by James Hunter
“It’s fine,” I said with a shake of my head. “We can do it with five.”
“Assuming they work the way we think they do,” Abby said.
“I talked with Sandra, and she seemed to think they would,” I replied, “and for better or worse, I think we’re going to have to take her at her word. Plus, there is an account floating around about some Templar who died by Hexblade and managed to fight their way back. Haven’t been able to get a name yet, but it seems to hold water. Certainly, it confirms Sandra’s theory. Though how she pieced it together to begin with is still a mystery.” I trailed off, thinking about Osmark’s assistant. “I don’t know what game she and Osmark are playing, but they’re definitely working some angle, though damned if I can figure out what it is.”
“Why did Cutter and I not know about this?” Amara snapped, drawing a blade of her own and slamming it down into the table. “Surely such a plan should’ve been shared with your Spymaster at the very least.”
“You guys had so much going on with the wedding,” Abby said, reaching over and taking one of Amara’s hands in her own. “We didn’t want to trouble you with this, especially since we were hoping we might find a better solution, long term. Sadly, that hasn’t panned out.”
“Aww,” Cutter said. “Jack, you got me the perfect wedding present after all. Less work. You know me so well.”
“What about the stand-ins?” Abby asked, ignoring Cutter completely. A wise move in most instances.
“I had to guess at the composition of the final away team,” Anton said, reaching out a hand and taking command of the Darkshard emerald. A player profile immediately appeared on the screen. It wasn’t me, but the guy could’ve passed for my brother. At a distance anyway. “But I’ve managed to identify convincing doppelgangers for anyone you might want to take with you, and I’ve tagged a few Illusionists, who will be on standby just in case.”
“Excuse me,” Chief Kolle finally interjected, confusion on his face. “But I fail to understand this plan. What exactly is it you hope to do with these blades?”
“Well it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Cutter said with a smirk. “Not only is it misdirection, it’s misdirection paired with a classic bait and switch—though I imagine it’s going to hurt like bloody hell. Don’t particularly fancy dying again, I have to admit.”
“Dying?” Chief Kolle asked.
“Yep,” I said, picking up one of the Hexblades and carefully turning it over in my hands. “These bad boys are a one-way ticket into Skálaholt. At least we hope so. Only one way to find out for certain, but before we do that, we need to take the outer city. So, unless anyone has any other objections, let’s get ready to march. The Necropolis isn’t going to topple itself...”
The Gates
TWO DAYS LATER, PLANS made, orders sent, and troops deployed, I found myself on the sweeping ramparts that stood guard outside of New Viridia. The wind tousled my hair, tugged at my cloak, and carried the scent of humanity to my nose—old BO, the smoky odor of campfires, the char of grilled meat, and the thick grease of siege weapons. Below me, in the crescent-shaped fields outside the main gates, milled a sea of people too large to count. There were troops from every race, every clan, and every class down there.
Shadowmancers, like me. Artificers. Firebrands and Frostlocks. Illusionists and Battle Wardens. Corsairs, Warlocks, and Thieves. So many different variations it was hard to fathom.
I spotted the fluttering banners of the Ak-Hani and the Lisu, two of the six named Dokkalfar clans. They were camped slightly apart from the rest of the Eldgardians. Their gray-skinned warriors waited in loose formations without any discernable rhyme or reason, though I knew they would be ready to fight when the time came. I watched, captivated as a group of Na-Ang cavalry mounted their Rippers—huge giraffe-like creatures, though these were covered in barbed black iron plates and had razor-edged hooves sharper than a master smith’s blade. The Rippers weren’t native to the Storme Marshes, but rather lived in the deep grasses to the north. The Murk Elves considered them prized battle mounts.
The Ever-Victorious Army stood in sharp contrast to the seemingly unorganized Murk Elf clans, arrayed in orderly formations waiting for the call to march. Though they held their composure well enough, even from a distance it was easy to see how many of them shifted on nervous feet, constantly sharpening weapons or triple-checking armor. And no wonder. They’d be first through the breach—the front line that would bear the brunt of the assault on their polished shields, hacking through bodies with their stubby swords. Legion officers, marked out by their red-crested helms, and Inquisition Clerics worked through the ranks, offering words of encouragement or the occasional battle buff.
Among the crowd lingered elite Janissaries, ready to deploy anywhere on the battlefield at a moment’s notice with muskets blazing and powdered grenades flying with uncanny precision.
There were battalions of Skyraiders—Accipiter aerial fighters from the court in Ankara—Svartalfar Iron Horses of the Northern Reaches, and the Hvitalfar Deathhawks.
Off to the right waited the mounted cavalry, sitting astride every conceivable type of creature: Crimson-furred Battle Wargs. Bus-sized Stone Salamanders with their fat-padded tails. Graceful Sunglow Chimeras, each with the head of a golden lion. Feathered Griffins, common to high-ranking Inquisitors and Imperials alike.
And then there were the siege weapons: colossal machines of stone and steel, wood and iron, powered by steam and ready to unleash wholesale devastation on the Vogthar and the Darkling traitors rallying to Thanatos’ banner.
Honestly, the scope of it all was daunting.
All the more so because this was only one of three groups, and not even the largest—which was currently camped outside Rowanheath’s walls, waiting on me. The War Council had decided that three independent armies, attacking from three separate locations, fighting on three different fronts, would give us a significant advantage long term.
The most impressive thing of all, however, was not the assembled troops or the deadly siege engines, but the way we were going to get them all to Morsheim. Dead ahead, a set of free-standing double doors dominated the horizon, blotting out the Timberland Grove just south of the Imperial capital. Or what remained of the grove, anyway, since so many of the trees had been leveled to provide the enormous amount of wood necessary for the architectural monstrosities. Leafy elms, old-growth sugar maples, and gnarled birch trees all gone—leaving only sad stumps to remind everyone of what had once been there.
The doors dwarfed the tallest buildings in New Viridia and were the work of hundreds of engineers, architects, Artificers, and Weaponeers. They didn’t lead anywhere. At least not yet. I reached up and ran nervous fingers along the length of the Reality Editor around my neck. In just a few seconds that would all change. Hopefully.
A message pinged in my ear, but I already knew exactly what would be inside. The words I’d been waiting, and simultaneously dreading, to hear.
It’s time.
With a thought I conjured Devil, then patted the enormous Drake reassuringly on the snout and pulled myself into the saddle with practiced ease. Devil took a few loping strides and leapt from the side of the ramparts, his wings snapping taut, lifting us into a sky oddly devoid of other fliers despite just how many aerial forces we had on hand. That was by design. Initially, I’d considering making a speech, but it only took a few minutes to dismiss that idea. The army here was too big to make it worthwhile, and at this point there was really nothing left to say. We were marching to war. For many it would be a march to the death.
Everyone already knew exactly what was on the line and what we were fighting for.
A speech wouldn’t do. The best I could manage at this point was letting people see me—especially with Command Presence and Zeal radiating off me like heat rays from the sun.
Cheers rose up from the assembled mass below, chasing Devil and I through the sky. Fists and weapons were raised in salute far below.
Let’s give them
a little show, I sent to the Drake, pulling my warhammer free and raising it skyward. Devil snorted his understanding, opened his jaws, and issued a bloodcurdling roar, unleashing a furious column of purple-black Umbra Fire. The cheering increased tenfold at the display, the noise so loud it was deafening. Those cheers weren’t hopeful exactly. Instead, they were somehow defiant. Sure, we were probably marching to our doom, but we were going to do it with our heads held high and our weapons swinging for blood.
Underdogs to the end. But underdogs who weren’t willing to roll over for anyone. Not even a god.
Devil cut off the flames and retracted his wings; we plummeted toward an elevated platform near the base of the otherworldly doors. Osmark was waiting for me, hands folded behind his back. For once, he stood alone. There was no sign of Sandra or Jay, which meant they were probably running around like crazy, tying up loose ends and preparing the army to march.
“You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, Jack,” Osmark said as we touched down on the platform, his words quiet and meant only for my ears. “It’s one of your greatest attributes, I think. You seem to instinctively know what the people want. I never managed that.” He shook his head slowly. “I was always clever, but not personable enough by half.”
“I’d say you’ve done alright,” I replied, stealing a sidelong glance at the man as I dismissed Devil back to the Shadowverse. “You managed to save a good chunk of humanity and take over the Viridian Empire.”
“That’s the cleverness I was talking about,” he quipped, giving me a weak smile. “But very few of the people in my corner follow me out of loyalty. Just the opposite.” He paused and pulled out a golden pocket watch on a thin chain. “Most of my supporters tried to depose me at one time or another, you know. Even Sandra backstabbed me more than once before I finally won her over to the cause.” A ghost of smile appeared on his lips. Pained but genuine.
This was the most talkative he’d been since coming back, so even though I felt like it was pushing my luck, I had to pry a little. “You seem to be in a better mood,” I said. “You finally ready to talk?”
“About?” He quirked an eyebrow.
“About? About the fact that you disappeared into the Shattered Realms for a week and then went radio silent for two more.”
“Ah. That.” He clicked at the pocket watch, eyeing the thing as though it might just have all the answers in the world. “One thing I’ve learned, Jack, is that there is a time for everything. But now is not the time for that. Any CEO worth his salt knows to keep your agenda sorted and your priorities straight. Assuming we can topple the Necropolis, you and I will have more than enough time to talk about the Shattered Realms.” Vague and unhelpful. Clearly, he’d been spending way too much time with the Overminds. “The door, if you would?” He canted his body just so and gestured toward a comically undersized lock.
“You really think this is going to work?” I asked, surveying the miniscule lock and the elegant brass gear box beside it, which had a large lever sticking up like a crooked finger. The gear box connected to a series of chains, which further connected to a set of wagon-wheel-sized cogs that snaked their way around the face of the behemoth doorframe. Those cogs, in turn, powered a labyrinth of other gears, hefty chains, pulleys, brass pipes, and steam tubes.
“I don’t see why not. The Editor worked on the smaller freestanding doors,” Osmark said with a shrug. “This is just a much larger version of those. Only one way to know for sure, though.” He leaned over and tapped on the lock with his index finger. Tink-tink-tink.
There was still a lot I didn’t know about the Reality Editor. Like how it worked. What I was supposed to do with it. Why it had charges. Or how it could possibly kill Thanatos. But there were two things that I knew for sure: one, it opened locks and doors. All of them. No matter how complex the door, no matter how sophisticated the lock. It didn’t matter if it was a physical mechanism or a magical ward, the Reality Editor breezed through each and every one. But every use expended some of the weapon’s charges—charges which didn’t replenish.
And the number of charges it required to work depended on the quality and complexity of the lock. When I’d first gotten the weapon, it had been sitting at 874/1,000, but after experimenting and tinkering with the item, I’d already managed to drain the weapon down to 813 charges. Which meant I needed to be awful careful about what I used the thing on.
I’d also discovered one other function of the Editor: not only could it open any door, but with a little concentrated effort, it could also turn any doorway into a portal through reality.
With a few extra charges, the doorway to a janitor’s closet could become a one-way ticket to the Realm of Order, the Shattered Realms, or even Morsheim itself. There were rules to it, however. Each spot in Eldgard seemed to mirror the geography of the Divine Realms in some fundamental way, so where I opened the door in Eldgard ultimately determined where we ended up in Morsheim. But once I’d figured that little tidbit out, it had been relatively easy for the War Council to determine the best possible locations to launch our assault.
The real trick after that had been creating three separate doorways each big enough to accommodate our invading armies. It’s not like we could march a cool hundred thousand troops through a coat closet. Not effectively. Believe it or not, the behemoth freestanding doors were the best option the brightest minds in Eldgard could come up with. We had one door here, towering outside of New Viridia, another near Rowanheath, and a third doorway up north near the Dwarven trading town of Cliffburgh.
I offered Osmark a tight-lipped smile, silently praying he was right, and pulled the Reality Editor from the chain around my neck, holding it up in the light of the early dawn. An errant shaft of golden sunlight landed on the key and fractured it into a blinding rainbow prism. The key was already buzzing like mad in my hand, almost as though it were anticipating what was about to happen. I pressed my eyes shut against the glare and focused, recalling the memory of Morsheim with its barren, frost-covered landscape. The picture sharpened in my head and the buzzing increased tenfold, until it felt like I had a hive full of angry bees resting in my palm.
Power and primal energy built up as I shaped my intention and strengthened my will.
With a crystal-clear vision cemented in my mind, I cracked my eyes and carefully, slowly, slid the ungainly key into the brass lock we’d fashioned for the door. The buzzing ramped up, nearly exploding with frantic energy and a need to change. To transform and shape the world. I was sure the Editor had some other functions, but the key almost seemed to enjoy this part. I licked my lips, pressure building in my chest, a lump forming in my throat. I cranked the key, turning over the tumblers with an audible click. A tsunami of energy poured out, gone as quickly as it had come, leaving only the slight, residual buzz of a power line behind.
A quick glance at the key’s remaining charges showed it had just dropped by a whopping 50 points.
763/1,000. That was a good sign, I hoped. But now came the real test.
I pulled the key free, slipped it back around my neck, then yanked on the brass lever jutting from the platform.
The lever groaned and squealed. The clockwork gears above us began to spin and whirl, steam-powered engines chugging to fitful life, bellowing out white clouds as chains clanked, retreating and pulling the doors open on oversized hinges. As the doors parted down the middle, a collective gasp rose from the assembled army, the noise loud enough to carry even over the racket of the machinery hard at work. Instead of catching a glimpse of the decimated Timberland Grove, a barren, desolate land of rolling hills met us. A plum-colored sky, the same shade as a fresh bruise, peered down on ashy pale dirt dotted with patches of withered scrub grass, a dusting of snow, and stunted, bone-white trees poking up like skeletal hands.
Off in the distance, looming like a nightmare on the edge of sleep, was Thanatos’ Necropolis. The Overmind’s capital could easily rival any of the major cities of Eldgard with its cold marble buildings and twis
ted spires, adorned with spectral green windows like glaring insect eyes, which scraped against the star-studded sky. I absently noticed those stars were indeed different than the ones that hung over Eldgard, the constellations strange and foreign.
I squinted, straining my eyes. What looked like black rain fell over the Necropolis.
I pulled a brass spyglass from a pouch at my belt and held it up; the enchantment runes activated, bringing everything into perfect perspective. Not rain at all, but bodies.
Corpses.
They fell from the sky, only to accumulate in the teetering piles that dotted the outer sections of the vast city. That was the fate of all the dead, according to what little lore and direct info we’d gleaned about Morsheim. Even Travelers wound up in the Corpse Stacks, at least for a little while. Elite Vogthar harvesters dragged the dead into Thanatos’ Empirical Library. What happened within the walls of the library was anyone’s guess, but eventually, Travelers were spun out again and again and again, while the less fortunate were coldly processed...
And obliterated.
The city was going to be a nightmare to take—and that was coming from someone who’d already captured multiple cities since dropping into V.G.O. The Necropolis was arrayed in a rough circle, the ghastly buildings contained behind the largest wall I’d ever seen. A hundred feet tall and made from seamless black ice with protruding merlons large enough to hide any number of nasty surprises behind, it put the fortifications of Rowanheath and New Viridia to shame.
On top of the impressively large wall, the outer city was further divided by a number of inner walls, sectioning the city into precise districts that could be blocked off at will should one of them fall to outsiders. To complicate things further, Thanatos could apparently rotate those outer sections, transforming the whole outer city into a labyrinth for would-be invaders to navigate. And at the heart of the Necropolis was an enormous jade dome of energy—the Arcane Necrotic Barrier, which protected the inner city of Skálaholt and obscured it from prying eyes. Like mine.
