thy kind and thine affairs."

  "Not so isolated from Oakengard." Izzy hooked a hand on her hip matter-of-factly. "Hadrian has made use of your kind before. Pagans, wildkins—does any of it really matter? He takes advantage of our prejudices and hate and uses it as oil for his engines of war. Don't you wonder why General Azzyrk fights for him? What was he promised?"

  "No promise," asserted the king, "just prejudice. He harboreth a mutual hatred of mutual enemies. Alas, can it be said the white city played no part in that enmity?"

  "You'd have a point if Hadrian wasn't heading up the crusaders. They've done more against pagankind than anyone. Talon means to change all that. He's pledged to destroy the soulstones. The boggart witches have sided with him."

  Izzy hoped the overstatement of the truth wouldn't backfire, but the wildkins were a tough audience. Theoderic was a hard read with a skull over his face.

  "The witches be respected for their wisdom," admitted the wild king. "Did they not seeketh the destruction of the white city?"

  The pixie smiled. "You're highlighting the very danger we're facing, Your Grace. That siege was the result of manipulation by Saint Loras, working for the same company as Hadrian. The witches have seen the light. If the pagans can approve an alliance, why can't the wildkins?"

  Theoderic scoffed. "I have spurned the advice of the witches before. Thou wilst recount my kind played no part in that battle."

  "Which is why we take you for measured and fair, why we appeal to your reason now. Even you must see your peace can't last. When Hadrian marches east, he'll overtake the isolated Blackwood with ease. You gain nothing by hiding in your keep. You lose everything by not making allies."

  The wild king's tone hardened. "Hiding we are not. 'Tis living we go about." He took a menacing step closer. " 'Tis easy for thee to paintst thy skin and pointst thine ears, but thou knowest naught of our struggles. All this be a game to thee. Be the wildkins no more than game as well, animals for thou to hunt, rob, and pillage? And now that we possess minds of our own, be it not enough to let us be? Still, still thou must draw us into petty wars and strife?"

  Izzy shuddered under the weight of the ruler's stare. She noted the stillness of the wildkins in the trees. This was too dense a matter to resolve now, but it had to be addressed.

  She swallowed calmly and spoke with tenderness. "I empathize with your struggle. The Black Hats are open to furthering relations and peace among all manners of people."

  "The Black Hats," he scoffed. "Talon. The witches. Hast thou no cause of thy own?"

  Izzy jutted her lips out. "Of course I do. That's why I'm here."

  "Thou art here on behalf of another." The
wild king canted his head and neared. "I inquire into the nature of thy heart."

  She blinked defensively. "We're defending Haven. The entire simulation."

  "Insincere platitudes. I desire nothing less than the truth."

  "I..." She paused and breathed deeply. "You want the truth? I understand exactly where you're coming from. You wanna take care of you and yours. Make your own way without getting bogged down by all the shit out there. I did that as the days turned into weeks and then months. I was the best. I was the queen of kick ass. But it was an empty victory. I was hollow inside."

  Theoderic watched intently as she spoke.

  "Yes, it took meeting Talon for me to change. He's different. He's not just acting for himself but for other people, his friends and everyone alike. But I'm here because I want to be here. Because I'm fighting for what I believe in. This isn't a game to any of us. Not anymore. Our livelihoods bind us to each other much more than our disparate pasts. We're here now, struggling and clawing and demanding the same damn thing. This is about freedom or death."

  Chains rattled on the ground around the warden. Theoderic remained still. She'd at least gotten them to hear her words, to listen for a moment. Spurring them into action would take something more.

  Izzy took a solemn breath and spoke with emotion. "That awakening you experienced, that life you so want to live, you have it thanks to a single player. Lucifer. He gave his life for this cause. He's deleted, and he isn't coming back."

  Theoderic shifted back a step. He shot a steadying glance to his warden. Izzy wasn't sure if the wildkins had ever met Lucifer, but it was obvious they regarded him with reverence. They hadn't known of his death.

  That was good. The only reason the wildkins had helped them before was to recover their crown. Talon had found a way to make it personal for them, and she just did too.

  "The Black Hats are still fighting for him," she said. "We all are. Because it's a fight worth breaking the peace for."