Viridian Gate Online_Imperial Legion_A litRPG Adventure

by James Hunter

  “Hey, no worries,” I said, plopping down on the ground across from him, wedging my back against the chilly wall. “You’ve done a lot for us already, and the way you helped those prisoners out was awesome.”

  “Thanks,” he replied, looking away self-consciously as though unaccustomed to receiving compliments. “This is the first chance I’ve had to really interact with someone from the real world. I mean I’ve merc’d plenty of PCs, but most of my conversations are with monsters, NPCs, and Cernunnos—who, by the way, is like the worst company on the planet. That guy is more like a force of nature than a normal person.” He paused and glanced at me. “Thanks for being so cool with me. And for not freaking out. Lowyth said you were alright.”

  We were quiet for a minute, him breathing heavily, me thinking. “So,” I finally said just to break the awkward stillness, “did you find what you were looking for down here? Do you know what these guys are up to?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a bob of his head, “and it’s bad news. While you and Cutter were looting the room, I had a chance to inspect that summoning circle more closely. From what I can tell, it’s actually much more than a summoning circle. It’s a binding circle. See, the Vogthar were exiled to Morsheim, and because they’re technically spirits, they can’t cross back over to the Material Realm unless they can get bodies. That’s probably why they’ve been possessing people. But now, they’ve found an even better way.

  “That binding circle back there”—he hooked a thumb toward the passage behind us—“is basically the equivalent of a Vogthar possessing a dungeon. But then, once the dungeon is corrupted, it can spawn soulless monsters and summon the Vogthar straight through into the vacant husks. And because the Vogthar are possessing dungeon minions, they even end up with a bit of those minions’ power. Since this is an ice-based dungeon, all the creatures manifested ended up being ice-based, too.”

  “Will the Vogthar respawn like mobs, or will they die like NPCs?” I said, fidgeting in my seat, extremely uncomfortable with the implications of this conversation.

  “Hard to say,” Jo-Dan replied with a shrug, “but if I had to guess, I’d say they’ll come back in eight hours or so—that Gate Hound included. But, there’s still a lot here I don’t understand. Like why they’re doing this.” He fell quiet, running his hands absently along the rock ledge beneath him. “Since they’re doing this all over Eldgard, though, the only thing that makes any sense to me is that they’re preparing for an invasion. And if the majority of the dungeons in that notebook really have been corrupted, I can tell you right now they’re going to have a heck of an army.”

  The soft scuffle of footsteps on ice brought my head up and cut the conversation short. Cutter rounded a nearby bend, then came to an abrupt halt, a glower on his face, hands on his hips. “So that’s how it is, eh? Send Cutter off to do all the hard work while you two lollygag around like a couple of miscreants.”

  I bent over, scraped up a thin layer of icy snow from the floor, then formed it into a small ball, which I lobbed at his head. “This from the guy who sharpened his wood axe for half an hour.”

  He swatted the snowball from the air with ridiculous ease, his glower deepening into a full-on scowl. “I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response. Now, if you bums are done, I found the way out. Just a few minutes ahead, and I don’t know about you, but I fancy something hot to eat, something alcoholic to drink, and a cozy table to kick my feet up on. So let’s move it along, eh?”

  I rolled my eyes and stood with a groan, then turned and offered a hand to Jo-Dan. The dungeon boss accepted gratefully.

  We made the rest of the trek in silence. The only sounds to be heard were the crunching of ice and snow as we trudged and the occasional wheezy rasp from Jo-Dan; the poor guy sounded like he was about three steps away from the grave. The narrow tunnel dead-ended at another secret door, which let out into the main interior chamber just at the base of the entryway stairs. A quick climb saw us back into the night-dark woods—though it wouldn’t be dark for much longer.

  We’d been down in that dungeon for hours, and a thin edge of golden-orange light was just starting to peek up through the trees. Not long until proper sunrise.

  “Well, this is where I think we need to part ways,” Jo-Dan said, staring fondly into the woods, his faceless gaze fixating in the direction of his dungeon. “I need to get back and recuperate,” he continued after a beat, turning toward Cutter and me, “but I wanted to thank you both for helping me on this mission. You’re good people—even you, Cutter.” He shifted awkwardly for a minute, struggling with something he clearly wanted to say. “Look, I’m not sure you want me on the team,” he said after a time, “but if you do, I’d be open to it.” A quest box materialized before me:

  <<<>>>

  Quest Update: Dungeon Fever

  Congratulations! You have successfully accompanied Joseph the Gravemonger to the Frozen Warrens of Axrukis and defeated the dungeon boss, gaining valuable insight regarding the Vogthar! In return, Cutter has received 20 gold for his service. You have also received 10,000 EXP and the Laurel-Wreath of Friendship. The Laurel-Wreath increases your personal relationship with Joseph the Gravemonger from Neutral to Friendly and allows the Crimson Alliance Faction to form a new partnership with the Catacombs of the Forsaken! Would you like to forge a partnership with Joseph the Gravemonger?

  Accept: Yes/No?

  <<<>>>

  “Seriously?” I said, glancing at Jo-Dan, the box still loitering in my field of view. “You’d want to join up with us? Not sure you know this, but we’re sort of the underdogs. There’s a good chance the Empire is going to wipe us off the face of the map, and if they do, the next thing they’ll do is go after our allies. Which means you. You sure you want a piece of that?”

  “One moment, friend,” Cutter said, grabbing my shoulder, then pulling me aside. “Don’t be daft, Jack,” he whispered, stealing a look at the boss. “If someone wants to join the Alliance, you don’t shoot ’em down, mate. This guy’s ready to fight. Let him fight.”

  “He’s not wrong,” came Jo-Dan’s voice. “And I have very good hearing, by the way. Look, Jack, the fact that you’re the kind of guy who would give that warning is exactly why I want to be on your team. Back in that dungeon”—he waved toward the entrance to the Warrens—“you could’ve run and left those prisoners to die. You didn’t. I want an ally who isn’t going to split and run when it’s convenient. Maybe you’re the underdog, but I want you to win, so I’ll fight. I can’t offer much just yet. But I’ll send along a platoon of Reapers to Ravenkirk if you’re willing to have me.”

  He extended a hand, an offer of friendship. I grinned, headed over, and accepted. “Welcome to the team.” A new pop-up appeared:

  <<<>>>

  Crimson Alliance Universal Alert!

  Notice: Traveler Grim Jack Shadowstrider, honorary member of the Ak-Hani clan, has established a new Alliance with Joseph the Gravemonger and the Catacombs of the Forsaken! All mobs from the Catacombs of the Forsaken will not attack Crimson Alliance members unless provoked.

  Notice: If pursuing an active quest inside the Catacombs of the Forsaken, the alliance is temporarily nullified while travelers and citizens are inside the dungeon!

  <<<>>>

  I dismissed the notice with a wave of my hand.

  “Well, it was great meeting you,” Jo-Dan said, drawing his hand away then turning toward the jagged tree line. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon,” he said over his shoulder, “and tell your sentries to be on the lookout for a group of undead. We don’t do so well in the light”—he paused, glancing toward the glowing horizon—“so they’ll be along later tonight.” He gave us a brief wave and beelined for the trees, which were still bathed in deep shadow.

  In seconds he was gone, swallowed by the forest. A small part of me felt bad—he seemed like a good kid, and despite some of the perks, being a dungeon had to be lonely business.

  “Come on, Jack,” Cutter said, slapp
ing my shoulder. “Time we get a move on it ourselves, eh?”

  “Yeah,” I replied absently, pulling out the one-way port-scroll for Ravenkirk Vlad had given me back at his workshop. My mind flashed to the deadly dagger stowed away in my inventory. We needed to get back alright, and I needed to find Abby. I broke the golden ribbon wrapped around the scroll and unfurled the parchment. The paper disintegrated in my hands—turning to fine ash, which was swept away on the breeze—as an opalescent portal appeared in the air a few feet away. Beyond it was Ravenkirk.

  “After you,” I said, waving toward the portal.

  Cutter didn’t need me to twist his arm. Nope, he flashed me a tired wink then vanished through the portal in a brilliant flash of silver light, appearing on the other side in an instant. I paused, slowly spinning, taking one last look around to sear this location into memory. I wasn’t quite sure why, but a part of me felt like I needed to remember this moment. This place. Because, for better—or more likely for worse—this dungeon had just radically altered the face of Eldgard, even if no one but me knew it yet.

  NINETEEN_

  Shut-eye

  The portal snapped shut behind me with a sizzle of energy as I stepped into Ravenkirk, and for a beat I just stood there on the middle of the port pad, swaying on wobbly legs. Now that the battle was over and the dungeon dive finished, the full weight of my exhaustion hit me like a load of bricks. True, I’d eaten back in the Catacombs of the Forsaken, but it’d been over twenty-one hours or so since I’d last slept, and V.G.O. had ways of punishing players for that kind of transgression. I opened my interface and toggled over to my active effects:

  <<<>>>

  Current Debuffs

  Tired (Level 5): Skills improve 25% slower; Carry Capacity -45lbs; Attack Damage -20%; Spell Strength reduced by 35%

  Thirsty (Level 2): Health, Stamina, and Spirit Regeneration reduced by 25%

  Hungry (Level 2): Carry Capacity -45lbs; Health and Stamina Regeneration reduced by 25%; Stealth 20% more difficult

  Unwashed (Level 3): Goods and services cost 15% more; Merchant-Craft skills reduced by (2) levels

  <<<>>>

  Yep, that pretty much looked about right. I dismissed the screen with a thought, honestly considering whether or not to drop right where I stood and just shut my eyes to the world.

  But before I could decide one way or the other, Cutter was next to me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, friend,” he said, coaxing my feet into motion with a gentle tug. “Let’s get to the inn, eh? Go drown ourselves in mead, then pass out for the next twelve hours or so.”

  I grunted noncommittally, but let him lead me down the steps from the pad and onto the cobblestone boulevard. This close to sunrise, the town looked surprisingly normal. Peaceful, even. The doors were closed up tight, the windows shuttered, the construction work halted for the time being. The spiderkin were nowhere to be seen, though I spotted a few glimmering patches of gossamer webbing indicating they’d been here. If I had to guess, I’d say they were all probably holed up in the Storme Marshes for now, out of sight and out of mind.

  Chances were good Osmark would have aerial scouts patrolling ahead of the legion, so we couldn’t afford to have them notice anything was off. During daylight hours, we’d have Alliance members strolling around the town, buying food, selling goods, even working the farms as though this were just another insignificant dust-speck on the road to more important places. That would also give our builders, miners, and laborers a chance to catch a little well-deserved shuteye. I felt a pang of guilt for Vlad and his crew, though.

  Their work was largely done behind closed doors, so they’d be banging away through the daylight hours as well.

  We ambled past a few shops and up to a boxy three-story building with a gray stone foundation, a brown thatched roof, and a host of windows all shuttered, though yellow light peeked out through the wooden slats. There was a cobblestone square out front, complete with a small fountain filled with gently burbling water where the locals would gather for big announcements. The quaint inn was a nice enough place, but after spending so much time in Rowanheath and the great cities of the Storme Marshes, it felt rather small and run-of-the-mill.

  And it was still the largest building in Ravenkirk by a far margin.

  [The Fragile Fiddle] appeared in the air as the wooden sign tacked above the entryway came into view.

  Cutter steered us through the square, skirting the fountain, then yanked open a rough wooden door. Instantly, the chatter of happy voices seeped out, intermixed with bursts of laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the strum of an off-key lute. The interior was cozy and welcoming, with wooden floorboards worn down by countless feet, white plaster walls, and sturdy communal tables flanked by long wooden benches. And those benches were packed—heck, the whole room was filled with Alliance members eating, drinking, and celebrating.

  Cutter practically dragged me into the fray, and I immediately regretted it. I just wanted peace and quiet, but the second we were in, everyone noticed us. Everyone. Before I could so much as say a word, a deafening cheer exploded through the crowd as mugs were raised in our honor.

  Cutter basked in the adulation like a king meeting his loyal subjects for the first time, while I just squinted from the clamor and wanted nothing more than to get away from the press of bodies. I’ve never been a big one for crowds or parties, and all the attention made me more than a little uneasy. Despite that though, I schooled my face and slipped on a false smile, waving good-naturedly. Maybe I didn’t want the limelight, but these people had worked hard, and for whatever reason, they believed in me. I couldn’t take that away from them.

  “A round for everyone on me!” I called, which only earned another onslaught of even more enthusiastic cheering.

  “Now that’s the spirit, Grim Jack!” Cutter said, slapping me on the shoulder. He quickly carved his way through the crowd and to the long wooden bar. He snagged a heavy mug then climbed up onto the bar top with uncanny ease and agility. “Here, here! Let’s drink to Lord Grim Jack and the downfall of the bloody, no-good, Imperial bastards! Them and their outrageous taxes!” Glasses rose and clanked in response as men and women drank and cheered. Then—almost as though following some unheard cue—everyone turned their attention back to whatever they’d been doing before.

  Despite being tired and worried, I mingled, smiled, and shook hands like a good politician on the campaign trail.

  Deep down, however, I needed to get away from the noise and the crowds. I needed to get back to Rowanheath. To see Abby. To talk through this whole mess with the Vogthar. And maybe catch a few hours of sleep if I could. After a handful of minutes had passed, I scanned the crowd and saw Cutter near the roaring fireplace, downing a new flagon of mead. For a second I thought about pulling him aside to let him know I was leaving, then decided against it. He’d worked damned hard too, I reminded myself, and deserved to have a break. A little fun.

  So instead, I politely excused myself from a conversation with a severely drunk Dawn Elf woman and slipped through the front door while fishing my port-stone from my inventory.

  The trip from Ravenkirk to Rowanheath was three days or more on foot, but thanks to the stone, I found myself navigating through the halls of the Rowanheath Keep in less than a handful of minutes. Despite the ridiculously early hour, the place was surprisingly busy. Cooks and keep workers scuttled around, while guards, messengers, and watch commanders strode the passageways with speed and purpose. Working day and night was impossible, but we’d split all the Crimson Alliance members in Rowanheath up into three shifts—day, swing, and night.

  That way, the work got done, but there was still enough time in the day to eat, sleep, and even get in a few minor quests.

  I kept my head down, walking with urgency in my steps so no one would stop me for a little chitchat. I couldn’t handle any more of that, not right now.

  I worked my way through the Keep, taking turn after turn until I ended up in the officer quart
ers, where my master suite was located. Although most of the Keep was cold gray stone, built for fighting and defense, this section, at least, had a little color. Wall-mounted torches in silver sconces lit the way. Nooks and crannies dotted the hall, each filled with priceless artwork or sculptures, while elaborate tapestries, depicting ancient battles, decorated the stone walls.

  My suite was the last door at the end of the passageway.

  I waved my hand over a stone pad, engraved with a crimson sigil, set into the doorframe. There was a brief buzz of power followed by a flare of bloody light as the door clicked open, admitting me to the room. Most of the doors in the Keep were protected by simple locking mechanisms which required a run-of-the-mill key to get through. But not the officer quarters. These places had been designed by Osmark to house the wealthy elites and their cronies; everything from the elaborate magical locks to the custom designed interiors spoke to that fact.

  I slipped through and pushed the door closed on silent hinges.

  The room had belonged to Carrera before passing into my hands, and, frankly, it reflected his tastes. The floors were tiled with expensive beige marble and edged in black stonework. The walls were crisp and white, festooned with beautiful paintings of the Colombian countryside and wrought iron wall lamps which emitted soft yellow light from a series of custom magical orbs—basically the V.G.O. equivalent of a lightbulb, for those who could afford it. Fluted pillars dotted the space, reaching up to a beautiful vaulted ceiling accented with a crystal chandelier.

  There were sleek, expensive looking area rugs scattered through the room—one of the best features since the marble floors got especially chilly—and elegant mahogany furniture with a distinctly South American flair. There was a small kitchenette off from the main entry room, not that I believed for a second Carrera had ever cooked his own meals. Up ahead was a large sitting area; a plush crimson sofa, edged in dark wood, sat in front of a massive fireplace. And above the fireplace, affixed to the wall, was a glittering crystalline slab.