by Domino Finn
I blinked at my inventory, dumbfounded as the words of the boggart witches echoed in my mind. It takes a titan to rally the errant. I produced Lucifer's bobblehead and tossed it to Azzyrk, hoping he wouldn't mind the regift.
The general's eyes widened. "An Orik chibi?!? This is the last one I need to complete the Titans of Yore set!"
"There!" announced Jixa with a slap to her father's back. "No moreses blood feud. Youses and boss mans be friends."
"He can't be your boss," muttered the flabbergasted father. "He's a human."
She rolled her eyes hard. "No say that, Apa. Humanses teach me: that racist." She crossed her arms triumphantly.
The general scowled and paced toward his mount. "Racist? I'm not racist. He turned the Mighty One to stone."
"Convenient excuse," she countered, walking alongside him. "Admits it. You hateses the white city because it humanses city."
"That's not true! I have lots of human friends."
"You do? Who?"
"You know... I'm sure I can come up with one." His eyes lit up. "What about that baby Chowa's nephew kidnapped?"
Izzy and Dune strolled up as the arguing goblin family disappeared between the ogre enforcers and the waning crowd. The goblin audience was breaking up as they realized there'd be no blood sport today.
"Uh, hello?" I said, waving the dragonspear in the air. "Blood feud, anyone? I was just getting started."
Izzy snorted. "Sure you were."
"I was."
"You did 17 points of damage to him."
I scoffed. "That was on purpose! I was stalling till the army showed up."
Dune's eyes narrowed. "Wait, you knew Jixa was related to the general?"
"Hell no, I just figured adding four hundred armed troops to the mix would be incentive to stop the fight."
Baz, listening nearby, exploded into crude laughter. "Har har har! Little yooman funny. Soldiers don't stop fight, soldiers make fight. Har har har!" The ogre stomped away like I was the stupidest person in the world.
After a moment, I begrudgingly hiked a shoulder. "I guess I underestimated the determination of the goblin horde."
Izzy snorted. "Just be glad blood is thicker than blood feuds."
As the pagans recollected to the west, the human army approached from the north. It was slow going. The road in the Godsbog wasn't much of one. If it wasn't dirt it was mud, otherwise it was moss. Some stretches of ground were waterlogged and supported with rotten logs and stones. No wonder Oakengard was so protected. It was isolated by the impassable Skyscrapers, an endless lake, and grimy wetlands.
Our disparate party sheathed our weapons and greeted Buildmaster General Trafford and Colonel Grimwart.
"Aye," exclaimed the old man. "You're a sight for sore eyes. And in the flesh, too!"
"These are the new troops you reported in captain chat?" I asked, admiring the wave of knights in black cloth.
"That they are."
"The most dependable cavalry in Haven," added Grimwart.
I nodded. "Well, now they'll be backed up by the best healer regiment." I pointed to the collected catechists. My good humor experienced a hiccup and my face went grim. "Bishop Tannen is among them. Terms of the alliance."
The usually collected Grimwart was shocked by the news. "My countrymen! I must see to them." He spun away, collected two of his sergeants, and headed for the priests.
Trafford studied me with his good eye and scratched his wild hair. "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, son. I'm an old man with a foggy memory. Didn't Bishop Tannen steal the Eye of Orik and attempt to take over Stronghold?"
I spoke through tight lips. "He did."
"Uh-huh. And isn't that pretty much the same thing we're fighting Hadrian for?"
I didn't answer this time. Not all our peace would come at the hands of a lucky familial connection. In a war of this magnitude, we needed the army of healers more than anybody else.
The march continued as the moon rose higher in the sky. It had been a while since I'd been with the troops so I did my rounds. That included checking on Kyle and Lash and Errol in chat. Everyone had their problems to deal with, but ours were especially menial.
Driving supply wagons through the Godsbog was excruciating. Exhaustion swept the ranks, wagon wheels broke, Karen died of dysentery—it was like Oregon Trail all over again. I came up with a plan of action after Nooner gave me the full update.
"Ditch the wagons. They're light enough now that we don't need them. Reshuffle the supplies into saddlebags on the oxen. They'll walk through the bog easier only managing four legs."
The gangster-turned-cattle-driver nodded along to my instructions. "Oi, that's a workable idea, but it requires reorganizing a village's worth of inventory. It'll take time we surely don't have."
I surveyed the area. We'd just pushed up a steppe to slightly higher ground in the bog. It wasn't dry, but the stiff plants clung to the soil and provided a measure of drainage. It wasn't perfect, but there was no perfect place for hundreds of people to sleep. "We'll camp here for the night. Everyone can take shifts reorganizing supplies."
As Nooner went to work, I hurried to the priests and wildkins to relay the decision. They were accustomed to the terrain and happy to stop for the night. The first objection unsurprisingly came from Trafford. If his constant cursing was any indication, he definitely wasn't keen on the idea.
"You did a great job getting this force through the Cloven Path as fast as possible," I told him. "It's time to rest now. The soldiers need it after we skimped on camp last night. We can't head into battle disorganized and buried by fatigue debuffs."
"I'm not talkin' bout the debuffs and you know it," argued the old man. "I believe in you and all, but what about the titan? If we stop here for the night, Orik'll be sure to catch up to us."
"I'm counting on it. It takes a titan to rally the errant, and we're way past bobbleheads."
"What's that now?"
"Nothing." I nodded him off and headed toward the next group. "Get this army in shape for the big battle tomorrow."
"You got it, supreme commander."
I chuckled as I marched away. What a lovable pain in my ass.
2070 Streets of Rage
The Papa of all Papas stomped forward through the streets. The beaches and boardwalk were littered with bodies. His axes and bare chest were awash in blood. Idle fires burned, and the war-torn cries of the injured were dying down.
Brugo stepped lightly over the corpses of the last pocket of loyalists. The cowards had fled Underkeep. Their might had buckled at the first sign of trouble. With the leaders of the rebellion running for their lives, the smaller gangs had lost their footing. Some unwisely resorted to attacking any opposition, but the smart gangs executed tactical retreats and disappeared into the shadows.
The fishmongers and dockworkers were the first to capitulate. There were other gangs, more dangerous gangs. They needed to be reined in rather than dealt with. But the loyalists came first.
Brugo stopped over a sniveling man. He was clawing at the dirt road, gasping through mud caked on his face. Blood leaked from his ruined nose and jaw. Brugo laid a heavy boot to his back and spun him over. The man shielded his face with his hands and averted his eyes.
"You are a lucky man," announced Brugo. Behind him, a goblin family ran to safety. The Papa frowned at the sniveling man and the street littered with dirty weapons. "Do you not care to hear why?" When the man didn't answer, Brugo pressed his boot into his stomach. The gang member grimaced, eyes shut, but his hands lowered to the boot.
"P-please," he said.
"You are a lucky man because you are the last of Hadrian's loyalists. The last of the men who swore to me yet served him." Brugo lifted the boot and paced around the prisoner. "This distinction earns you an exceptional farewell. I shall string you onto the posts of the boardwalk and have the crows and the crabs pick at your flesh. Your suffering will last weeks. Do you hear me?"
The man opened his eyes. Their unnatural violet glo
w shook the hard crime boss down to his bones, yet this was unapparent to the few observers who gathered. Brugo turned to them, his people now, and hid a shiver.
"Or perhaps you are lucky because, in the interest of mending a wounded city, Papa Brugo deigns to show mercy."
His axe came down swiftly, severing the head of the last holdout. As it rolled to a stop, the eerie light in the eyes went out.
"Papa," called Avisa, approaching with her guard. "We have a gift."
Errol shoved forward a man in plain leathers. The assassin's head humbly drooped to the ground.
Brugo studied him as he approached. "You are Poe, notorious among the assassin collective."
"The head of it now," spat Avisa. "He took advantage of the shakeup in the city to seize power without your consent."
Brugo's eyebrows stretched high. "Did you now?"
"You were no longer here to appeal to," rushed the assassin. "I only took over to keep the collective in line. I surrendered to your people of my own volition."
The words came out honestly enough. When Brugo checked the guard, Errol nodded confirmation.
"And I come with a gift," said Poe nervously. Reaching under his leathers, he pulled a chain of manacled iron from his neck. "Your powerchain," he offered reverently, "taken from the man I replaced, from the people who turned against you."
Brugo yanked the offering into his hands and studied the twisted links. With a heavy breath, he pulled the charm over his head and once again became the official Protector of Shorehome.
Spectators converged in the alleys. The fishmongers were there. The dockworkers and shipwrights. Standing before him, however, was the representative of the assassin collective, one of the most powerful and feared gangs in the city. The freelancers who, out of duty, could never join the Brothers in Black but had often dealt plainly with them.
"And you would presume to be a Papa?" asked Brugo.
Poe's head lowered again. "I would, but only at the whim of my boss, the Papa of all Papas. The collective continues to support you."
The Papa of the raiders approached and knelt beside Poe. "I'm with you, Papa of all Papas," said the gruff man.
And so Brugo stood as the seven approved Papas beneath him pledged their loyalty to him once again.
The moon dimly lit the pagan horde as I weaved through their encampment, which looked more like a scene from Burning Man than an organized military affair. Even under a single commander, they were a mass of disparate units. Kobolds gambling over bones, handlers feeding beasts of burden and terror, stray trolls lumbering about. Animalistic imps swarmed in pockets, around campfires, looking for scraps of food, and chasing unlucky swamp critters.
The bulk of the pagan horde was comprised of goblins, every bit as varied as player classes. Shamans, tinkerers, warriors, bandits. Yellow and orange eyes locked on the lone human invading their space. It unnerved me, but then it would unnerve anyone.
"Conqueror," called out General Azzyrk from my flank, finding me before I found him.
"Just who I was looking for. I hope you don't mind a bunch of outsiders making camp in the Godsbog."
He ignored the pleasantries and grumpily tore a piece of meat from a bone with daggerlike teeth.
"Better to rest now," I added, feeling an explanation was expected. "Once we emerge from the wetlands, Oakengard scouts will spot us."
Azzyrk chewed with an open mouth. "It's a good decision. Like recruiting my daughter. You're full of good decisions." He glowered. "Probably why I haven't managed to kill you yet."
My eyebrows shot up at the alarming honesty. I was stuck for a moment considering whether to come back at him hard but decided it better to deflect the comment. "Good thing I had that bobblehead, right?"
He spat a glob of skin from his mouth. "Damn cooks. I hate it when they burn the skin. Flesh is supposed to be soft and wet." He lapped his tongue over sharpened teeth and frowned. "The chibi was a nice gesture, but it wasn't the real gift. Jixa told me what you did for her. I owe you for that. As long as you stay true to your word and destroy the soulstones, our blood feud is over. And one more thing."
A notification popped up.
Black Hat Alert:
The Pagans have entered an alliance!
Pagan Reputation +100
The progress didn't stop there.
Quest Complete: Rally the Errant Folk
Quest Type: Fepic
Reward:
The pagans have agreed to fight at your side.
1,000 XP awarded
General Azzyrk tossed the half-eaten bone to the ground and stomped away looking for someone to punish. I barely had time to reflect on the accomplishment when another quest notification came through.
Quest Complete: Quash Shorehome Unrest
Quest Type: Fepic
Reward:
The loyalists have been crushed and Shorehome is back to normal.
1,000 XP awarded
Nice timing. Saint Peter's dying wishes were getting closer to fruition.
Talon: Kyle, everything still golden on your end?
Kyle: One sec, bro. Trying really hard to concentrate right now.
I tensed.
Talon: Is your cover blown?
Lash: I think he's trying not to blow, actually. We're hiding out in a harem, of all places.
I swallowed, pondering how to phrase my follow-up question, but was fortunately rescued by a change of subject.
Lash: At the turn of the day, Kyle will be able to stockrig us a distraction. Until then, we're waiting on you. We're in position.
Kyle: I'm technically in three positions right now, but what she said.
I blinked a few times before shaking it off. It was probably better not to know. The important thing was they were safe, out of sight, and out of mind.
I stared blankly at the moonlit wetlands and the hundreds and hundreds of men and women, fighters and mages, rogues and workers, players, NPCs, and mobs, and cracked a measured smile.
It was all coming together.
As I idled back toward my personal campfire, a coarse voice grated my ears.
"There is a last," drawled Crowlat.
I spun to the boggarts that had snuck unusually close. To hide my nerves, I brought attention to my quest menu.
Remove Soulstones from Play
Blocked by: Restore Oakengard's Glory
"We're getting there," I said plainly.
"You've accomplished the agreeable," nodded Somlat.
Havlat's snort sounded more like a bark. "What comes next is anything but."
I swallowed in the face of the three blind witches. "I'm gonna need your help with Orik tomorrow."
"We will do our part," assured Crowlat. "But you must do yours."
"All of you," added Somlat, somewhat darkly.
"No one's let me down so far," I told them.
Havlat sniggered but held her tongue.
"You cannot trust the catechists," urged Crowlat. "Their existence hinges on our destruction."
I worked my jaw slowly. "They've often claimed the same about you."
Crowlat's empty eyes stared hard.
"Bah!" spat Havlat. "Let the blind lead the blind. It is the only way."
Somlat nodded. "The only way."
Crowlat just grunted, turned, and limped away with her sisters.
I headed back to camp more determined than ever to have all the pieces in place for what needed to come.
<<
2080 Darksiders
I packed up the bedroll early. The supplies were ready for the oxen, food and rest was taken care of. The dawn mists over the Godsbog surrendered to a bold sun.
It was time for the logistics of war.
I made my way through the ranks of soldiers sharpening weapons, readying poisons, and organizing units. Trafford and Grimwart worked with various leaders on assignments and support conditions. The massive coordination blew my mind. Weaving among the various units, over and ov
er, a single color was continually brandished.
Black.
The core of our force was the Black Hats, a guild of malcontents. The Brothers in Black of Shorehome stood with us, in spirit if not physically present. The black-clad crusaders were the muscle, along with the wildkins of the Black Keep.
There were exceptions. The pagans used red war paint and the catechists flashed white and gold, but those were tentative allies at best. And the legionnaires, while loyal, were pledged to Stronghold. These exceptions didn't change my impression.
"We're the Black Army now," I announced, hands on hips as I gazed to the southern mountains.
Trafford nodded slowly, getting a feel for the moniker as he scratched the white stubble on his cheeks. "Seems fitting. Never did go for that white-knight crap." He leaned close. "Let's keep that opinion from Lash though."
I laughed. "We're gonna need to get her an alternate uniform. But even she sports black highlights."
"She's sure heavy on the eyeliner."
"Think we're going too far with the black? I'm worried it's getting overdone."
"Embrace it," said Grimwart, sliding his full helm of black plate over his head and climbing onto his black stallion. "Come on, Artax, time to muster the cavalry." The horse spun around and carried him away.
"He's good at this," remarked Trafford after a moment. "I've been in wars before you were born and I haven't seen better."
"We've got a good team," I agreed.
He grunted. "And speaking of said team, and our white knight, and pirate, not to mention Kyle..."
"Everybody's in place. We're all fingers of the same mighty arm."
"Heh. You're starting to sound like Lucifer."
I admired the sky as it cleared. "It's all gonna end here, Trafford. I can feel it."
