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

by James Hunter

  One chair was occupied by a sleepy looking Dwarf with silver hair and a bushy beard trailing halfway down a prodigious gut. He leaned back casually in the chair, legs stretched out toward the fire, ankles crossed, a mug with something hot and steaming in one hand. He didn’t wear armor of any sort, settling for woolen trousers and a knit sweater instead. The Dwarf stared morosely at the crackling flames, watching embers kick up and twirl. He stole a sidelong glance at me from the corner of slate-gray eyes, offered me a perfunctory grunt and a nod, then returned to the blaze, not bothering with a second glance.

  I scooted over against the wall and crept down a short hallway, which dumped me into a common room with a polished bar running the length of the right wall. Across the room was an even larger hearth, the flames letting off an obscene amount of heat that quickly left me sweating beneath the hood pulled up around my face. A set of stairs near the bar doglegged off to the right, disappearing upstairs. On the left was a raised platform, perfect for music, though the stage was currently empty. A spattering of circular tables dotted the common room floor, and despite the fact that there was a war on, over half of the tables were occupied.

  Like the wagon driver, the men and women filling the chairs and benches could’ve passed unnoticed in any city in Eldgard.

  There were Wodes and Imperials, a burly Risi, a Murk Elf and a Dawn Elf sharing a table in the corner, making polite conversation. The inn’s patrons talked quietly amongst themselves, a few picking at bowls of savory smelling beef stew or chewing on crusty bread. Others nursed flagons of mead or pitchers of water, fat drops of condensation beading on the glass. Like the gentleman in the mudroom, none of them wore armor, opting for the rough-spun wool that villagers and noncombatants often sported. All of them, though, had their sleeves rolled up to the elbow, their neon green scripts on display for the world to see.

  Manning the bar was a blade-thin Imperial, his bald head gleaming, gold rings lining each ear, a spotless white apron straining across his sunken chest. I was guessing that was Merv.

  “Stranger,” he said, waving toward an empty stool at the bar. “We don’t wear hoods around here, but if you can abide by that rule, you’re more than welcome to stay for a drink, a bite, or even a place to rest your head for the night.”

  The moment of truth.

  Taking a deep breath, I pulled the hood away, letting it drop against my back. Instead of shocked gasps, everyone went back to their meals or the golden mead sloshing around in their flagons—if they’d bothered to look up at me at all. Most hadn’t. Apparently, seeing Spectral Revenants wandering around Skálaholt was a common enough occurrence that the locals didn’t even care anymore. I wove through the tables and over to the bar, slowly straddling a stool, then fishing a handful of coppers from my coin pouch. The coppers clicked as I set them on the wooden counter and pushed them toward the Imperial.

  “Something to drink and whatever you have to eat,” I said.

  “Name’s Merv, and I’m guessing you’re new around here,” he said, cocking an eyebrow but making no move to take the coins.

  “That obvious, huh?”

  “Fresh Spectral Revenants always stick out like a sore thumb. They’re always shifty. Creeping around on eggshells like someone’s gonna mug ’em at any second. So, how long you been here?” he asked politely, pulling out a mug from beneath the bar and absently polishing it with a white rag.

  I shifted nervously on my seat, not sure how to answer.

  Was he fishing for info, hoping to trip me up?

  I regarded the man for a long beat, then finally shrugged. “Just spawned.”

  He grunted companionably and pushed the coins back toward me before turning to a tap and filling the freshly cleaned mug in his hands. “It’s on the house, kid. And I mean that literally. The Darkling Houses pay for us to take care of newbs like you. And even if they didn’t, it would still be on the house because Death’s Sting sucks worse than getting a root canal, am I right?” He placed the mug on the counter and nudged it toward me. “It’s not poison or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. Killing you wouldn’t do much good since you’d just respawn outside my doorstep anyway.”

  “Thanks,” I said slowly, accepting the glass and taking a long drink. If it was poison, I’d know the second the alcohol passed my lips since I’d instantly get slammed with a nasty debuff. I grimaced, as the beer was sour, but that was the worst of it.

  “Takes a little getting used to,” Merv said, gesturing toward the brew. “Milly makes it in back. She’s getting better, but it still tastes a little like piss if you ask me. Stew’s okay though.” He turned his back and shuffled over to a service window, which peered into a kitchen. “Hey, Milly! Order up, huh. Stew and bread. Make sure it’s a good-sized portion.” The barkeeper lingered at the window for a moment, issuing a tired sigh as he waited, fingers drumming on the windowsill.

  After a time, he shuffled back over and set a bowl of chunky brown stew down in front of me, a wooden spoon popping out from the bowl. A hunk of bread, slathered with thick yellow butter, accompanied the meal. It smelled like heaven, but when I went to dig in, I found the flavors bland and underwhelming. A first since coming to V.G.O. In the months that I’d been in the game, food had always been the singular highlight—a guaranteed victory that would never let you down, no matter what you sank your teeth into. Even roast spider was good. This, although not bad, tasted like something I would’ve gotten at a run-of-the-mill diner back IRL.

  Still, I ate because it filled my belly and temporarily leeched away the pain from Death’s Sting.

  “Thank you,” I said between mouthfuls of mediocre food. Even the bread was only so-so.

  “Eh, it’s nothing,” he replied offhandedly. “Everyone was new once. It’s hard to make the transition. Can be real scary at first, especially if you didn’t pick it yourself.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the bar top. “So, what brought you over, huh? Did you choose or was it one of them dark priests?”

  This guy seemed so nice that it was throwing me completely off guard.

  I’d marched in here ready for a fight—not a beer, a free meal, and an understanding bartender looking to make idle chitchat. I needed to get in touch with my friends and come up with a game plan, but the food was helping with my debuffs, and I figured trying to draw out a little extra info was never a bad idea—especially from such a willing source.

  “Dark priest,” I replied. “I was part of the reserve element in Eldgard. Raided a Vog dungeon and ended up with a Hexblade lodged in my throat. Just glad it was that and not a Malware blade.” I spoke easily, but the lie felt heavy and unnatural on my lips.

  I was sure Merv was going to call me on it, but he just smiled and nodded.

  “Yeah, that’s how it happened for me, too,” he said. “Though they turned me back in the early days when the Alliance and the Empire were still at each other’s throats. I’d say probably a full third of us ended up in Skálaholt that way—though less and less these days. In the beginning, the Dark Lord had to aggressively recruit. He was always on the lookout for people with the right kinda temperament. Not so much anymore. Now... Eh, if I had to guess—and this is ballpark math, mind you—I’d say ninety percent are probably willing converts. Word of mouth has a way of doing that, you know?”

  “Wait, so you didn’t choose to be here?” I asked after gulping down a stringy piece of beef.

  “Phft. Naw. I’m from Arizona—I never would’ve picked someplace as cold as Morsheim. But then, I also never would’ve picked Imperial if I’d known I’d get plopped down south of Glome Corrie. It’s almost as balls cold there as it is here.”

  I took another spoonful of stew, chewing softly as I thought. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “Why I stayed?” he preempted me with a lopsided grin. He waved away my obvious shock. “Every newb around here asks. It’s usually the first question out of their mouths after they get something in their stomach.” He stood and pull
ed out another glass, pouring himself a beer. “Thing is, everyone thinks that Morsheim is this awful place, right up until they spend a little time kicking around here. Yeah, the Vogthar are creepy looking, but they ain’t so bad, and Skálaholt is better than most of the cities I visited.

  “After transitioning, I went south to Harrowick, which was god-awful, but nothing compared to Wyrdtide. Got on the wrong side of the Drowned Man, which is how I ended up with a Hexblade shoved in my back. Skálaholt, though.” He shrugged and took a sip from his mug, face puckering as he set the glass down. “It’s pretty nice. Okay, at least. I mean, we’re at war, but then everyone’s at war, so does it really matter who you fight for in the long run? Emperor Osmark. Grim Jack Shadowstrider. Thanatos. It’s all the same to little guys like us. We don’t make decisions or have power. We just go where they point and die while they sit in their fancy castles.”

  The words stung, and I couldn’t help but flinch away from the scorn in his voice.

  “At least here there are upsides,” Merv said, nodding.

  “What kind of upsides are there to being a Darkling?” I asked, curious. I genuinely wanted to know what could drive someone to view Thanatos and Morsheim as better options than siding with either me or Osmark.

  Merv grinned and broke out in a hearty belly laugh. “What kind of upsides?” he asked, rubbing a rough hand over his bald head. “I don’t even know where to start. For one, Thanatos takes care of us. Everyone here gets three hots and a cot, no questions asked. No one is homeless, no one is hungry, and everyone has a job to do. Helluva lot better than the way you get treated in New Viridia or, God forbid, Wyrdtide. Then there’s the class benefits—it doesn’t hurt for us to die. There’s no trauma. No real consequences. We don’t lose experience, and unlike you, Death’s Curse and Death’s Sting don’t affect Darklings.”

  Hmm. Now that was interesting. Strictly from a gaming perspective, being able to play without any fear of dying at all was a powerful benefit for a class to have, even if it came with some questionable strings attached.

  “Plus, best of all,” the bartender continued, “the Dark Lord fixes you.” He paused, scanning the inn’s patrons until he spotted a Dawn Elf tucked away in the corner. “John,” he called out, “what were you? Before here?”

  “Alcoholic,” the man said automatically as though he’d answered the question a hundred times over. “For nineteen years. Never could get sober.”

  “And what about you, Jenna?” Merv asked the Murk Elf sitting across from John.

  “Depression and chronic anxiety,” she said somberly. “I tried to kill myself twice before coming to V.G.O. Almost didn’t upload into a pod...” She glanced down, running a thumb over the inside of one wrist. “But I chickened out at the last minute.”

  “It’s the same story with most of the willing converts,” Merv said with a shrug. “Jacob”—he hooked a thumb toward a Risi—“was a meth addict, and as soon as he got in game he fell into Affka. Lacey struggled with bulimia. I drank six beers a day, every day, for nine years.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, picking at the bread, popping little chunks into my mouth. “Why would any of that make you want to side with Thanatos?”

  “I already told you, didn’t I? He fixes you. When people come here, into the game, it fixes your body. If someone’s missing an arm or a leg and they crawl into one of those NexGen Capsules, boom, they wind up here. Good as new. But what if your mind is what’s broken, huh? Those nanites they shot us up with, it maps your brain, right? But if there’s something wrong with your brain, that bullshit follows you right into the game. We came in with all our same addictions, hang-ups, and phobias. But the thing is, if you give Thanatos permission, he can go inside.” He tapped at his temple with a lean finger. “Fix your brain. When you die, he sorta tinkers around. Gives you these.” Merv rotated his arms, showing off the scripts.

  “Over time, the scripts make it go away. They even you out. No more depression or anxiety. No more pain.” He paused, lips pressed into a thin line. “Is there a cost? Sure, but everything has a cost. But I think it’s worth paying. Everyone here is more or less happy. We all have what we need. It’s not the best way to live, but sure as hell ain’t the worst either. And if I had to choose between this or being a drunk panhandling for pocket change on a street corner? I’ll take this. And when Thanatos wins, he’ll make it all like this. He’ll fix everyone. Then maybe I can get out of Morsheim and back to someplace that actually gets warm in the summer.”

  I scraped up the last bite of stew, mechanically slid it into my mouth, and pushed the bowl away. The meal didn’t taste even remotely good. All of a sudden, it tasted like burnt ash in my mouth.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in,” Merv said. “First day’s always the hardest.” He turned and pulled a brass key off a hook, plopping it down on the bar in front of me with a thunk.

  “Why don’t you sleep on it, huh? Your room’ll be number five. Third door on the right.”

  “Yeah,” I said numbly, retrieving the key. “I’ll do that. Thanks again for the food.” I pushed myself away from the bar and headed up the stairs, the world reeling uncertainly around me—and it had nothing to do with debuffs.

  The key to number five let me into a small room, plain, but well cared for. Pushed up against one wall was an inviting twin bed, stacked high with plump pillows and covered with clean linens. The thick woolen blanket looked like heaven after trekking around in the cold for a few hours. Beside the bed was a simple nightstand, though one that boasted a brass gas lamp—a luxury few taverns in Eldgard could afford. There was a plain wardrobe in one corner and a washbasin with a porcelain bowl and a pitcher of clean water in the other. An unadorned high-backed chair near the wall completed the room’s furnishings.

  The real victory was the single window, shuttered tight. Having a way in—or a way out, if things went sideways—was a stroke of luck.

  I shut the door behind me, set the lock, then, for good measure, retrieved the chair and jammed it up beneath the handle. That wouldn’t keep a dedicated enemy out for long, but it might buy me a few extra seconds to make a break for it. After giving the room a quick once-over, making sure everything was as it seemed, I beelined for the window. A chill breeze cut through the wooden slats since there was no glass to properly insulate me from the elements. I was loath to push the shutters open, but I needed to see what I was working with. My room was on the backside of the inn and overlooked a narrow alleyway, devoid of life and swathed in darkness.

  I couldn’t have asked for a better location.

  Teeth chattering, I pulled the shutters closed and quickly stripped the blanket off the bed, wrapping it around my shoulders before plopping down onto the edge of the mattress. The bed was blessedly soft and called to me like a siren, lay down, just for a second. That won’t hurt. I groaned. Much as I wanted to sleep through the effects of the Death’s Sting debuff, I resisted the urge and pulled up my interface. First, I noted my location on my map, setting a personal quest marker so I could share it with the group. That done, I toggled over to my inbox and quickly drafted a curt group message.

  <<<>>>

  Personal Message

  Looks like I respawned on the north side of the city. I’m in a relatively secure location—an inn called the Traveler’s Rest. Attached is my personal quest marker. I’m on the second floor, room five, but there’s also a window access point big enough to climb through on the east side of the building. Rally on me.

  —Jack

  <<<>>>

  It didn’t take long before a flurry of reply PMs hit my inbox, Cutter, Abby, Osmark, and Sandra all accounted for. So far, so good. Now all that was left to do was wait.

  Rendezvous

  ABBY WAS THE FIRST to arrive, knocking gently on the door, startling me from a restless nap as I sat propped up against the wall, scythe sword in hand.

  I almost attacked her on the spot when I first opened the door and found her standing there, dressed i
n little more than brown rags, her skin a deep shade of crimson, her lips, eyes, and hair as dark as coal, nubby spurs of yellow bone jutting up from her forehead.

  “It’s me, Jack,” she squealed, raising her hands and offering me the same brilliant smile I’d seen a thousand times before. It turned out that everyone’s Revenant form was as unique as the player themselves.

  Osmark and Sandra were the next to show, and like Abby, they looked like they could’ve crawled out of a Saturday night creature feature.

  The Artificer was wearing a long tattered gray cloak, which helped to hide the customary clockwork vest he favored. His top hat was missing, but at least the multi-lensed goggles perched on his head were a familiar sight. If not for the clothes and the voice, though, I never would’ve pegged him as Osmark—not in a thousand years. While my skin was a pale white and Abby’s was Ferrari red, his was an icy blue and covered with fine scales, his teeth jagged and black, his hair a shocking shade of green like seaweed. A set of twisted addax horns angled up a good two feet from his head.

  He looked like something dredged up from the bottom of a lake.

  Sandra, by contrast, could’ve almost passed for human if not for her crimson eyes, the whitetail antlers jutting from her forehead, and the leathery, winglike appendages trailing down from her back.

  Cutter was the last to arrive, clambering into the room through the narrow window instead of through the door like everyone else. Not totally shocking, given his profession and disposition.

  The second I caught a glimpse of him I fell onto the bed, laughing until I couldn’t breathe. I wasn’t the only one either. Abby joined in, tears streaming down her face as she pointed, wheezing. Osmark didn’t laugh—I wasn’t sure he was capable of laughing—but he grinned, and even Sandra, the ice queen herself, cracked a thin smile, revealing teeth as black as garden soil.

  “Sure. Fine. Bloody have your fill then,” Cutter said with a scowl, closing the shutters behind him and securing the brass clasp with nimble fingers. “Because my whole life is one great big joke, isn’t it?”