by James Hunter
“Does your pushiness drive me bloody mad as often as not?” he asked. “Yes. Of course, it bloody does. And does your pigheadedness make me want to throw you off a cliff on occasion? Obviously. But when I’m around you, I have something I’ve never had before.” He looked down, then glanced left at the rows of Murk Elves watching him. “Family,” he finished softly. “I won’t vow not to drink, gamble, or steal—because I don’t bloody well want to lie to you—but know that you will always be the most important piece of loot in my heart. Know that my love for you will only ever be rivaled by my hatred for Imperial tax collectors.”
I suppressed a laugh behind a closed fist.
“As a token of my love and commitment,” Cutter continued, “I got you something.” His hand darted toward his belt and a moment later he pulled out what looked like a leather knife sheath, crafted from pale yellow hide, dotted with gray spots. The tail of a Grassland Ripper. “Didn’t buy or steal it, either, if that’s what you’re thinking. Went on a proper hunt and killed the nasty grass-muncher with my own blade. Jack helped a little,” he said, jerking his head toward me. “Gods’ honest truth, that sheath is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen—you couldn’t pay me a king’s ransom to wear it—but my boy Chakan told me this was the customary gift.”
Amara accepted the sheath with steady hands, eyes burning with pride as she fixed it to her coin-studded belt. “It is perfect.” She beamed fiercely as she reached out and tweaked his nose. “You are a scoundrel and a thief of the highest order, my heart. When I first found you and Grim Jack, dirty and bloodied in one of our many spiked pits, I too was certain our relationship would be of the shortest sort. Mostly, I believed it would end with your head on a wooden stake outside the walls of Yunnam. Somehow, though, despite your apparent buffoonery, you proved to be so much more than I ever would’ve thought.
“At first, I assumed you were lazy, greedy, and dull-witted—not unlike the Lingya of the deep mangroves. It is a type of ape, so foolish it can be trapped by putting some fruit in a coconut with a small hole carved into the top. The Lingya puts its grubby fist in to grab the treasure inside, but then cannot remove its hand. Not without letting go of its prize, which never occurs to the creature. Such is the level of its foolishness. And so I considered you, love of my heart. My Lingya.”
Cutter squinted, face screwing up. “Not sure if I should feel amused or insulted.”
“Oh, deeply insulted,” Amara said seriously. “To be called as foolish as a Lingya is an offense great enough to start a blood feud in most clans. But there is more to the story. You only appeared as a Lingya to those unwise enough to ignore you. You were no slow-witted ape, but rather the noble yet elusive Jinkjo. It is a small type of drake that lives deep in the swamps. A sly creature which hides itself and its true nature through a carefully cultivated exterior. The Jinkjo, you see, often appears to share many traits with the Lingya, but once you scratch the surface you will find the miniscule drake to be a deadly hunter, a resourceful gatherer, and a vicious fighter.”
She extracted her hands from his and reached into a small pouch at her side, pulling free a pendant showcasing two dragons intertwined in a symbol that resembled the yin and yang.
“Most importantly, though, is the last trait of the Jinkjo. They are solitary creatures, often lonely. Vulnerable when isolated. But when the male drake finds a mate, it evolves into a Mangkar—an enormous beast to rival even Jack’s Devil in size and ferocity. The Mangkar is among the deadliest creatures of the Storme Marshes and deeply loyal, willing to risk all for its kin and its territory. By disposition, they prefer the solitude, treasure, and comfort of their lairs, but all Dokkalfar know you cross one at your own peril. You, love of my heart, are a Mangkar as surely as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west.” She reached up, fastening the pendant on its leather thong around his neck. “I am proud to fight by your side and fill your bed at night.”
“I don’t bloody think I’ve ever heard a sweeter or more biting vow in my life.” Cutter sounded genuinely touched. “I would expect nothing less from you.” He offered her a wink and a lewd grin.
“Wow,” Carl said, shaking his head in disbelief. “That was... That was definitely something, for sure. Out of curiosity?” he asked, squinting and canting his head to one side. “Have the two of you actually ever heard wedding vows before? Because that was...” He trailed off. “Eh, you know what, not my place,” he finished, raising his hands in defeat. “I don’t want to touch any of that with a ten-foot pole. By the power vested in me—by some Dwarven-Forge deity, I guess—I pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
The audience erupted with claps and cheers, fists pumping in the air. Cutter slipped forward, pulling Amara into a long, deep kiss before sweeping her off her feet, cradling her against his chest as she glared at him like a pit viper. After a second though, her face softened, a faint blush creeping up into her cheeks as she snaked well-muscled arms around his neck. They stayed that way for an awkward, almost inappropriate amount of time before finally parting lips.
“Now, if we’re done with all the flowery words and sugary sweet sentiments,” Cutter said, face flushed, “how about we celebrate this wedding in the custom of my people? Let’s get bloody drunk, eh! First round’s on Jack!”
After-party
I SKIRTED THROUGH THE throng of drinking and drunk guests, slowly making my way toward the dance floor where Abby and I were supposed to meet. She’d bolted almost immediately after the ceremony, giggling madly about a surprise she had planned for me. Some sort of Dokkalfar courtship ritual she’d learned from Amara in preparation for the wedding—though I had no idea what exactly it was supposed to entail. If the impish look on her face was any indication, however, it was bound to be something awesome. Or mortifying.
It could be hard to tell with her sometimes.
The night was perfect.
It was warm without being hot, the sky overhead crystal clear, the glimmer of stars winking down like diamonds spilled out against a backdrop of dark velvet. Torches and bonfires burned all over the city, golden light casting long shadows against both the behemoth trees and the wooden houses perched atop thick stilts—a precautionary measure, to guard against the heavy monsoon rains that came in the spring. Ghostly fireflies in a multitude of hues flitted amongst the revelers, blinking on and off while unseen night birds chirped and crickets droned softly, offering a steady background chorus to the music drifting through the twisting city streets.
Everywhere I went, people were laughing or singing or dancing with reckless abandon, and the Dokkalfar led the procession like a drum major guiding a marching band, which surprised me to no end. The Murk Elves were a serious people by nature, as quick to offer a frown or a grimace as a smile. But not tonight. Tonight, even the sourest, most stone-faced among them partied like there just might not be any tomorrow. Although their version of “partied” was admittedly a little different than what I was used to. IRL, most wedding receptions I’d ever been to consisted of sitting around banquet tables, nibbling on desserts and talking softly while a few of the more adventurous souls tried their luck—or, at least, their lack of inhibition—out on the dance floor.
The Murk Elves had no tables to camp around and everyone danced. Everyone.
And then there was the water.
Patrols of Chao-Yao Murk Elves roamed the city like packs of feral dogs, and accompanying each group was a water-wielding Hydromancer clad in flowing robes in an eye-searing combination of red, blues, and yellows. Instead of weapons, each member of the patrol carried an enormous pitcher, used for drenching any guest that wasn’t drinking, eating, singing, or dancing hard enough to satisfy the hard-partying taskmasters. Leave it to the Murk Elves to enforce celebrating. One such patrol rounded on a group of stumpy Dwarves from Stone Reach who were quietly smoking billowing pipes a little way off from the rest of the partygoers.
The Dwarves shouted protests and curses in equal measure, faces crimson as
they lifted their hands into the air, pleading for mercy.
The Chao-Yao patrol gave them no quarter, hurling water from their oversized buckets, which were immediately refilled by the accompanying Hydromancer. In a moment, pipes were extinguished, clothes were sopping wet, and great shaggy beards dripped in a constant stream. But before things could get heated and turn to blows, the party-patrolling Murk Elves dropped their buckets and—with a flourish even Cutter would’ve found impressive—conjured great globular gourds from thin air. Instead of water, the gourds sloshed over with the potent Murk Elf rice wine that was fueling the party.
The gourds were passed around with gusto, and instead of a round of fistfights breaking out, the stocky Dwarves and their gray-skinned counterparts were quickly laughing and slinging arms around each other as though they’d been friends for years.
They weren’t the only enemies I’d caught celebrating together, either.
Members of the Malleus Libertas—easy to pick out thanks to the crimson hammer painted bright and bold across their chests—swayed around a roaring bonfire, swapping stories and booze with a troop of elite Legion Batavian and a squad of stiff-backed Janissaries decked out in their trademark padded jackets, single-edged sabers, and waxed mustaches. Under any other circumstances, the Batavians and the Janissaries would’ve been fighting over who had the honor of murdering the warriors of the Malleus Libertas in single combat, but here they were, gathered together, swapping war stories and dirty jokes.
“... y’all think you were surprised when the spider riders came over the walls of Rowanheath,” said a burly Wode man with thick Southern twang to his words.
“Of course we were shocked,” came a stuffy sounding Janissary with a handlebar mustache and a faint British accent. “Whoever would’ve thought to try to tame such a beast?”
“Well, as shocked as you were,” the Wode continued, “you shoulda seen us when Lord Grim Jack showed up with a whole fleet of those buggers and told us to climb on. Big ol’ things, lookin’ at me like I was the next item on the dinner menu. Thought I was gonna mess my britches right then and there,” he crowed, drawing out a round of laughter from the other Alliance members, many of whom had been part of that very first assault.
An ember of hope smoldered inside my heart as I listened from a pool of shadow. Maybe we’d be able to put the fighting and the bloodshed behind us once we figured out how to deal with Thanatos. It felt like a long shot, but stranger things had happened.
I glanced over a shoulder, spotting a group of Chao-Yao beelining toward me with their buckets raised, mischief dancing in blood-orange eyes.
This lot had been hunting me for the past hour, but, as good as they were, I’d managed to give them the slip each time they closed the distance. This time would be no different. I offered them a wink and a finger gun, then activated Shadow Stride, effortlessly slipping into the Shadowverse. I gave the group one last look, knowing they wouldn’t be able to see me, then turned on a heel and waded through the wedding guests, making for the spread of the banquet tables bordering the training pits—converted for tonight into an impromptu dance floor.
My stomach let out a long, low grumble of protest as I caught sight of the bounty waiting for me to raid like the loot of an epic dungeon.
The trestle tables were loaded down with just about anything anyone could hope to find. Jugs and oversized gourds of rice wine were everywhere, intermixed with frosted flagons of fine-brewed Sparkling Mead and silver platters overflowing with cheeses and exotic fruit. Golden-skinned Erank. Heart-shaped Bewi. Dew-covered Mist Apples imported from the merchant vineyards of Ankara. Succulent platters of grilled meats, ranging from the oh-so-common rat on a skewer, served on the streets of Rowanheath, to a Harrowick specialty featuring braised grass wolf in elderberry sauce.
There were breads of every shape and size, enough butter to give any healthy adult a coronary, plus an enormous assortment of pies, cakes, and other desserts I couldn’t put a name to. They all smelled divine.
I took a deep breath, savoring the scent of food and the peaceful quiet that only the Shadowverse could offer, then slipped back into the Material Realm.
I grabbed a silver plate that should’ve belonged in the court of a queen, not at a shindig in the middle of a swamp, and loaded it down with a bit of everything, then topped it off with the pièce de résistance: a slice of greasy, sausage-covered pizza, courtesy of Frank’s Old World Pizza, Est. 2042. The Best New York Inspired Pizza in Eldgard. I posted up near a group of raucous Imperials braying like a bunch of donkeys, clearly elbow-deep in alcohol. I didn’t mind the noise. It was nice to hear people enjoying themselves despite the looming threat of utter annihilation hanging over all our heads.
On the dance floor, a band of Crimson Alliance bards, locally known as the Rebel Scum, played a pulse-pounding set at the edge of the training ground, their instruments squealing and snarling in a typical rock and roll fashion, despite the fact that there wasn’t a proper electric guitar in sight. But, just like Frank and his sons, who’d opened up Eldgard’s first pizza joint, the people who’d invaded this world were a clever bunch. The lead guitarist, a Dokkalfar with gunmetal skin and a silver-white Mohawk, had modified an oversized lute with a variety of distortion and amplification runes, effectively transforming the soft plucky instrument into a close approximation of an electric guitar.
A drummer beat out a pounding rhythm on animal-skin drums while an Accipiter violinist and a Dawn Elf harpist effortlessly overlaid a haunting melody that pulled at the soul and clawed at the mind. In front, a beefy Wode warrior with flowing brown hair danced and swayed, his steps practiced, precise, and strangely out of place with his enormous frame.
“Get loose out there, folks,” he hollered with the charisma and showmanship of a true front man. “We’re about to kick it up a notch, and you don’t want to hurt yourself dancing too hard!” He lifted a chiseled wooden wand, inset with a fat rune-carved stone at the end—essentially a low-tech, magical version of a cordless microphone. He shot one arm into the air and twirled with a flourish before opening up with a medieval version of “Shut Up and Dance.” None of it should’ve worked. Literally everything about it was wrong. Still, I found myself tapping a foot along as I chewed on a piece of not-quite-right pizza from a world that no longer existed.
Cutter was lingering at the edge of the dance floor, a flagon of mead clutched in one hand, but there was no sign of Amara. I slipped up next to him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Instantly, I felt the tip of a dagger press into my side.
“Whoa, just me,” I said, flinching back.
“Ah, sorry about that, friend,” Cutter said, the pressure of the blade vanishing from my ribs as he shook his head. “Just startled me a bit. I’m waiting for Amara. She has a surprise for me, apparently—so I’m half expecting to find a knife buried in my back. That, or maybe one of those bloody Mangkar creatures she mentioned during her vows. It wouldn’t surprise me in the bleeding least to have to battle some impossible swamp drake as part of the wedding ceremony. These Dokkalfar have some damned peculiar customs, eh?”
He wasn’t wrong about that.
“Wait, did Amara tell you to meet her at the dance floor?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Aye,” he said with a nod. “Has me on edge, too, I can tell you that much. I love that woman, but I swear to all the gods above and below she’s as dangerous and unpredictable as a gilded silk viper.”
“Yeah,” I said slowly, “Abby told me to meet her at the dance floor, too. Said she has a surprise for me.”
I trailed off as I saw a familiar face push his way through the crowd—Otto, stoic as ever and decked out in the traditional Risi version of wedding finery: white tunic, brown leather kilt with a fur-covered sporran hanging from the front, and an accompanying dire-bear fur cloak. His massive two-handed sword rode at his back, because Risi never went anywhere—not even weddings—without a weapon in place. Not that I could judge too harshly, since I had my own war
hammer strapped to my hip.
“Grim Jack, Cutter,” he grunted formally.
“Otto,” I said with a nod. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Yes,” he replied flatly. “There is nothing I enjoy more than a wedding.” He was as stone-faced as a marble statue. “It is always a deeply moving thing to see.” He could’ve been talking about fixing a car engine for all the emotion in his voice. “I’m just looking for Arcona. She slipped off after the ceremony and told me to meet her here at the dance floor, but I haven’t seen any sign of her.”
Uh oh. One was odd. Two? Two could’ve been a coincidence. But three? Three was a pattern.
A message dinged in my ear, and I absently pulled it up in the corner of my vision.
<<<>>>
Personal Message
Jack,
This is Abby. Are you at the dance pit?
<<<>>>
I jotted off a quick reply before closing out of my interface.
<<<>>>
Personal Message
Yeah, but I don’t see you anywhere.
<<<>>>
You will... came a prompt, though cryptic, reply.
A blaze of light erupted from the crowd not far off, streaking up, then exploding in a shower of golden sparks. Cutter and Otto both tensed up beside me. The Risi warrior actually reached for his sword, though he didn’t draw steel.
Ahead of us, the milling partygoers parted for a procession of stately looking mages in thick bloodred robes, the cowls pulled up to hide the faces of those beneath. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I had a sneaking suspicion this was the surprise Abby had mentioned. I also suspected that Cutter, Otto, and I were on the receiving end of whatever was about to happen.
