by James Hunter
My hand twitched, and for a long beat, I considered throwing caution to the wind... just diving in and wiping the toads out.
But I refrained. The plan was the plan, and I couldn’t do everything myself.
A second later a puff of acrid smoke enveloped the toads, and a squad of Janissaries appeared like conjured ghosts. The mustached soldiers formed a ring around the creatures, some attacking with gleaming sabers, while others unloaded with steampunk blunderbusses large enough to put down a charging elephant. Those guns worked pretty damned well on the toads, too, turned out. The blunderbusses belched fire, punching fist-sized holes in the plate armor covering the Hell-Toads’ scaly bodies. Other members of the elite squad hurled alchemic grenades, which exploded with green fire, splattering highly corrosive acid across the creatures.
Color me impressed.
Finally, Devil sent, the sound like a rough hand running along the back of my neck. He’s here.
A flood of relief washed through me as the Hellreaver appeared in the cluttered skies, the main sails stretched taut, the steam-powered engine chugging along. Spewing out greasy smoke, the ship powered toward the blocky gatehouse standing watch over the main entryway into the city.
A pack of Abami noticed the zephyr at once and dove, wings beating furiously as they tried to intercept the ship before it could do any real damage. A smart move since the ship could do some serious damage. With dual Gatling guns and a full contingent of magical cannons—twenty-four per broadside—it could level buildings or take down even the most powerful aerial foes. The Hellreaver did have a few downsides, however. Namely, it was unbelievably sluggish and not nearly as nimble as most aerial mounts, which made it prone to boarding.
But that’s where Devil and I came in: we were going to play defensive lineman for the battle blimp, giving Cutter and his crew the time they needed to get in range and bust us a way into the gatehouse.
Devil was faster than just about anything else in the air, and in seconds we’d closed on the first three Abami. My Drake didn’t waste a second. Black talons slashed through wings and tendons—sending one of the creatures spinning toward the ground, unable to maintain altitude—then flash-frying another with a gout of purple Umbra Flame. A third was cannonballing toward us on the right, and this one was a spellcaster to boot. A toxic-looking ball of necrotic energy formed in its hand. The creature screeched and hurled its spell, smug satisfaction burning in its inhuman eyes.
Once upon a time, I might have thrown Devil into a defensive maneuver or conjured a Dark Shield to absorb the blow, but those days were long behind me. During my last quest I’d unlocked my Shadow Lord ability, and with a little help from the ghostly specter of Eitri Spark-Sprayer—demigod, son of Khalkeús, and Shadowmancer extraordinaire—I’d merged Shadow Stride, Umbra Bolt, and Dark Harmony, forming a unique skill called Shadow-Warp Portal. Basically, I could create a wormhole that allowed me to port an object from one place to another, so long as it was in line of sight.
I thrust one hand out, summoning a handy-dandy black hole.
A swirling vortex, just a little larger than a basketball, intercepted the spell, swallowing it whole; a second portal redirected the cancerous green light right into the Abami’s malformed face. Eyes wide with terror, the creature went down, tongues of green magic crawling over its skin like a plague of fire ants.
The Abami were tough, sure, and could give most regular Accipiter scouts a run for their money, but against me and Devil? They were about as dangerous as petting zoo animals.
More and more of the Abami came, streaming toward the blimp, frantic to take it down, but Devil and I were everywhere, swatting down their best attempts with pitiful ease. Darkshard claws ripped through armor while my warhammer snapped bones and caved in skulls. Molten purple flames sloughed flesh clean off. Shadow-Warp Portals redirected spells and arrows. Umbra Bolts batted the creatures from the sky or pitted them against each other—comrades turning to enemies in the blink of an eye.
The Hellreaver kept right on cruising, drawing closer and closer with each passing second.
Finally, a chorus of gunfire ripped through the air as Gatling guns blazed and a hail of grapeshot was unleashed from the Hellreaver’s portside cannons, strafing the Vogthar guards so diligently fighting to hold the gatehouse. Amara worked the Gatling gun at the stern, while Jake Blackblade manned the gun at the bow. Clack-clack-clack. The rotating barrels spewed flashes of light and brass shell casings in equal measure. The Vogthar never stood a chance. The combination of hot lead and deadly cannon fire mowed the defenders down like wheat under the edge of a sharpened scythe.
Bodies toppled from the walls, pin-cushioned from a thousand bullet wounds or dropped where they stood, dying in pools of rancid black blood.
“Bring her around hard!” Cutter hollered. He spun the wheel and cranked on a series of brass levers. “Open the hull!” On board, his Goblin crew responded with a flurry of movement. A handful of the green-skinned creatures zipped about the ratlines, tugging at ropes or loosening sails, while others triggered a jibboom, deploying a canvas fin while the ship’s portside engine squealed. The zephyr swung on a dime, bringing the starboard side of the vessel to bear on the gatehouse even as the rear loading hatch popped open, revealing a cargo bay full of handpicked Alliance troops.
A pair of mages stood at the ready, chanting steadily, creating a shield wall of impenetrable blue light that would protect our crew from any nasty spells.
Cutter completed the maneuver, and the opposite cannons roared in unison. This time, though, the Hellreaver wasn’t firing grapeshot—a purely antipersonnel weapon—but explosive, runic cannonballs capable of reducing a mountainside into gravel. Kaboom! The ship kicked, rocking up on one side. The cannonballs slammed into the side of the gatehouse, punching effortlessly through stone before exploding. A hail of smoke, stone, and debris billowed out, leaving a series of holes along the side of the building, just large enough for a man to climb through.
Bingo.
Open Wide
“JAKE, TIME TO TAKE the bloody wheel, eh!” Cutter bellowed as he swung the Hellreaver in close, flipping a score of toggles and switches with sure hands. The cargo hatch was all the way open, showcasing the ship’s interior, which was packed full of Cutter’s new personal guards, the Cheeky Bastards—a motley assortment of Rogues, Assassins, Cutthroats, and general bad apples who’d taken to following Cutter around like lost puppies. Grappling hooks, attached to lengths of unbreakable spider silk rope, flew from the hold, latching onto the damaged gatehouse. In seconds, the Bastards shimmied their way across the lines and over the gap, disappearing into the shadowy interior.
Alright, I sent to Devil, protect the Hellreaver until it gets clear, then throw your weight behind Abby. Keep her safe.
That one doesn’t need anyone to keep her safe, he sent in reply. But a Drake doesn’t abandon his own, he conceded after a moment. I will keep one eye out for her. But only one. The others will be searching for worthy prey.
Without another word, he pumped his wings, lifting us high into the air, before throwing himself into a barrel roll a mere ten feet above the Hellreaver’s deck. He tucked his wings as he flew, somehow avoiding the protruding mast, and I did what I’d done so many times before: unhooked my feet from the stirrups and dropped straight down. As always, my stomach lurched into my throat as I fell headfirst toward Cutter. Usually, I triggered Shadow Stride when performing this maneuver, but at this range I’d survive the fall even if I botched the landing.
Admittedly, that knowledge didn’t dispel the fear in my gut by even an iota.
Acting on instinct, I brought my legs back, the weight of my lower body carrying me over so I slammed into the wooden floorboards with my feet instead of my skull. Thank God for my Acrobatics skill. I straightened, wobbling just a little from nerves, and found Cutter grinning at me.
“Bloody hell, Jack, but that wasn’t half bad. Truth be told, that was an awfully thiefly maneuver, you know. Might be, w
e can make a proper Rogue out of you yet. Just have to get you to stop being so morally upright and stuffy all the bloody time.”
“You can try to recruit me after we finish saving the world,” I replied, slapping him on the shoulder. “Now, you ready to do this or what?”
“Never was there a man more ready for a hearty round of breaking and entering than yours truly, but you’ll have to give me just a moment to set my ship in order. Wouldn’t do to leave it with that lot in charge.” He gestured vaguely at the Goblins working the rigging and cannons.
“Where’s Amara?” I asked, eyeing the deck for the Huntress.
He quirked an eyebrow and hooked a thumb toward the starboard railing. I shuffled over and glanced down in time to see Amara cartwheeling through the air, one end of a rope fastened around her waist, the other end attached to a black arrow lodged deeply into the stone just above one of the impromptu entry holes.
“She’s a real showboater, that one,” he said, though there was no malice in his words. Just the opposite, actually. His voice brimmed with respect. “I thought tying the bloody knot might make that better, but if anything, she’s gotten even more competitive. Pigheaded woman will be the death of me, I’d wager.” He turned, tapping at a glass gauge with one finger then throwing an altimeter switch. The ship lurched away from the gatehouse and began to slowly rise as the steam engine heated the air inside the blimp above. Although the zephyr didn’t have a ton of giddy up and go in the speed department, it could sure rise and descend with a quickness.
“Jake, where in the bloody hell are you!” Cutter hollered over his shoulder as we ascended, clearing the walls and shooting up past the bulk of the aerial dogfighting in a matter of seconds. “Jack and I have places to be, you know! Can’t be bloody lollygagging about all day, you sod.”
“Sorry ’bout dat, boss,” Jake shouted, his Minnesota accent bleeding through with every word. The Rogue hustled across the deck, swiping one hand across his brow, clearing away the sweat threatening to drip into his eyes. He was drenched, streaks of soot and sludgy black grease standing out against his pale skin. “Had a problem down in the boiler room. Friggin’ Zachmo got a wrench stuck in the engine. Nearly snapped the crankshaft. But it’s all good now, boss. You go do watcha need ta do. Me and Zachmo, we’ll hold down the fort.”
“Don’t wreck my bloody ship,” Cutter said, giving his lieutenant a wink and a casual finger gun as he sauntered over to the edge of the ship. He lightly hopped up onto the railing, balancing like a cat even though we were a hundred feet or more from the ground. “Well, let’s get this bloody show on the road, eh? Gatehouse isn’t going to take itself, now is it?” He pulled a blade with one hand and extended me the other. “Time to do your magic, friend.”
I rolled my eyes, batted his hand away, and mounted the rail. Unlike Cutter, I didn’t linger—despite all the high-flying antics I still wasn’t an enormous fan of heights. I took one deep breath, steadying myself, then, before Cutter could say anything else, I wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him from the ledge. We plunged from the side of the airship like a lead anchor. Cutter tensed beside me, and I knew he was screaming, but the wind stole away his words before they ever reached my ears. Twenty feet above the gatehouse I triggered Shadow Stride just as I’d done a thousand times before.
Arctic power surged out from my chest, racing through my body, but this time that blistering energy coursed along my arm and into Cutter as I plucked him from the Material Realm, plunging us both into the Shadowverse. Sound died, cut off in an instant, banished from this place along with the flickering firelight and the chaotic, frantic energy of the battle engulfing the Vogthar city. For once, however, the Shadowverse wasn’t devoid of life. A pair of shadowy figures, held aloft on glossy black raven’s wings, dove toward us like eagles going in for the kill. Thankfully, these creatures were on our side and right where they were supposed to be.
Nikko swooped in behind me, wrapping powerful simian arms beneath my armpits, stopping my fall, though knocking the wind from my lungs in the process. It was painful, but while Shadow Striding I couldn’t sustain any physical damage or suffer additional debuffs. A small silver lining I exploited every chance I got.
Mighty Joe darted in behind Cutter, catching the thief before he slammed feet first into the black-stone roof of the gatehouse. A fall like that in the Material Realm would’ve certainly killed him; here, he would only wish that he’d died.
The pair of Void Apes flapped their wings, kicking up gusts of stagnant frozen air, lowering us gently down into the still smoking holes where Cutter’s cannonballs had blasted their way clean through the walls. My feet touched with a whisper on rough stone floors covered in dust, debris, and a liberal amount of goopy black blood. We were in some sort of barrack room from the look of things—a few plain beds with accompanying footlockers sat against one wall, while a handful of empty weapon racks lined the other. Nothing by way of art adorned the room, though there were a few candelabras burning with frozen green flames.
All around us the Cheeky Bastards were locked in mortal combat with a host of Vogthar in black scale mail layered over gray leather armor. Poisoned daggers slashed. Short swords halted mere inches from vulnerable flesh. Blinding powder hung in the air like a red cloud. Impossibly, a female Assassin hung upside down from the ceiling on a tether no thicker than my pinky. She was locked, mid-spin, and extending from her waist was what I could only describe as a tutu made of reinforced steel and razor-sharp daggers that sliced through anything that got too close. Extremely dangerous looking, but apparently effective if the bodies piled around her were any indication.
Naturally, leading the charge was Amara, a spear in one hand, a single-edged dagger in the other—the curved blade running along the outside of her forearm. Her face was petrified in a ghastly snarl, although there was something strangely alive and joyous in her eyes.
“Gods, but I have to say this is a pretty neat trick you have up your sleeve,” Cutter said, glancing around the room appreciatively. He walked over, ebony blade twirling absently, and tried to stab a frozen Vogthar. Of course, the blade passed harmlessly through the nightmare guard as though he were a mirage of mist and heat. “Shame that.” He frowned, right until he caught sight of Amara. “Never mind. This will be bloody brilliant.” Cutter chuckled darkly as he stole across the room, phasing through the various combatants then dropping into a crouch as he positioned himself behind the Vogthar trying so diligently to skewer his new wife.
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“It’s a terrible idea. I’m going to steal her kill right from under her nose, which will chap her arse to no end. A fine way to start this battle if you ask me.”
I wasn’t sure I’d ever understand those two. “Good luck,” I said. “I’m going to head deeper in and start clearing some rooms. See if I can’t find whatever nasty surprise Thanatos left for me.” As much as I wanted to fight alongside the Bastards, at this stage in the game, I was a force of nature best left to my own devices.
“Be careful out there, eh?” Cutter called after me. “Don’t be a bloody hero—you still owe me a round of drinks for my wedding!”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said, shooting him a little wave as I drew my weapon. “Just make sure Amara doesn’t kill you before you can collect.”
I strode from the room and into a long corridor with forks branching off to the left and right.
Everything here was subtly distorted, the dimensions somehow off, probably to accommodate the overly tall Vogthar and their curling horns. Either way was a viable option, and I was burning time, so I trusted my gut and headed left. The floors were made from the same pale stone, and though there were more of the green-burning candelabras shedding pools of weak light at regular intervals. There were no wall hangings or tapestries. For some reason, I was expecting the Vogthar to be more... evil, I guess? In my mind, even the gatehouse should’ve been decked out with skulls and pentagrams
.
Maybe scenes of horrible torture, similar to what was so painstakingly etched on the Malware weapons they carried. But there was none of that. It was all strangely antiseptic. Sterile and lifeless.
I peeked into the first room I came to.
Inside was a boxy chamber nearly overflowing with Vogthar. The guards, each one carrying a curved ebony bow, were all arrayed against the far wall, which was covered with narrow arrow slits looking down onto the battlefield outside the city gates. Weapon racks, bristling with spare bows and extra strings, hung from the left and right walls, while baskets holding bouquets of black arrows were propped up between each of the Vogthar defenders. Those arrows let off a miasma of rotten energy that screamed Malware. Which meant each one of those arrows was a potential death sentence for any one of my men fighting below.
Anger erupted inside my chest, and suddenly all I wanted to do was burn this whole place to the ground. These things, and their Darkling companions, were monsters. Creatures that deserved no mercy other than a quick death.
And maybe... maybe they didn’t even deserve that.
I stepped back from the entryway, stowing my warhammer, and stepped from the Shadowverse with a thought. Sound and motion returned to the world. The Vogthar in the room hadn’t seen me and continued to draw and fire their deadly arrows with smooth efficiency—a well-oiled machine working at full tilt. Letting my rage fuel me, I raised my hands and reached out to my shadowy power, calling Umbra Bog from the stone tiles beneath their inhuman feet. My Spirit bar dipped by a hair as a sea of semi-sentient tendrils erupted from the floor, attacking with mindless hunger and need, cinching tight around arms and legs and wrapping around throats and weapons.
Securing the Vogthar archers in place.
The defenders, finally wise to my presence, bucked and thrashed madly, trying to yank their weapons free so they could turn their Malware arsenal on me instead.
