by James Hunter
Hell, I felt like a million bucks in comparison, though my life was still dropping—down below 40% now. Since I had a second to breathe, I fished a Health Regen potion from my belt and downed the cherry-flavored elixir like a thirst-deprived man fresh out of the desert. In a handful of seconds, the potion was gone and new vitality flowed through me. I scrambled to my feet and wheeled around, facing the retreating pair of Goblin Thralls.
They were fighting like mad—arms pinwheeling, blades lashing out, eyes wild—but they didn’t seem to be doing any damage at all.
I glanced at the deck and noticed there wasn’t a single miniature body decorating the ground. No blood. No amputated wings. I watched, dumbfounded, as a cutlass carved directly through one of the Pixies—a willowy male wearing green leathers. The Pixy burst in a shower of light and dust, vanishing from the battlefield, but leaving no sign of his passing behind. Was that typical for Pixies? I had no idea, but I didn’t want any more of them to die, so I dropped into a crouch, cloaking myself in Stealth, and ghosted forward on silent feet.
I slipped around one of the Goblins and laid my warhammer into the base of the creature’s skull. The Thrall was already hurtin’ from Plague Burst and the Pixy attack, so there wasn’t much fight in him. He collapsed in a heap, and before his partner in crime could respond, I hurdled over the dead Goblin and smashed the last Thrall’s teeth in. And just like that, the ship was mine. I dropped the head of the hammer to the deck, leaning against the handle as I struggled to catch my breath.
The reduced Stamina Regen from the Blunt Trauma debuff was a real pain.
“Thanks,” I said, nodding to the nearest Pixy. She didn’t respond.
Instead, she burst with a tiny pop and a shower of glittery light. And then, like a chain reaction of doom, all the Pixies burst like a string of Black Cats until only Ari remained, a devilish grin lingering on her face, her wings buzzing.
“What the hell is going on?” I asked, still leaning on my warhammer.
“Illusion,” she replied. “I told you, all Pixies have the Illusionist base class.” Her grin widened. “I like saving that one for multiple enemies. The illusions can’t deal damage, but they’re so distracting I can slip in and hack and slash until the spell ends.”
“You rock so hard, Fun-size,” I said, extending my fist. She bumped it with her own. I couldn’t help but chuckle; my middle knuckle was larger than her entire hand. A PM pinged in my ear a second later, my laughter dying as I opened it and read.
<<<>>>
Personal Message:
I have the Gnomish children with me. Retreating toward the loading dock. Didn’t manage to destroy the pillar. There were complications …
—Osmark
<<<>>>
Great. “Time to get busy, Ari, we’re about to have visitors. You think you can work that thing?” I jerked my head toward the brass Gatling gun at the front of the ship.
Her brow furrowed in concentration for a second before she nodded. “Leave it to me, Champion. If those pig-faced murderers”—she waved at the dead Goblins—“can work that thing, then I know I can do it.”
“Alright, I’m counting on you,” I said, slipping my warhammer back into the leather frog at my belt. “Let’s make these Goblins pay.” Ari zipped away, a blur of light and flutter of wings, as I beelined for the enormous wooden wheel jutting up from the bow of the zephyr. The ship was already listing to the left and losing altitude without someone at the helm, and since I was the only other person aboard, it looked like I was about to get a crash course on blimp flying.
I sprinted up a short set of stairs but faltered before the wheel.
I wasn’t a sailor by trade, but as far as I understood, the wheel would control a rudder which would steer the ship. Simple enough. But the blimp also had a complex control panel, covered with toggles and switches, levers and gauges. I didn’t have the first clue how to keep this thing from exploding, but at this point it was learn or die. I grabbed the slowly rotating wheel, steadying the ship as I studied the control console.
A bank of switches and knobs running below a trio of gauges seemed to be engine functions: controlling speed, fuel burn, and elevation. Beside that ran a series of switches, all clearly labeled, responsible for the sails. A pair of toggles to control the oar-like jibbooms, which would help with quick maneuvering. A series of levers to help unfurl the canvas sails adorning the central mast. Okay, so it would take a little getting used to for sure, but I could do this. The only thing I had no idea about was a series of buttons—eight of them. Four to the left of the wheel, four to the right.
Curious, I pushed one.
The whole rig shook and quivered as a port-side cannon rattled and spewed fire from the barrel. A golden cannon ball sailed through the air, clipping an unsuspecting Goblin Rocketeer. The creature’s jetpack exploded a second later, bathing its wearer in brilliant flame as the creature fell from the skies, crying until his voice was lost to the winds. Cannons. I had access to steampunk cannons—a whole ship full of them.
“Cutter,” I called over the officer comms, “how you doing with that ship? Everything under control?”
There was a pause, “Bloody hell, these Goblin bastards are tough, Jack. Ruthless and bloody sneaky, too. Might be, I’ll come try to recruit some of this lot once we knock out that pillar. The things I could do with a pack of these elite Goblins. Anyway, me and Amara have the ship. She’s piloting the thing. I’m looting corpses.” He paused, grunted. “Damn, these things have good loot, too. The full package, mate.”
“You can loot later, I need your head in the game. Osmark is headed for the dock—he’s got the kids, but I’ve got a feeling things are about to get ugly.” I slammed a lever, unfurling the starboard jib sail before cranking the wheel, angling us up and toward the smokestacks jutting from the factory. “You and Amara get that blimp down to the loading dock. Once those Gnomish kids are on board, get clear. I’ll take out the pillar.”
“And how the bloody hell do you intend to do that from outside, eh?”
“Leave that to me,” I said, eyeing the cannon buttons.
TWENTY-THREE_
Kamikaze
The comms cut back in a heartbeat later, this time filling my ears with Abby’s voice. “Jack,” she yelled, her voice reedy, her breathing heavy, “I don’t know what the plan is, but we need to do something different or we’re dead.”
I glanced down at the battle for the loading dock as I wheeled the ship.
Ugly, dirty, bloody.
Abby was right in the heat of action, flame wreathing her in a halo as she hurled a legion of fireballs and flame javelins, blasting encroaching automatons trying to flank her on both the left and right. The Clockwork Dragon sat stationary on a heap of scrap metal, guns blazing with a life of their own. At some point, Jay had dismounted; he now fought on the ground, hooking and jabbing with golden fists and feet of fury. Overhead Devil and the Flame Sphinx swooped and circled, keeping the airspace above the dock clear.
It was a losing battle, though.
The Goblins didn’t stand a chance—not one-on-one—but there were just so damned many of them, and more kept pouring from the factory like an army of scuttling ants emerging from their underground colony. And the automatons, though far fewer in number, were tougher than junkyard pit bulls. Their heavy armor seemed largely impervious to Abby’s flame spells, and the metal covering their formidable bodies was thick enough that even the Gatling gun couldn’t penetrate. Only Jay seemed to be having any real luck, his golden fists leaving craters in armored chassis.
“Just hang in there another minute. Osmark is on his way out with the kids, and Cutter and Amara are inbound with one of the zephyrs.”
“Just hurry,” she called back before the comm went dead in my ears.
I cranked the wheel again, then flipped an altimeter switch and dropped another level—this one retracting the side jib and lowering the mast sail. The wood and metal creaked and groaned, the wind catching the canvas
as we veered left and zipped toward the central smokestack vomiting up its column of cancerous green light. A platoon of [Elite Rocketeers] circled the stack, these outfitted with heavy metal frames bearing bulky Gatling guns. They looked a helluva lot slower than their brothers and sisters, which meant they probably packed a lot more of a punch.
“Ari,” I hollered at the top of my lungs, “get ready to fire that thing. We’ve got incoming.” I banked again, working the levers to bring the port side of the ship to bear on the elite defenders. I mashed the buttons for the portside cannons as one. The ship rocked back from the sheer force of the blast and a hail of cannon balls streaked toward the Rocketeers. Though slower than the average Rocketeers, these Elite Goblins were still fast. They scrambled like a squadron of Harriers, diving and barrel rolling to avoid the cannon fire.
But Ari was ready for ’em. “This is for my brother!” the Pixy screamed, pulling the trigger on her monster Gatling gun. “Die, you murderous shiteheels.” The barrels whirled to life and the clamor of automatic gunfire ripped through the air, a torrent of hot lead slamming into steel-clad bodies. Most of the rounds ricocheted off the heavy steel plating, but a few found vulnerable, unprotected flesh, carving furrows through green meat. The whole while, Ari whooped, tears streaming down her little cheeks.
The cannon balls missed all of the Elite Rocketeers, but that was okay since I hadn’t actually been aiming at them. The smokestack, however, didn’t fare nearly so well. Three of the four golden balls of magic, steel, and death smashed into the stone stack like freight trains. Cracks spread along the stone face as bits of rubble tumbled and fell, clattering to the roof of the factory. The smokestack was one tough piece of equipment, though, and refused to fall. I hammered the buttons again, but this time they clicked, the buttons flashing red as a cooldown timer appeared in the corner of my eye.
<<<>>>
Port Cannons, Cooldown Time: 30 seconds.
<<<>>>
“Bringing her around hard!” I yelled at Ari. I cranked the wheel hard starboard, increasing power to the portside engine as I reeled out the jig boom, catching a draft. The ship groaned, and a chorus of Gatling guns bellowed—Ari still screaming as Rocketeers peppered our deck with gunfire. I blocked it all out, swinging the starboard side around then unloading another volley of fire from fresh cannons. This time, all four cannon balls smashed into the teetering smokestack. Stone exploded out and dust swirled in the air as the column crumbled, revealing the Necrotic Pillar within.
Yet another ebony eyesore, covered top to bottom in twisting runes, which emitted the terrible light. The thing was a mirror image of the one we’d taken out in the cove, though only the top five feet or so poked up above the roof line. “Take that pillar out,” I shouted. Ari replied with a wordless snarl, zipping up and slamming her shoulder into the Gatling’s barrel, adjusting its aim before flitting back over and yanking the trigger again.
Clack-clack-clack.
Tendrils of green energy flared as rounds hit home. I pulled us into another breakneck turn, circling around to the far side of the pillar just as the cooldown timer on the Starboard Cannons elapsed. I grinned and fired the line again; golden balls of molten metal smashed into the obsidian structure from ten feet out. However powerful the pillars were, they weren’t built to withstand a full-scale artillery barrage and an assault from a steam-powered Gatling gun at close range. The pillar exploded in a shower of stone chips, noxious green magic spewing out in a volcanic geyser.
“Eat that, you pig-faced murderers!” Ari shouted, pumping one diminutive fist in the air.
Cutter’s voice chirped in my ear a second later. “Osmark’s out, Jack. Got the kids with him.”
A surge of pride burned inside my chest when I looked and saw the Artificer emerging from the loading dock, shepherding the Gnomish children like a border collie watching over a flock of baby lambs. Most of the kids scrambled before him, dirty, teary-eyed, clothes ripped and heavily stained. One child—the girl with the pigtails—sat on the crook of Osmark’s arm, face pressed into his chest. Somehow, we’d done it again, though one glance at Osmark told me his time inside the factory had been no walk in the park.
Seriously, he was in terrible shape.
His mech suit was nowhere to be seen. Instead he hobbled along, one arm hanging limply at his side, blood covering his face and hands, scorch marks decorating his normally fine attire. He looked like he’d fought through nine kinds of hell, swum through a river of blood, then low-crawled through a sewer filled with broken glass. But instead of faltering, he simply ushered the kids into the holding bay of Cutter’s stolen zephyr, now loitering at the edge of the flying island.
Abby helped them in, pausing only to launch the occasional fireball, while Jay played defense, unleashing deadly attacks at the automatons still trickling toward the dock.
When Osmark got to the edge of the ship, he handed the girl to Abby, then ushered them both inside.
Something was wrong, though. He faltered and turned back toward the factory, searching the darkness of the entryway. I wasn’t sure what he saw there, but he turned a second later, frantically, waving for the blimp to go, screaming something at Abby. I was too far away to hear what he was saying, but it seemed obvious that some other threat still waited. As soon as Abby, Jay, and Pigtails were onboard, Osmark bolted for his clockwork mount, arms and legs pumping. He leapt over the bodies of the dead without missing a beat and launched himself into the saddle.
He yanked levers and smashed buttons, not even taking the time to strap his harness in place. The dragon jerked into motion, the thrusters in the wings venting huge columns of steam as the creature rose.
The factory rumbled, stone shattering as something humongous pulled itself from the mouth of the loading dock tunnel. At first it was hard to figure out what I was even seeing—everything was just flashes of metal and rivets, bolts and saw blades, all of it cloaked in a cloud of dirty, white-gray steam. But as that steam dissipated, I finally got my first glimpse of what could only be the Big Bad of this place. The last of the Brand-Forged. A tag appeared above his head, confirming my suspicion: [Elemental Architect, Vassal of Vox-Malum].
The Architect was massive, twice the size of a Vogthar Dread Cyclops but built along the same line. Barrel chest, tree-trunk arms, thick legs. But the Architect was entirely mechanical: a random hodgepodge of machinery all mashed together without rhyme or reason to form a body. It was a walking junk heap, its eyes burning with electric blue light and hateful malice. A small blue sapphire, roughly the size of a tennis ball, blazed in the center of its chest, the gem surrounded by a thick crystalline barrier.
That was a weak spot if ever I’d seen one, though getting close enough to take out a target that size on a creature like this would be next to impossible.
The Clockwork Dragon attacked, missiles landing with terrible booms, blowing away cogs and copper armor, but it was no use. For every piece of metal blasted away, another piece from the scrapyard around the factory took its place, pulled onto the metallic monstrosity as if by some giant super magnet. And it didn’t stop there. No, more trash rose from the dunes of discarded scrap, slowly orbiting the creature until the boss stood in the center of a slow-moving twister of steel, wires, and twisted brass.
The Clockwork Dragon veered left, avoiding a powerhouse haymaker, then spewed a retaliatory gout of flame. The Architect’s HP didn’t even flicker. The dragon swerved right, but this time the Architect anticipated the move. One massive hand careened through the air and smashed through the dragon’s face, ripping its head from its serpentine neck in a single well-placed blow. Oil spurted like blood, steam gushed, and down the mechanical minion went, careening in a death spiral. Osmark slapped a button and suddenly he was flying through the air, arms and legs flailing, eyes wide as he dropped toward the junk-strewn ground.
In a flash, Jay’s Flame Sphinx swooped low like an avenging angel, catching the Artificer on his back before hurling himself into a blazing-fast roll t
hat almost tossed Osmark while trying to avoid a lunging grasp from the Architect’s steel fingers. The Sphinx dropped to the earth, great paws eating up the ground as it bolted toward the edge of the floating island and launched itself back into the air. Gone in an eyeblink.
“You’ll never escape,” the steel monster thundered, his voice the deep grumbling of an earthquake given life. With four lumbering steps, the creature closed the gap to Cutter’s zephyr, which was ever so slowly rising away from the island. The metal monster lashed out with one hand, a whip of wires, steel, and barbed hooks flying through the air, snagging the stern of the ship. The zephyr’s engines growled as the ship tried to pull away, but it was a useless fight. The Architect had to weigh in at three tons, easy. “You’ve destroyed two pillars,” the creature said, reeling in the blimp like a fat fish wriggling on the end of a line.
“That is barely an inconvenience for me.” Suddenly, I knew it wasn’t the Elemental Architect we were talking to, but Vox-Malum using the creature as a gigantic marionet. But how? We’d destroyed the Pillar … Unless, the Architect wasn’t a Thrall at all. When the tag above his head had popped up, it said Vassal of Vox-Malum. Was it possible the Architect had willing sided with the Lich Priest? It made sense, especially considering Sapphira, Queen of the Water Kingdom, had been given a similar choice.
It was impossible to know for certain, but that was the only thin that made any sense.
“You’ve merely delayed the inevitable,” the Architect continued. “So long as the last pillar stands, I. Will. Win. And more than that, you’ve sealed your fate. The life of a Thrall is the life of order, peace, and purpose. It is a life you will never know. I will ensure you are destroyed root and branch. I will come for the Vale,” he boomed, arms straining as the blimp’s motors fought. Sputtered.
Abby, Amara, and Jay appeared on the deck of the ship.
Amara rained down arrows fitted with improvised specialty tips that exploded against the Architect, covering him in biting acid. Sludgy green goop splattered, chewing into the metallic armor with ease, though his HP bar never wavered. Meanwhile, Abby stood tall, brow furrowed in defiance as she hurled a deadly volley of fireballs, one after another. Jay worked the Gatling gun at the stern, the weapon clattering as he pulled the trigger and flashes of fire erupted from the rotating gun barrels.
