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

by James Hunter

  It almost looked like a kid, but that couldn’t be right. There were no Vog children. The Vogthar were mindless pawns of Thanatos, mass spawned like the rest of the monsters littering the various dungeons around V.G.O. True, some of those monsters could be thoughtful or cunning, like our own Lowyth, but they didn’t have families. Or homes for that matter. I’d have to ask about it once things got settled a little bit. For now, however, I needed to get back into the brawl.

  I pulled my warhammer free from the frog at my belt and called out to Devil with my mind. We have work to do.

  The fighting would last for a while yet—going door to door and house to house wouldn’t be easy—but the battle was already won, whether the Vogthar of Idruz knew it or not.

  Command Post

  I STRODE ACROSS A WIDE courtyard, boots click-clacking on the pale white cobblestones underfoot as I beelined for Idruz’s Keep—an enormous building that closely resembled a Greek-style temple. After capturing the Command Center and displacing the previous faction owners, the Lost Heaven Caste, we had turned the place into our new central headquarters, though it’d been a long, tiring, and tedious process. Even after dispatching the Horror and securing the gatehouse, the fighting had raged on for another seven hours.

  Those seven hours had felt more like twenty to me, since I’d been running from battle to battle to battle, stamping out fires—sometimes literally—and putting down pockets of Vogthar resistance without mercy. We’d fought for so long, I’d actually had to send Devil back to the Shadowverse for an eight-hour rest. A first, in our time together.

  “We’re getting distribution centers set up around the city,” Anton Black nattered on from beside me, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands, “and so far everything’s running surprisingly smooth, though I do worry a bit about the supply lines themselves...” He trailed off, scowling at one of his reports as though it had personally insulted him.

  “There’s nothing to worry about on that front,” came a cutting reply from my right. Gavin Marston, the Gentlemen’s Gentleman, paced me easily, somehow looking completely in his element even though he was wearing a smoker’s jacket and we were in a certified war zone. The guy had confidence in spades, that much was for sure. “I’ve been personally overseeing the operation, and between myself and the esquires I’ve committed to the cause, I can quite assure you the supplies will end up where they need to be.” He held a hawkbill pipe in a hand covered in a myriad of tiny white scars.

  Anton grumbled under his breath and shot the man a withering sidelong glare, but he didn’t say any more or push Gavin on his claims. Probably a smart move since Gavin struck me as the kind of person who would remember every slight and pay back the offender in full.

  A platoon of Legionnaires snapped to attention as we tromped up the short flight of marble stairs, heading for a pair of pounded bronze doors that stood wide open in invitation. This place wasn’t at all what I’d been expecting from a Vogthar stronghold. Honestly, I’d been expecting a dungeon with twisting passageways, deadly traps, and hordes of monsters. This was the exact opposite of that: all white marble, fluted black columns, red tiles, and intricate friezes worked into the stone. It could’ve been ripped directly from the pages of a Greek mythology book.

  “Speaking of Master Fane,” Anton said, riffling through the papers once more, “have you heard any report about the housing situation? We’ll need a fair number of residences to billet our men, and we need to keep unit and command integrity intact if possible.”

  Gavin waved a hand dismissively, shooing away the question as though the answer were self-evident. “You worry too much, Anton,” Gavin replied, blowing out a blue-gray smoke ring, “and that’s coming from a man who was born and raised on paranoia and speculation. Fane is working with the Legion Quartermaster, Faleria Domitia Paulina—and that stone-faced woman has been running campaigns for longer than you’ve been alive, boy. Between Faleria and that Alliance boy, Toby, it’s all quite in hand.”

  The entryway doors led into a rectangular room surrounded by even more black pillars; red velvet tapestries, edged in gold, hung between the columns, each embroidered with a single golden rune. The runes were all different, and even after logging some serious hours with Betty Howard, the Alliance’s foremost Arcane Scrivener, I still couldn’t begin to guess at their significance. There was power here, though, thrumming in the air with potent, restless energy—wanting to be used. The Reality Editor vibrated against my chest in response, coaxed to hesitant life.

  In the center of the chamber loomed a towering statue, thirty feet tall.

  I assumed the statue depicted Thanatos, but despite all my time in V.G.O. and my heavy involvement in the business of the Overminds, I’d never actually gotten a glimpse of the Overmind of Destruction in person. My mind had conjured an image of a skull-headed demon or some sort of Cthulhu-esque horror with face tentacles, lifted from the pages of a Lovecraft story. Instead, the statue portrayed a young man with a scholarly build, thick hair, and a rather pinched-looking face that poked up from the high-necked collar of a priestly cassock. He held an open book in one spider-fingered hand and a wicked scythe in his other, the shaft of the weapon resting against one shoulder.

  He didn’t look so tough. Certainly far less intimidating than Khalkeús had, but I knew full well that appearances could be deceiving, especially when it came to Aspects and Overminds. Sophia didn’t look all that intimidating, either, but she could literally shape the world around her with a thought.

  “What about our current security protocols?” Gavin said, shooting a look at Forge, who trailed a few feet behind us. “Master Forge, be a good sport and give us a brief report, won’t you?”

  Forge shrugged beef-slab shoulders and ran a thick thumb along the head of his axe, which hung from his belt. “No need to worry your fancy britches on account of my boys,” he said, voice gruff and more than a little defensive. “Trust me, partner, my boys have everything squared away—and you can take that to the bank. Between the Malleus Libertas and Sir Berrick and his bunch of stuffy Inquisitors, we got this city buttoned up tighter than a bull’s ass in fly season.”

  Forge stuck up a finger. “We’ve secured the entire perimeter, and I got Malleus Libertas camped out at every entry point.” He continued checking items off on his fingers as he went. “We got Dokkalfar overwatch Rangers scattered around the city. Berrick has Imperial patrols roaming the streets and overlapping Legionnaire posts set up at major intersections and route locations. Watch rotations and passphrases are all good, too. Gotta say”—he shrugged, a small frown pulling down his lips—“this is the biggest operation I’ve ever helped coordinate, but this ain’t my first rodeo.”

  We skirted around the statue while Forge talked, heading toward a rather plain wooden door at the back of the statuary room, presided over by a cluster of hard-eyed Alliance guards with a bold crimson hammer painted onto their armor. More Malleus Libertas, Forge’s elite shock troops. They’d also become the Alliance’s premiere Urban Warfare Task Force, so I wasn’t at all surprised to see some of their number here, holding down the Command Center. The guards—three in total—snapped off sharp salutes, then waved us through into the actual Command Center beyond the door.

  Although the room bearing Thanatos’ statue was nearly empty, this space bustled with life and frantic activity.

  The temple’s Command Center was large enough to accommodate the sixty or seventy officers and generals all busy with their various assignments. The marble floors were polished to a dull glow, and an inlaid tiled mosaic, depicting a silvered skull, dominated much of the space. The ceiling was much lower in this room than in the statuary chamber, showcasing the exposed wooden beams that ran overhead. Stately bookcases, heavily loaded with leather-bound tomes, lined the back wall.

  A pair of intricate curling staircases on the left and right spiraled up to the second floor—which, I knew from earlier reports, contained a few storage rooms as well as the priestly quarters. Eight spartan r
ooms with narrow cots, plain writing desks, pale-wood wardrobes, and not much else. We’d already repurposed half of those sleeping spaces into active workstations, while the other half would serve as temporary sleeping quarters for any of the duty officers stuck working twenty-four-hour rotations.

  Runners, messengers, and assistants rushed about here and there, nimbly weaving their way through the assembled leaders who loitered around tables that had been carefully set up throughout the room.

  “Alright, gentlemen,” I said, rounding on Gavin, Anton, and Forge, “unless you all have anything else for me, I have a few more people to talk to yet. So if you’ll excuse me...”

  After a brief round of goodbyes, we split off, already moving on to the next task at hand.

  I surveyed the room, looking for Abby, but there was no sign of her. I caught a bob of brown hair talking animatedly with a grizzled-looking Dwarf—Lothour Trollsunder? Firehammer? Gah, I couldn’t remember his name. The brown hair, however, belonged to a young woman named Delani; she stood out like a sore thumb in the room full of grumpy old men and battle-scarred military types. Tall and slender, she could’ve passed for a model, which was what she’d been back IRL. Since coming on board with the Alliance, however, she’d become one of our most reliable war room erranders. She was also Abby’s right hand, so if anyone knew where the Firebrand was, it would be her.

  “Ya dinnae understand, lass. Ah need access to a proper bloody forge! How do ya expect us to repair our gear without it, eh?”

  “Look, I understand you need to use the forge, but everyone needs to use the forge, and siege crafters get first dibs,” she said with an unconcerned shrug. “I’ll make sure you get added to the requisition list, but until then you’re just gonna have to wait, guy.”

  “That’s nae good enough,” he bellowed, face turning an alarming shade of maroon.

  I caught Delani’s eye and gave her a brief nod.

  “Well, if you really have a problem, Karen,” she said, planting hands on her hips in a you-just-picked-a-fight-with-the-wrong-woman gesture, “I guess I can escalate the issue. Lord Grim Jack?” she said, arching an eyebrow and waving me over. “This very grumpy gentleman has a problem with the orders you handed down about forge usage.”

  “Is that right?” I said, stepping up beside the sylphlike woman. “What seems to be the problem?” I asked, voice iron.

  “Aye... Yes... Well... Nae,” the Dwarf stammered, color draining from his face. “Just a wee misunderstanding, yer lordship. Please just add me to the requisition list, lass,” he finished weakly, bowing his way out of the Command Center.

  Delani offered me a wide grin. “Thanks. He’s like the eighth Dwarf today that wants more time at the forge.”

  “Glad I could help,” I replied. “After grinding monsters into the dirt all day, a little bureaucratic red tape is actually a nice change of pace. You seen Abby around, by chance?”

  “Actually, she was just in here looking for you,” Delani said, pouting a little as she thought. “Want me to track her down and let her know you’re around?”

  “That would be awesome,” I said with a sigh, trying to ignore all the little aches and pains in my back and chest. “I just need to check in with Vlad about a few things, but I’ll be on site.”

  “Sounds good, boss man. I’ll send her your way ASAP.”

  She took off, dancing her way through the other messengers while I found the next person I needed to talk with.

  Vlad was near the back of the room, hunched over a long table covered with papers and sprawling blueprints. At the moment, he looked like he was on the verge of popping a blood vessel and simultaneously having a brain aneurism. The fact that Vlad happened to be talking with Enzo Affré, Osmark’s chief Artificer and Weaponeer, was not a coincidence. Enzo was a thin, rather fragile-looking Imperial man with short-cropped hair, decked out in the same Artificer-style gear that Osmark usually wore. Despite his diminutive size, Enzo was a nightmare and an incorrigible drama queen, second to none.

  I groaned under my breath and rubbed at the bridge of my nose.

  When in the heck had he gotten here?

  I’d specifically assigned him to Osmark’s forces since he and Vlad got along about as well as forks and power outlets. Seriously, the pair of them were a powder keg ready to explode at any moment, and when Vlad was involved, unplanned explosions usually had deadly consequences.

  “Your plan, it is shit, Vlad.” Enzo spoke perfectly good English, but his French accent was as thick as cold molasses. “Utter shit! Just look at those.” He bent over and slapped a set of blueprints contemptuously with the back of his hand. “The rollers are weak as a newborn kitten, and your suspension system will fail the very first time this thing hits a pebble. There is no give. No movement. It is rigid, much like you and your thinking.”

  Yep. Vlad’s head officially looked like it was going to explode.

  “Suspension is meant to be rigid, ty tupoy kretin.” Vlad tapped at the schematic. “The wheels, they are made from proprietary polymer of my own design. They will support the structure. Are made to bend and distort—up to sixty percent without permanent damage. Act like tank treads. Far better design than torsion bar or multilink suspension. Is common sense.”

  Enzo straightened—eyes rolling, a scowl tattooed across his face—and fished a hand-rolled cigarette from his pocket. He pressed it to his lips and lit it with a steampunk version of a lighter. He took a few deep drags, smoke trailing from his nostrils like some sort of grumpy French dragon, then he pulled out a rolled set of schematics and flopped them down on the table. “Only a very limited mind would think the solution is a torsion bar or some squishy wheels. This. This will fix the shit suspension. Far greater mobility. Versatility. Plus, sustainable steam power. Far superior to your, your”—he waved his cigarette about—“aimless tinkering and heavy-handed crafting.”

  “Vlad,” I said evenly, stepping up and wrapping an arm around his shoulders in what looked like a brotherly side hug. Really, I was stopping my Weaponeer from braining the Artificer with the heavy wrench clutched in his white-knuckled grip. “Everything going okay here?”

  Reluctantly, Vlad slouched and set the wrench down.

  “Is fine. Just listening to buffoon who could not build potato launcher lecture me about my siege tower design.” He nodded to his blueprint, which showcased an enormous fortified tower—basically a mobile skyscraper—bristling with weapons, ladders, grappling hooks, and scaling bridges.

  I absolutely did not want to be roped into an argument with Enzo. I could intimidate most people these days just by looming a little too closely, but not Enzo. He was an obvious narcissist and had no fear and no regard for anyone other than himself.

  “Nope. Not today, Satan,” I said, turning my back on Enzo before he could goad me into saying something I would regret. “Vlad, I was hoping to talk with you about the other thing you’ve been working on. Don’t suppose you have a minute, do you?”

  “Gladly,” he said, offering Enzo a glower that could peel paint. “Excuse me, please, Imperial buffoon. Vlad must talk about important things with important people.”

  “All the better,” the Frenchman shot back, ashing his cigarette with a flick of his fingers. “It will give me a chance to update your ghastly plans without all your bothersome interference. Go now. Leave the real engineering work to the real engineers!” Enzo scooted over and shooed us away as he unfolded his own designs and pulled free a charcoal pencil to make annotations on Vlad’s blueprints.

  I grabbed Vlad by the shoulder and steered him away from the man, up a set of stairs, and into one of the unoccupied bedrooms.

  “I will kill him,” Vlad said stoically as I shut the door behind us. “True, he will come back, but”—he shrugged—“more chances to kill him, da?”

  “Maybe after we win the war against Thanatos?” I suggested, dropping down onto the edge of the mattress with a soft groan. God, but I was tired. “Osmark swears up and down he’s the best enginee
r in the Empire—says Enzo’s a prodigy even by his own standards.”

  Vlad crossed his arms, a scowl twisting up his face. “Fine. Vlad will tolerate him. Defeat Thanatos. Then kill Enzo. Melt in acid, maybe. Now, what was thing you needed to talk to Vlad about?”

  “Two things. First, I brought you some presents.” I opened my inventory and pulled out the items I’d salvaged from the Horror. “I’ve never seen some of this stuff and figured you might be able to find a use for it.” I handed over the pile of items, including the hide and iron plates I’d collected.

  “Very nice. This is very good gift, Jack,” Vlad said, nodding appreciatively, turning the items over in his hands then adding them to his inventory. “Does not make up for Enzo, but will still find good use for items. What was second thing?” he asked.

  “I was hoping to get an update on Project Blackout,” I replied, offering him my most endearing smile. I’d been bugging the hell out of him about Project Blackout for weeks, and I was afraid I was wearing out my goodwill.

  Vlad’s face brightened. “Yes! Finally. Some good news.”

  His eyes went vacant, then snapped back to focus as he pulled an odd staff free from his inventory. It looked like a Mage’s crook from all outward appearances. Five feet tall and two inches thick, its dull black wood was carved with a series of silver runes. It was, in fact, the opposite of a Mage’s staff. Previously, it had belonged to Zhang Young—apprentice to the now dead Peng Jun Tong, and, most importantly of all, an Anti-Mage. That staff was something called an Arcane Dampener, and I’d seen it in action firsthand.

  I had no idea how it worked, but it could summon a dome that wiped magic out in an instant.

  “Still have not been able to replicate, but very close. Betty, she has been helping me unlock the Scrivenings.” Vlad paused, lips twitching. “She is a formidable woman. Very competent.”