Viridian Gate Online: Darkling Siege (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 7)

by James Hunter

  “Don’t be an idiot,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop his restless pacing. I caught his eye and held him at arm’s length. “Amara is crazy out of your league, and if you sabotage this, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. And real talk, I’ve never seen you care about anything as much as you care about her, including loot and booze. You’re going to be great. Now come on, we don’t want to keep everyone waiting all day.”

  Cutter took a deep breath, pressing his eyes shut as he stood straight. A prisoner headed for the gallows. “On three?” he finally asked, opening his eyes and cracking his neck, first one side then the other.

  “On three,” I agreed, dropping my hand from his shoulder.

  I counted us down and pushed the doors open, my mind flashing to all the dungeons we’d raided together. All the times we’d done this—stacking up outside of a Boss Room, preparing ourselves for a fight to the death. The doors swung inward without so much as a squeak, but this time there were no enemies waiting for us with drawn swords or half-formed spells ready to be unleashed. Instead, a sea of faces turned to regard us from the polished wooden pews of the chapel.

  Vows

  THE RIGHT SIDE OF THE cathedral was filled with a mix of people from the Crimson Alliance leadership—generals, advisors, warriors, and friends—along with a spattering of rough-looking types decked out in black leather and covered with a veritable arsenal of daggers. There were more face tattoos than I could count in that group. Members of the Thieves Guild, one and all—including the Gentlemen’s Gentleman himself, Gavin Marston. The grand thief smiled at us, a knowing twinkle in his gaze as he took in the ruffled hair and hastily cleaned blood smears. The aristocratic rogue would’ve fit in with any stuffy noble who lived in New Viridia, although he was far and away more dangerous than any of those vipers.

  The other half of the chapel was filled with Amara’s guests.

  The vast majority were Murk Elves and members of the Ak-Hani clan.

  Brothers. Sisters. Aunts and uncles. Honored elders. Even a few diplomats from the other six named Dokkalfar clans.

  Most of them wore crudely stitched armor studded with chunks of bone, ferocious teeth, and feathers in a myriad of colors. Chakan of the Lisu tribe caught my eye and gave me a lopsided grin and a little wave. Once upon a time, we’d nearly murdered each other over the right to pursue the Jade Lord Quest line, but those days were long behind us. He’d become one of the Alliance’s most ardent supporters, despite the fact that his father, Chief Sakal, was only lukewarm toward me.

  I cleared my throat, shot a telling glance at Cutter—you can do this, I’m right behind you—then followed him as he made his way up the aisle toward a raised dais at the far end of the chamber. Carl, Arch Justiciar of the Acolytes of the Shield and Hammer, stood at the center of the upraised platform. Colored light flooded in from a stained-glass window above, illuminating the dumpy priest in all his bearded Dwarven glory. He was decked out in brown silk robes edged in gold, with a priestly stole of brilliant white draped around his neck. Emblazoned on one side of the stole was an enormous golden hammer and on the other side was a crude black anvil.

  Marching off to the side were the other groomsmen, lined up in meticulous order: Vlad, Forge, and Jake.

  “Pay up,” Forge grunted, extending a calloused green hand toward Vlad as I took my place as the best man and Cutter ascended the stairs to the dais.

  The Weaponeer sighed. I had no idea how someone could make a sigh sound Russian, but Vlad pulled it off with ease as he fished a fat golden coin from a pouch at his belt, pressing it into the Risi warrior’s outstretched palm.

  “What in the bloody hell were you betting on?” Cutter hissed at the two of them over one shoulder.

  “Whether you would show up,” Vlad replied, plucking a piece of non-existent lint from his sleeve. “Vlad had doubts. Many doubts. Had Imperial crown that we would find you hungover in bar somewhere. Probably the Broken Dagger.”

  “I am insulted, cur,” Cutter shot back. “If I was going to skip out, I’d sure as bloody hell be hungover somewhere classier than the Broken Dagger.”

  “Oh really,” I snorted. “So the Dusty Mustache is classier than the Broken Dagger?”

  “It’s a gentleman’s gambling establishment, Jack. And yes, for your knowledge, it’s classy as bollocks. But I’m here, and with one minute to spare, which is all that matters.”

  Vlad shrugged noncommittally. “Was wrong. We have saying where I come from, a delo byvalo, I koza volka s’edala. Means roughly”—he screwed up his lips and waggled a hand as though looking for the right word— “someday a goat, it might eat up a wolf. I think you would translate as even pig might fly. Today, pig has flown. Though, Vlad smells Hair of Dog.” He reached up and tapped the side of his nose. “Thinks maybe you were drunk not so long ago, da?”

  “Well yeah,” Jake offered, “but when is Cutter not drunk? I’m honestly surprised to see he’s as sober as he is.”

  “Hair of Dog is potent. Very potent.”

  As the three continued to talk and joke—Cutter doing his best to soothe his nerves—I searched the crowd, looking for one person in particular.

  I found him in the back, not sitting in one of the pews, but rather huddled in a corner, leaning against the wall.

  Osmark stood out even in a crowd as strange and varied as this—his arms crossed, his gaze distant, his face an introspective thunderhead. I honestly hadn’t been sure if he was going to show today. I had as many doubts about his presence as Vlad had about Cutter’s. Osmark had been so elusive and secretive since returning from his Champion’s quest in the Shattered Realms. For weeks, I’d been trying to figure out what in the hell had happened to the tech billionaire while I’d been busy with the Doom-Forge mission, but I still had no answers. Clearly something had happened—and something important, based on Osmark’s tight-lipped silence—but whatever it was, he and his inner circle were holding their cards close to the chest.

  I would need to get to the bottom of what had happened to him eventually, but that was a problem for another day. Always another problem. Never enough days to deal with them all.

  All thoughts of Osmark dropped away as the heavy doors at the end of the chapel swung inward and the music started up in earnest. Near the back of the chamber, tucked away behind the bridal section, was a trio of bards playing the traditional bridal march on a variety of nontraditional instruments—one strummed at a harp, another plucked at a silver-faced lute, and the third effortlessly worked a lap-mounted hammered dulcimer. The sound was enchanting, both familiar and somehow exotic.

  5:00 PM on the dot. I blew out my cheeks, relief washing through me. We’d made it by the skin of our teeth.

  I was more than a little shocked to see Amara herself at the head of the procession instead of one of the other women trailing off behind her. I wasn’t exactly an expert on weddings, but as far as I knew, the bridesmaids were supposed to come first. Except this was Eldgard, I reminded myself, and as much as it seemed like Earth at times, it wasn’t. Not by a country mile. I had no idea what the Murk Elf marriage customs entailed—a fact made even more obvious as I surveyed Amara in what apparently passed as a wedding gown in polite Dokkalfar society.

  Instead of a radiant gown of flowing white—all frills and delicate lace—she wore a hide dress.

  The leather was pitch black, accented by a colorful shawl decorated with eye-jarring patterns, a gauzy black veil that only covered the lower portion of her face, and an intricate belt festooned with coins and odd bits of bleached white bone. Elaborate jewelry crafted from polished Darkshard ore and small animal bones hung from her neck and wrists, clattering with each step she took. Her skin was a chalky shade of white, dusted with the ceremonial powder the Dokkalfar often wore during religious observances. Her raven-black hair was shaved down to the skin on one side, the rest pulled back in a braid, showcasing violet eyes that looked older than the rest of her youthful face could account for.

 
Amara’s entire life had been one of war and struggle, tribal infighting and constant Imperial encroachments, and it showed when she looked at you. She had seen the worst humanity had to offer, but instead of breaking her, those experiences had purified her like a forge’s flames burning away the dross.

  Her father, Chief Kolle, escorted her, one of his beef-slab arms hooked through her own. Amara looked both radiant and fierce, but it was the woman behind her that I couldn’t take my eyes off.

  Abby walked with her back straight, her head held high like a queen heading to her throne. She was a vision in a dress as red as blood; a cloak of gossamer embers trailed down her back and brushed at the floor as she moved.

  Seeing her there, decked out in a gown that would rival any wedding dress, felt like having a knife shoved deep into my guts. The world wobbled at the edges, reeling uncertainly beneath me as I licked my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, throat parched. She was so beautiful it hurt. Absently, I reached for the ring stowed away inside my pocket, rubbing the tip of my index finger over the hard little lump that I knew was a sparkling diamond imbued with preternatural fire that made the stone glimmer like the sun.

  I caught her eye, and she offered me a wide smile, her teeth brilliant white against skin the shade of strong tea. I returned the smile, but very purposefully pulled my hand away from the ring.

  Did I want to marry Abby? Yep. More than just about anything else in the world.

  I wanted the two of us to settle down. To have a nice normal little house, a few kids running around, a steady job that didn’t involve raiding dungeons or waging wars. Heck, if I closed my eyes and let my mind wander, I could see myself waking up late on Saturday morning, shambling downstairs in a bathrobe, nose catching the scent of pancakes and eggs. I could see us sitting across the table from each other, sleepily sipping coffee while the kids built a fort out of couch cushions, vigorously trying to fend off an invading dog instead of bloodthirsty Vogthar. Abby would chuckle and roll her eyes when the kids shrieked like banshees in between intermittent fits of giggling as the dog licked syrup-covered faces.

  It was a beautiful dream. But that was all it was. A dream.

  My mind flashed back, recalling the odd room buried deep below Stone Reach. In the center of the room was a slab of inky obsidian—an altar just large enough for someone to lie flat on. An image of Abby lying on that altar came unbidden, her brow furrowed, her eyes clenched shut, her lips a tight line as she waited in terrible anticipation. I loomed over her, a dagger gripped in a white-knuckled hand, the tip pointed toward Abby’s throat. The words etched in the blade skipped across my consciousness like a stone over still waters. Just as they had almost every time I saw Abby these days.

  Sometimes there is no winning. To save the world, you must first give up that which matters most in your world...

  Sometimes at night, I heard Abby tossing and turning, crying out as she relived her death at my hands over and over again. That was my reality. I wanted to be with her, wanted something different, but fate or—at the very least—circumstance had conspired against us. Like it or not, I was Grim Jack Shadowstrider, leader of the Crimson Alliance, Champion of Balance, and wielder of the Reality Editor. The only weapon in the game capable of killing a god and setting things right in the world. For me, a normal life with Abby felt like an impossible pipe dream. A mirage in a barren, waterless desert.

  The words on that dagger haunted me because deep down I knew they were true.

  Sometimes there really was no winning. No clever way out. No way for things to be normal or okay. Sometimes there was only duty. And duty rarely left enough room for happy endings.

  I folded my hands behind my back and pulled my gaze away from Abby, banishing those dark thoughts, as Ari, the Barbie-sized Battle Pixie from the Realm of Order, floated into the room. She flitted high into the air, butterfly wings buzzing like mad, then raised miniscule hands, launching a bolt of opalescent light toward the arched ceilings. The orb of pixie magic exploded into a kaleidoscope of shifting colors, painting the room with brilliant splashes of pink and gold, orange and red, green and blue. Everyone oohed and ahhed appropriately as the last two bridesmaids entered the chapel.

  The first was a woman I’d only met a handful of times, though they’d been memorable interactions since her tongue qualified as a deadly weapon. Arcona Jukal was a beefy green-skinned Risi woman, half a hand taller than Forge—who was, himself, bigger than most NFL linebackers. The lady had biceps that could give any professional bodybuilder a run for their money and thighs that could crush boulders. Arcona had previously run the Order of the Soulbound, a rebel group sworn to undercut the Empire, and now she helped Otto as he helmed the Risi capital of Glome Corrie on behalf of the Alliance. Even in a silvery dress, she looked like she could chew up slabs of raw iron and spit out forged nails.

  She was close with both Abby and Amara, so her inclusion was not a total surprise, but the final bridesmaid in the lineup was definitely a shock: Lowyth the Immortal Orbweaver. The Spider Queen had opted for her “human” look instead of going full arachnoid, a blessing that I was sure everyone in attendance was deeply grateful for. Even still, Lowyth was pure nightmare fuel with her black chitin skin, her bristly maroon hair, the legion of dull black eyes splattered across her face, and the spider legs jutting from her back, constantly curling and uncurling like grotesque fingers.

  Definitely not someone I would’ve invited to the wedding.

  But then, Lowyth hadn’t given anyone much choice.

  When the Spider Queen had heard about the impending nuptials, she’d squealed like a schoolgirl getting ready for prom and insisted on pain of death to be included in the ceremony. As reluctant as I was to have her buzzing around—I still had frequent night terrors about the time she ripped my chest open—she was a key ally and a vital part of our defense strategy against the Vogthar incursions, so she got what she wanted. Within reason. And interestingly, Amara actually seemed to have formed something of a bond with the murderous monster.

  The Ak-Hani went back a long way with the spiderkin of Hellweb Hollow, and I got the very real sense that Amara respected the queen in the same way I respected Osmark: a sort of begrudging admiration between former enemies.

  The music finally fell silent, leaving only the creak of pew seats as Amara ascended the steps, stopping directly in front of Cutter while her train of bridesmaids lined up behind her.

  Abby smiled at me, her cheeks flushed as she ran nervous hands over the front of her elegant dress, absently smoothing away wrinkles that weren’t there. She looked radiant, but from this close, I could also see the jagged edge of something sad lurking just beneath the surface of her features whenever her eyes landed on me. As though she knew there was something wrong between us, but not something she could fix or even figure out. Cutter’s words sprinted through my head at full speed: leaving her now would crush her, but a part of me keeps thinking it might be less painful for her in the long run...

  Amara, on the other hand, stood fiercely proud. There was no sign of doubt in her. None. She was like a huntress who had finally managed to nab a particularly troublesome and elusive wolf.

  I almost felt bad for Cutter.

  Almost.

  “Look at the two of you,” Carl said, a full smile breaking across his heavily bearded face as he looked at Cutter and Amara in turn. His voice was warm, friendly, with just a hint of a Philadelphia accent coating his words. “Amara, you look aces. Cutter.” He paused, surveying the thief. “Why is there so much blood on your coat? Eh, you know what”—he held up his hands—“forget I said anything. I don’t want to know.

  “The important thing is you’re here. Seeing the two of you, it makes my heart warm. Well, it’s either that or the copious amounts of ceremonial wine I drank this morning. Anyhoo. Just gimme a sec here and we’ll get this show on the road, huh?” He paused, patting down his robes and checking his pockets. “Shit, but I hope I didn’t leave it in the room,” he muttered under his breath.


  “Dammit, Carl,” Forge grunted from behind me, “you better not mess this up, or I swear I’m gonna break your legs after we’re done.”

  “Yeesh,” the Dwarf said, rolling his eyes. “Calm down, guy. I got this handled, okay? Not my first marriage. My second, sure, but definitely not my first. Ah.” He fished out a sheet of rolled vellum from the sleeve of his robes. “There it is. See? It’s all good, brother. Now, where were we?” He unrolled the scroll, carefully pinching the edges. “Oh yeah. Alright, here we go.” He tapped at a magical amplification rune pinned to his robes, and the squiggle artfully etched into the stone burst to electric blue life. “We are gathered here today to celebrate with Cutter and Amara,” he said, voice booming around the room, “as they proclaim their love and commitment for each other and complete the most monumental quest of all.”

  Huh. Certainly not a traditional reading. But then, Carl was Carl, so I probably shouldn’t have had super high expectations to begin with. Yes, he was the high priest of his order, but only because every other priest had died. Originally, he’d been banished from his order for getting drunk and setting the sacred library on fire.

  “Now, as I understand, you guys have prepared your own vows, right?” Carl said, bringing me back to the moment. “Cutter? It’s customary for the groom to go first.”

  Cutter nodded, no witty reply on his lips. He reached out, his hands perfectly steady as he took Amara’s palms in his own. His face was strangely solemn. “Amara, my heart. I have to admit this whole thing, it’s something I never expected. Hells, I expected someone to plant a dagger in my kidney ages ago. In point of fact, an Imperial tax collector almost did me in not but an hour ago,” he muttered. “Yet the gods have seen fit to keep me alive, likely on account of how pretty I am. I don’t think much of the gods, but the fact that they’ve kept me here long enough to find you puts me firmly in their debt.

  “Although,” he said with a pause and a grin, “I admit it was touch and go for a while there, between us. In the early days, being around you was a roll of the dice as to whether you would impale me with your spear or flay me with your tongue. Eventually, though, I saw past all that. Or, at least, it all started to click in my head.” He reached up and ran a deft thumb along her cheek, his eyes misty. “You made me more than I was. Believed in me. Helped me to be a better version of myself.