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

by James Hunter

  He folded his arms and glared at everyone, his floppy ears twitching in annoyance.

  Instead of blue scales, fiery skin, or stunted black wings, Cutter was covered in a downy tan fur, his normally blond locks now a shocking shade of white, his ears elongated and drooping down behind his head. He had a pair of small goat horns poking up like a pair of hitchhiker’s thumbs. Even with the black leathers, the dagger hilts protruding up from his belt, and the golden rapier at his side, he looked like an oversized bunny rabbit. Or, since he had horns, maybe the fabled jackalope. Even his nose had transformed into a pink triangle with white whiskers sprouting off at an angle.

  He could’ve gone into a kid’s petting zoo.

  “This place is the absolute bloody worst,” Cutter said, wriggling his nose. “I hate literally everything about it. It’s as cold as bollocks and gloomier than a Risi labor camp. Plus, I stuck my head into four different inns on the way over”—he thrust four furry fingers up in illustration—“and not one of them had gambling. Turns out, no one gambles here at all. It’s illegal.” He said the word as though it tasted rancid in his mouth. “And then there’s the mead. Every brew tastes like week-old bathwater, and it’s so watered down you’d need to a drink a tubful of the shite to even get a decent buzz.”

  “I actually think there’s a certain charm to the place,” Osmark said, leaning against the wall and checking his pocket watch. “Perhaps under different management it might even flourish,” he said, offering Sandra a knowing smile.

  “Well, that’s easy for you to say, isn’t it?” Cutter retorted. “You don’t look like a gods-be-damned hop-along, now do you! How am I supposed to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies skulking around like this, eh?” He gestured at his fuzzy face. “And my reputation. Gods, but it will never recover if word of this gets out. Every thief in Eldgard will have at me. Cutter Floppy-ears, they’ll call me.” He pulled a dagger and twirled it in his hands. “Not a word of this ever gets back to Amara. Not a word, you all understand?” He brandished the dagger. “You’re all Travelers, so I won’t feel even a little bad murdering all of you in retribution.”

  Even his murderous tirade looked adorable.

  Once the laughter finally subsided, everyone fell into a tense, uncomfortable silence.

  Cutter’s ridiculous appearance had been a nice reprieve—a good, if momentary, distraction—but nothing could change the fact that we were deep behind enemy lines, severely disadvantaged, and that the ultimate success of everything we’d done so far hinged on the outcome of this mission. We cooled our heels in the room for another half hour, running down the clock on the Death’s Sting debuff while we waited for our Skálaholt tour guide, Jeff, to finally show. Osmark and Sandra talked in hushed whispers. Cutter absently twirled his daggers. Abby and I just sat on the bed together, holding hands, enjoying the fleeting moments of the calm we had before the storm slammed into us.

  And a storm was coming. I could feel it deep in my soul.

  Eventually, Osmark straightened and clicked his pocket watch closed.

  “It’s time,” he announced with a tip of his head, slipping the watch back into his vest pocket. “He’s here. Waiting for us below. Shall we?”

  We opted to leave through the window since five brand-new Spectral Revenants all strutting through the common room were bound to draw at least a little attention, even among people as trusting as the Darklings seemed to be. Squeezing through the window itself was a challenge—Osmark almost didn’t make it, thanks to his unwieldy horns—but eventually we all dropped down into the darkened alleyway running along the backside of the Traveler’s Rest. It was bitingly cold outside, the air nipping at any exposed skin, and I was more thankful than ever for the added cold resistance my new armor provided.

  If I made it out of Skálaholt in one piece, I was going to pick Vlad up a bottle of the best Dwarven vodka around—Stone’s Blood, they called it—as a thank you.

  We crept along in a single-file line, the Artificer taking point, staying to the deeper pools of shadow. The alley curved gently left, connecting to a larger boulevard lit by brass gas lamp posts marching down the center of the road. The street itself looked empty save for a lone figure who waited at the mouth of the alleyway, his back pressed against the wall of a three-story townhouse of cut granite with a covered veranda protruding from the third story. We slowed our approach as we neared, Osmark drawing his weapon, though he didn’t appear especially nervous.

  But then, the Artificer never seemed nervous.

  “Dr. Berkowitz?” Osmark called, cocking the hammer on his repeater, no doubt ready to fire if the figure came back with the wrong answer.

  The figure moved, pushing himself away from the wall and the pocket of inky dark he’d been hiding in. The glow from a nearby gas lamp washed over him, and that—along with my Night Eye ability—was more than enough for me to make out the man from Osmark’s brief. He was tall and as lean as a malnourished wolf, with a thick red beard partially covering his gaunt face. Hair, long enough to fall to his shoulders, was bound into a manbun at the top of his head.

  “No one’s called me Dr. Berkowitz in more than a year, Rob,” he said, strutting forward, hands hooked nonchalantly into his belt. “Jeff is fine. Or you can call me what everyone else in Skálaholt calls me these days. Reaper.”

  “Cool nickname, dude,” Abby muttered.

  “Is that Abby Hollander?” Jeff said, ignoring her barb. He wore heavy black plate armor, the metal twisted like melting wax, spikes poking out from the pauldrons and peppering his steel gauntlets. The head of an enormous axe poked up over one shoulder. “I hardly recognized you.” His grin broadened. “I always liked you, Abby.” He paused and tilted his head. “I also knew you were going to be trouble. Call it a gut feeling. You should’ve kept a closer eye on her, Rob,” he said to Osmark, tsking. “I told Lenny to fire her as soon as we found her pen-testing the system the first time. Would’ve saved you a lot of trouble in the long run, I think.”

  “Perhaps,” Osmark conceded with a nod. “What’s done is done, though, and there’s no guarantee things would’ve turned out for the better.”

  “Fire me?” Abby said, stealing a look at Osmark and Sandra. “You knew I was hacking the system?”

  “Of course we knew,” Sandra replied with an eyeroll. “You weren’t that good, Abby. But you were good enough that we couldn’t afford to lose you. Not so close to Astraea. We had Tristen keeping tabs on you—though how in the hell you managed to get Carrera’s location scroll copied over, I still don’t know.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, Abby,” Jeff said conspiratorially, “you’re a legend. The fact that you got away with that heist at all puts you in a league of your own. Rob and Sandra knew everything that went on inside Project Viridia. Nothing slipped through their fingers. Well, except for me and Alan. And you, apparently. Legend. As for the whole Reaper thing”—he shrugged one shoulder—“it’s not a nickname I gave myself. I’ve been Thanatos’ fix-it man almost since the beginning.” He reached up and scratched at his chin. “Over a year now, I guess. He usually only sends me places when someone needs to die.”

  “Over a year?” I asked, taken aback. “But V.G.O. hasn’t been online that long. Not even close.”

  “For you newbs, maybe,” Jeff replied with a friendly grin, showing he meant no harm by the comment. “I’ve been playing longer than anyone. Well. Alan. Always Alan.” He ground his teeth at the name, voice more than a little bitter. “But that’s ancient history, and tonight is all about wiping the slate clean.” He turned and ghosted up to the edge of the alleyway, pressing up against the wall, then taking a quick look-see. “Coast’s clear,” he said, stepping out into the sterile light from the gas lamps and waving for us to follow.

  “There are still Darklings in the city,” he continued, head on a swivel as we moved, “but almost all of them are civilians. Bakers. Innkeepers. Crafters. The folks who keep the lights on and the city from falling apart. Everyone else is o
ut in the Necropolis. I’m a gambling man, though, and I’d bet my entire 401K that Thanatos knows you’re in the city. He doesn’t assign respawn points, but when he does his postmortems, he finds out exactly how someone died—which means he knows full well you all Hexbladed your way into the city.”

  “Which means we’re probably walking into a trap,” Abby said as we dipped into another dimly lit alleyway, leaving the main boulevard behind.

  “Ding-ding-ding, a thousand points to the Dev. I hope you guys are packing some serious heat, because I don’t know what Thanatos has in store, but I do know him. It’s gonna be ugly.” The alleyway zigzagged left, then right, cutting back, then connecting in short order to a small courtyard surrounded by darkened residential buildings made from painted wood, gray stone, and polished tile.

  “If he’s setting some trap,” I asked, “how do we know you’re not a part of it?”

  Jeff shrugged and kept right on walking, guiding us between the squat houses and into a grassy communal space filled with winter-blooming flowers and cherry blossom trees.

  “Thing is, you don’t,” the Morta Knight replied. “Life is always a gamble. Only death is certain. Though for what it’s worth, I am on your side.”

  “And just why is that?” Abby asked. “It’s nothing against you personally, Jeff, but why would a hatchet man for Thanatos suddenly have a change of heart?”

  “Bloody right,” Cutter added in agreement. “This whole thing reeks worse than a Harrowick brothel.”

  Jeff didn’t look back, but I watched as he reached up and ran his fingers over the inside of his arm. “The thing is, being a Darkling isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. When you wind up here”—he gestured toward the city—“it all seems sort of perfect. People always expect there to be pentagrams and human sacrifice on every street corner. Instead, they get plugged into the Darkling House system, where they find community and purpose.

  “Gotta admit, it’s real nice at first. But the ugly truth is, it’s like a goddamned cult. A perfect, egalitarian society where everyone shares and no one goes hungry, which is a great deal as long as you shut your mouth, never ask questions, and toe the company line. Let me tell you, though, the luster wears off pretty damn quick. Life here is a giant gray blur. One day bleeds into the next, into the next, into the next. If variety is the spice of life, then Skálaholt is that bland-ass potato salad that Susan from HR used to bring to the company potluck. And the worst part is, once you’re in, there’s no going back. No way to undo the shit Thanatos does inside your head.”

  Moving lightning quick, he spun and drew a black-edged dagger at his belt. For half a beat, I thought he was going to attack one of us, but instead he drove the blade straight into his thigh, all the way to the hilt. He didn’t even flinch.

  “What I wouldn’t give to feel anything again,” he said softly, pulling the dagger free. “Everything here is empty. We’re all just mannequins on display in Thanatos’ store windows. Mimicking life, but not living it.” He wiped the blood off on his pants and sheathed the weapon. “Stay close. The temple’s not far now.”

  The Offer

  “WELL THIS IS OBVIOUSLY a bloody trap,” Cutter whispered over his shoulder.

  “Let me get another look,” I said, edging past him and pressing my chest flat against the building, keeping my profile as small as I peered around the corner.

  According to Jeff, the shield generator powering the Necrotic Barrier encasing all of Skálaholt was housed inside a temple, not fifty feet away from our current position.

  And Cutter was absolutely right: we were walking into a trap.

  A narrow road connected to a cobblestone courtyard with a modest fountain at its center. The courtyard was merely part of the larger complex that surrounded it. The temple itself formed a perfectly symmetrical “U” with a pair of smaller administrative buildings hemming in the courtyard on the left and right.

  The admin buildings were vaguely Chinese in style and design—much like the rest of the buildings in Skálaholt—with carved wooden columns marching across the front. They were painted a vibrant red, edged in gold, and meticulously decorated with idyllic scenes of fluttering birds, peaceful mountainscapes, and cherry blossom trees in vibrant bloom. Wide verandas graced the second story of both buildings, covered by overhanging roofs with wide eaves, upturned at the corners, and colorful ceramic tiles that would be treacherous to sneak across. Frail paper lanterns hung along the balconies, casting pools of soft amber light on the ground.

  The two smaller buildings connected to a multitiered tower, seven stories high, which occupied the far side of the courtyard. It was a Chinese-inspired pagoda with the same wide eaves and colorful ceramic roof tiles, though crafted from exquisite crystal and black marble shot through with pulsing veins of gold. Inscribed on each level of the tower’s exterior was a single oversized rune. I’d seen those same symbols inside the statuary room in Idruz, though I still didn’t know what they meant. None of our Scriveners had been able to divine a meaning, but clearly they played an important role in Thanatos’ lore.

  My gaze drifted away from the tower, which—if Jeff was on the level—contained the shield generator, and back toward the fountain at the center of the courtyard. Rising from the basin of the fountain was a copper statue: A monk clad in flowing robes, fat prayer beads wrapped around his neck and wrists, a set of balancing scales in one hand and a sword gripped in the other, the point raised defiantly toward the heavens. Despite the freezing temperatures, crystal-clear water trickled from one side of the scale to the other, then cascaded down into the basin below.

  Jeff had politely informed us that the statue depicted Chen De, Aspect of Thanatos, and the Administrator of the Path of Hungry Ghosts.

  Although the copper monk didn’t look at all like Zendu—his face was stony, brow furrowed, almost angry—the figure nevertheless brought the withered Lorekeeper to mind. He and his fellow Lorekeepers had paved the way for us to be here, and now was our chance to make their sacrifice worthwhile. We needed to do this for him, and for everyone else who’d given everything to stop Thanatos.

  Problem was, this was definitely a trap.

  I knew because Thanatos, Overmind of Destruction, was waiting for us. Hovering above the statue, he balanced on the tip of the upraised sword with one foot. After seeing his statue in Idruz and visions of him in the true histories, there was simply no mistaking him: a young man, no more than thirty, with a shock of black hair and a prominent nose dressed in a cassock. Surprisingly, he was alone—no army, no Aspects, no anything—but that was still Thanatos. Death and destruction incarnate, though he looked more like a kid going through an emo phase.

  This was not part of the plan.

  With a concerned sigh, I ducked back into the alley to convene with the others.

  “So what the hell do we do now, huh?” Abby asked in a fierce whisper. “We can’t just march out there and fight him.” Statement, not question.

  “Why not?” I replied, asking what I thought was the obvious question. “I mean, the plan was to take down the shield generator so our army could capture the inner city, but that was really only so we could push Thanatos into a corner where he’d have no choice but to fight us. But if he’s squaring up, ready to duke it out... well, maybe we just do it. Just think about how many lives we could save if we stop him right here, right now.”

  “The problem with your plan,” Sandra said, “is that this is obviously a trap. Can’t you see what he’s doing? He knows how hungry we are to finish this fight, so he’s using himself to lure us out into the open. He’s not forcing a confrontation, he’s using himself as bait.”

  “As much as I hate to agree with her”—Abby jerked a thumb toward the Huntress—“she has a point. Plus, need I remind you, we’re Spectral Revenants at half our full power. We shouldn’t be going up against a bag of demonic puppies, much less Thanatos,” she hissed.

  “I could always try to shank the bastard in the kidney,” Cutter offered. “That
sod certainly deserves it.”

  Osmark ignored us all. “You’re sure there’s no other way into the temple?” he asked Jeff, jaw set, scaly brow creased. “Perhaps we could enter through a window on one of the upper levels. Or make our way in through a back door? Surely those administrative buildings have secondary access points.”

  “Look, Rob,” Jeff replied flatly. “The shield generator is in that pagoda. I’ve seen it myself. First floor. Right in the middle. Problem is, there’s only one way in and one way out: right through the front entrance, which is exactly the way Thanatos designed it. So if we want to shut that down”—he waved at the green bubble overhead—“we have to walk right through Certain Death Valley to get at it. Besides, even if you could get in through some back door, do you really think you’re going to be able to slip by Thanatos?”

  We all fell silent for a tense beat, mulling over our options, which weren’t many at this point.

  “He’s right, you know,” whispered a ghostly voice, carried to us on an errant breeze. “You’re not going to be able to slip past me. I’m an Overmind, not some two-bit dungeon lord you can sneak up on and backstab.” Everyone froze, sharing panicked glances. “Oh, and before you even think about it, Jack—trying to sneak in via the Shadowverse will be just as ineffectual. Now, this is getting rather tedious, so please come out here so that we can all talk like civilized adults.”

  “This is a trap,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “Of course it is,” Thanatos said. “The problem is, you are but six party members, all weakened by the effects of the Revenant, cut off from the cavalry, and inside my realm. In short, your options are severely limited and there is nowhere you can run that I cannot reach. For what it’s worth, though, you have my word that I want a chance to talk first. You seem like a reasonable man, Jack. Please, come and hear me out. Perhaps it’s not too late to come to an accord.”