Viridian Gate Online: The Lich Priest: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 5)

by James Hunter

  “Heroes, you say,” the dark-skin Gnome piped in, dropping the point on his dagger into the dirt and leaning on the pommel as he examined us. “Isn’t that what you said about the last one? No?” He shifted his weight and sniffed in disapproval. “And what an odd group of heroes, no less. A Brand-Forged Imperial. A Flame Witch. A Murk Huntress. A Blood Monk. And a Wode thief. Very odd indeed.”

  “Oh, come on,” Ari said, hands planted on her hips. “This is different. It’s nothing like last time. Not even remotely the same.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the ruddy-cheeked guard grunted. “Take ’em to Nirug straight away. And you all”—the disgruntled Gnome glared at each of us in turn—“know the guards will be watching you lot. We might appear a weak and naive folk, but we’re not to be trifled with.” He glowered at Ari. “Not again. I don’t care if you’re the Champion of Order or no, you step wrong, and I’ll personally throw your arses right out of the Vale.” He squinted and focused on Cutter. “And that goes double for you, thief.”

  “Me?” Cutter said incredulously, offering the man his most winning smile. “What did I ever do to you blokes? I can’t remember ever swindling a …” He paused. “What are you? A Gnome? Must be a Gnome. Well, at any rate, I feel certain that’s the kind of thing I would remember.”

  “I don’t like your look,” the sentry replied, before stowing his dagger—er, short sword—in the sheath at his belt, then thumping the thick wooden door with a closed fist. There was a squeal followed by the groan of wood as a retaining bar was lifted and the door swung inward. “On you go,” he said, waving us through.

  Ari’s color faded from cherry red and back to electric blue as we edged through the door and past the Gnomes. We stepped out onto a dirt path, wide enough for a horse cart, which carved its way through a lush pasture with grass an emerald green so vivid it looked almost spray-painted on. Rolling hills were in front of us, while a wall of unmarred stone rose up behind us—no sign of the door we’d just come through a moment before.

  “Come on,” Ari said, wings vibrating manically as she zipped forward, “it’s not far now.”

  “Care to tell us what that was about?” Osmark pressed our guide as we followed the winding path through the meadow, which was filled with pint-sized sheep, each the size of a large cat. The fluffy little balls of wool munched on grass contentedly, ignoring our passing. “Why were the guards hassling you?”

  “It’s nothing,” the Pixy replied, rubbing the back of her neck as she flew. “Just … well, I may have accidentally been responsible for leading the Dark Wanderer Carrera back to the town. I suppose in some small way, a few people think all this”—she waved a hand through the air—“is partially my fault.”

  “Wait,” Jay said, stalking up until he was in spitting distance of the Pixy. “You mean to tell us you’re the village screwup? The outcast?”

  “I am not,” Ari snapped, rounding on the monk, fluttering up until she was inches from his nose. “I was a knight in the Court of Order. And yes, I might have trusted Carrera. Maybe I made a mistake, but I’ll fix it. And once I do, they’ll have to give me back my title and allow me back into the fold. Now if you’re done, Sir Monk, let us continue.” She wheeled around, hair bristling, her color a shimmering orange.

  Silently, we followed the path over a mild rise and caught sight of the town.

  A dirt path wound lazily down the face of a hill in a series of switchbacks, before turning into a cobblestone street that ran into the center of the village. The Vale was edged on the north by a forest of pine trees, and on the west by a tiny lake with waters as clear and clean as fine crystal. A single boat floated across the lake’s surface, a fishing pole poking up from the back. A crude wooden palisade surrounded the cozy town within: cute, but a pitiful defense against any organized invasion.

  Heck, even a single one of those Necrotic Rabbit Thralls we’d faced off against could probably level the whole thing like a bulldozer and not even break a sweat.

  Still, the town itself was a remarkable place—like something out of an ancient fairy tale—though not at all what I’d been expecting. Considering this was the Realm of Order, I’d been envisioning paved streets in neat lines and identical, cookie-cutter houses governed by the HOA from hell. But no. This place looked organic, magical.

  A stone path, crafted from worn river rock, carved and twisted this way and that, following the natural contours of the land. Trees, shrubs, and wild patches of flowers ran riot through the village, while the houses themselves were a hodgepodge of styles and materials, all crammed together without any real rhyme or reason. And in the center of it all, looming high, was an enormous redwood, its leafy canopy brushing the sky, giant boughs raised to the heavens like arms lifted in supplication.

  Even at a distance, though, I could tell that something terrible had happened here recently. The palisade was broken in sections, while other parts of the shoddy wall had been torched. Likewise, several of the houses below were nothing but piles of burnt rubble.

  We followed the dirt road down the hill, stopping at the palisade gate, where another pair of Gnome guards waited. These two could’ve been brothers to the fellas standing guard in the cave, but their demeanor couldn’t have been more different. Instead of searching glowers and deep frowns, these two smiled broadly at us as we approached, their grins bright and inviting. And though they had swords, they were stowed in sheaths, and the pair showed no sign of hostility.

  “Welcome back, Ari,” said the Gnome on the left—a particularly round looking Gnome with a deeply silver beard and glasses perched on the tip of his nose like a doddering college professor. “And welcome to you, fine guests.”

  Ari nodded politely, her glow shifting back to red before finally settling on a deep purple. “Thank you for the warm welcome, Edmond. Any new incursions since I left?”

  “No, child,” the Gnome said with a shake of his head. “Everything is just as it was. Already, we are rebuilding. We will recover in time, sweet one.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled before zooming past the gate, leading us into the village.

  Most of the houses were short, stubby things, five or six feet tall—hardly big enough to accommodate any human player. A few were built from weathered gray stone or white plaster, topped by thatched roofs with small chimneys poking up, issuing streams of fragrant gray smoke into the air. Other homes were squat and rounded—little earthen mounds covered in grass, festooned with circular doors and windows. Oversized mushrooms also dotted the cobblestone lanes, but these were filled with miniature stained-glass windows and tiny doors, only big enough to accommodate a Barbie doll.

  I glanced at Ari. Or a Pixy, I suppose.

  The inhabitants were equally varied.

  Swarms of Pixies filled the town like a cloud of colorful butterflies, some watching us through windows while others glided through the air, giggling as they pointed at us. By and large, the Pixies seemed shy and curious, though a few watched us from afar, the glimmer of suspicion etched into their faces. I caught sight of a handful of goat-legged men and women, larger than the Gnomes—though none over five feet. The men wore white linen shirts and tight-fitting vests, while the ladies sported brightly flared skirts with tight bodices that could’ve come right out of Ren-Fest.

  Satyrs.

  After the Pixies, Gnomes seemed the most numerous of the inhabitants. Some worked at outdoor forges, a few tended pristine gardens. More, though, were busy at work, picking through the rubble of ruined houses or sweeping up broken glass with stiff-bristled brooms. Sadly, I even caught a few bloodstains marring the cobblestone walk. A battle had happened here. Despite the destruction, the townsfolk we passed offered us polite greetings and slight bows as though we were old friends.

  We hooked around a corner and headed left down a tightly packed street housing a small garden with a statue of Sophia at its center. A group of Gnome children—a foot and a half tall—played there. They frolicked and ran in ankle-high
grass intermixed with knee-high shrubbery. A stern-faced Gnome woman with a tight bun presided over them, hard lines etched into her face. She offered us a thin-lipped smile—not friendly, not hostile—and kept her distance. The children, however, seemed especially intrigued by our presence.

  They shot playful glances at us but would scamper away in a fit of giggles whenever one of us looked at them. Oddly, they seemed most smitten with Osmark. His clockwork pistol and cog-covered gear earned constant curious looks.

  Though the village was lively, it was tiny compared to Rowanheath or New Viridia, and in next to no time we found ourselves at the base of the towering redwood. Up close, the tree was even more impressive than it had been from a distance. The trunk itself was easily thirty feet in diameter with a squat door set into the base; the upper levels of the tree were covered with more miniature doors and windows, making it look almost like the equivalent of a Pixy high-rise apartment.

  Little faces peeked out at us from the upper windows as the front door swung open to reveal a Satyr wearing a smart tweed vest with a puffy-sleeved shirt and a slick ascot. He looked like a Victorian-era businessman, though he also had goat legs and a wicked set of ram horns curling out from the sides of his head. He had a leather belt slung low around his waist, with an elegant rapier tucked away, the golden basket of its hilt poking up.

  “Arlette,” the Satyr offered with a dip of his head, his voice smooth as silk and rich as oil. “I thought I made myself clear. As much as it pains me, you’re not welcome here. Not until you find a way to fix this. And there’s a lot to fix. The Thralls raided while you were away. Just a preliminary skirmish to test our defenses.” He paused, one immaculate eyebrow quirking up. “As you can see, it didn’t go well.”

  “But that’s why I’m here,” Ari pleaded, dipping her head and folding her hands in front of her. “These strangers are here to help. Sent by the High Queen herself.”

  He pursed his lips. “Forgive me if I’m not so trusting this time around, child. We extended a warm welcome to the last outsider and look where that got us.” He dropped a hand to his rapier, fingers absently curling around the grip.

  “Look, sir,” I said, edging forward. “I’m not sure exactly what happened here, but I can swear to you that we’re here to help. Sophia summoned us—I am the Champion of Order—and we have our own score to settle with Carrera. Help us help you. We want him gone, and if you give us a chance, we’ll take him and whatever new evil he’s unleashed on this land out.”

  The Satyr was silent for a moment, scrutinizing me—gaze skipping over my face and cataloging my gear as he weighed and measured me. “Call me a fool,” he finally said with a sigh, “but there’s something about you, young man. Something that resonates with me.” As he finished speaking an alert popped up:

  <<<>>>

  Quest Update: A Pixy in Need

  Congratulations! You have successfully escorted Arlette Glitterfleck, Esquire of the Court of Order, back to the Vale and won the trust of Mayor Nirug Bisgaard. As your reward, all party members have received 10,000 EXP and your party’s relationship with Arlette and the wee folk of the Vale has increased from Unfriendly to Neutral!

  <<<>>>

  I closed out of the pop-up as the mayor ushered our party through the pint-sized door set into the massive sequoia. I had to crouch and waddle my way through. The inside was surprisingly roomy, however, and had ceilings high enough for me to stand upright. I was surprised to find that the floor was covered with a carpet of lush green grass and snapdragons. The furniture didn’t look crafted so much as grown. The chairs and table sprouted from the earth, and the bed against the far wall was just a pile of golden hay.

  Osmark, Abby, and I took seats, while Cutter and Amara posted up by the door and Jay started pacing restlessly, back and forth, back and forth.

  The mayor scurried over to a small kitchenette, grabbed a metal teapot from a small woodfire stove in the corner, and promptly poured us all a drink. With that done, he took a seat at the head of the rectangular table and pulled a thick pipe from his vest pocket. Everyone was quiet while he tamped down a fat wad of tobacco and lit the pipe with a flick of his fingers. A blue-gray plume of smoke floated up, lingering above his head like a storm cloud. The scent of the tobacco was strong, earthy, but surprisingly sweet like ripe cherries.

  I’d smoked a time or two back IRL, but gave it up for a thousand different reasons—the two biggest ones were the astronomical cost of smoking and the fact that it killed you. But here in V.G.O., where lung cancer wasn’t a thing and sin taxes didn’t exist, I thought it might be worth taking up.

  “Look,” Osmark said, leaning forward, arms resting against his thighs, “we’re on a tight deadline, so we can’t afford to take things slow. I would hate to deprive you of tea and your afternoon pipe, but we have better places to be—so why don’t you just tell us what needs to be done.” He clenched his jaw, fingers drumming impatiently on his thigh. “Quickly.”

  “I can appreciate a man who wants to get down to business,” the mayor said, exhaling a stream of smoke through his nostrils. “The problem is, this is no straightforward quest. Anything but. I assume our sweet Ari has told you about the Dark Wanderer Carrera—the latest incarnation of Serth-Rog—and the Lich Priest, Vox-Malum?”

  “She did,” Abby said with a nod. “She said this guy Vox is using dark magic to corrupt the realm.”

  “Just so,” the mayor said, drawing in another lungful of smoke. “But there is one very big problem.”

  “Which is?” Jay pressed, momentarily ceasing his restless pacing.

  “To start?” The mayor shifted in his seat. “We don’t know where Vox’s pillars are. Presumably, there is one located somewhere in the Burning Expanse, but the Burning Expanse alone is nearly the size of your Storme Marshes, and deadly besides. Where would we even begin? As to the location of the other two pillars, we haven’t even the faintest clue. You cannot destroy Vox until you destroy the pillars, and you cannot destroy the pillars until you find them.” He shrugged, eyes deeply troubled.

  “Come on, mate,” Cutter said, slipping forward, crouching down on his haunches, eyes fixed on the graceful rapier. “You know more than you’re letting on. That there is the blade of a gentleman.” He emphasized the word. “I don’t know what your story is, friend. Nor do I know how you ended up in this place, but no one just stumbles across a sword like that. You earn it”—he thumbed his nose at the man—“and no one who has earned a gentleman’s rapier knows nothing. Gentlemen trade in secrets.”

  A hard glint flashed in the Satyr’s eyes. Finally, he dipped his head, touché. “It’s nothing solid, but perchance I have one small lead that might be worth pursuing. My Gnomish Scouts have reported a strange disturbance to the west, near the coast of Tranquil Cove. That’s the kingdom of Sapphira the Mer-Queen.” He canted his head to one side and shrugged. “Might be nothing, but between gentlemen such as us?” He offered Cutter a lopsided smile. “Well, it might be worth investigating. Ari will join you as a guide but let me mark it on your map for you. Just in case.”

  <<<>>>

  Map Update

  Congratulations! Your in-world map of the Realm of Order has been updated with a new location: Tranquil Cove.

  <<<>>>

  “Perfect,” Osmark said, sarcasm oozing as he stood.

  I glanced at him, cocking an eyebrow, my unspoken question hanging in the air.

  “The Tranquil Cove? Sapphira the Mer-Queen? Isn’t it obvious? This is a water level,” he said curtly. “Everyone knows how easy and fun those are.” He sighed, reached up, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  NINE_

  Repairs

  “This cove looks like it’s a bit of a walk,” Osmark said, eyes hazy as he glanced at his map. “Maybe two hours on foot.”

  “We could probably cut that in half if we fly,” Jay offered, eyes squinted, peering up at the purple sky above.

  “Unwise,” Amara pip
ed in immediately. “Flying from here will almost certainly attract unwanted attention. It is better if this Vox doesn’t know we are here—or that we are coming for him.”

  Osmark frowned. Nodded. “She’s right. We walk. Best we get moving now unless we want to be traveling back here in the dark.”

  As the rest of the party moved away from the towering tree, Abby grabbed my arm. “Hey, do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” I said, falling back. “What’s up?”

  She faltered, biting her lower lip as she tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “Look, I know we have a lot to do—and I know we’re on a tight timeline …” She trailed off, glancing away, eyes locking on one of the charred houses nearby. “But I think maybe we should help these guys. I mean, look at this place. That palisade they have won’t keep out a kitten, and their weapons? Most of these people have pitchforks and kitchenware.

  “There are kids here, Jack. Kids. If Vox’s Thralls hit this place again, everyone here could die. They wouldn’t even stand a chance. Unless we helped. Between the five of us, we could deck this place out. Maybe not enough to withstand a full siege, but certainly enough to give them a fighting chance if a raiding party comes through. I’ve been working the forge. My Blacksmith skill is up to eleven—I could make them some real weapons. I know Osmark has to have some tricks up his sleeves, and between you, Taylor, Cutter, and Amara, we could organize a pretty decent defense.”

  I grimaced and ran a hand through my hair. “We only have three days, Abby. Maybe less. And we don’t even know where all these pillars are.” I glanced up at the sky. The sun hung high overhead, a burning orange ball loitering in an unnatural sky. Just past eleven in the morning. “Doing that could eat up a solid three or four hours.” I hesitated. “Three or four hours we don’t have to burn.”

  “Please, Jack,” she said, reaching out, one hand brushing my elbow. “I know we don’t have a lot of time, but this is the right thing to do. Maybe not the smart thing, but the right thing. The merciful thing.”