by James Hunter
I opened my inventory and slipped on a pristine white surcoat with a bright blue eagle on it—a dead ringer for what the guards had been wearing. It was a knockoff, of course, but we had some very talented tailors in the Alliance. Faction gear had certain inbuilt wards, so if anyone were to stop us and look closely enough, they’d be able to tell something was off. Still, that was a risk we were willing to take. By the time I got done shrugging on the garment, the other two cutthroats had returned from their gory task, and the rest of the crew had donned their imitation uniforms and were forming up.
I triggered the Anonymous ability—which would let me pass unnoticed in the midst of the Legion for two hours before wearing off—then slipped into line. Cutter and Amara took up positions at the front of each column, the rest of us snaking off behind them in a perfect replica of the patrol formation. With a grunt, Cutter broke into a brisk trot. He didn’t run. He didn’t sneak. And he didn’t beeline for the camp. Instead, he continued on the winding path through the hills in a series of loops and switchbacks until we ended up at a small dirt road with a trio of sentries standing watch.
Just a routine patrol, finishing its circuit.
I took a deep breath, trying to look cool and relaxed, desperate to hide the ball of nerves writhing in my gut. If Otto’s information was bad, this was where everything would go sideways.
The lead sentry standing guard—a thick-muscled Risi warrior with a formidable black beard and a massive axe—scooted into the center of the road, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, his nose sniffing at the air.
“Password,” he grunted, fingers flexing around the wooden handle of his axe.
Cutter smiled, oozing confidence as though he had as much right to be there as they did. People could say what they wanted about him, but in certain areas, Cutter really was the best—like bluffing, for example. “Blackstaff,” he said before offering them a lopsided grin and placing a hand leisurely on the butt of his dagger.
For a second the Risi tensed, and I thought everything was going to explode like one of Vlad’s faulty potions, but then after a second, the warrior visibly relaxed. He didn’t smile, but something in his gaze told me he was one of us—Otto’s Alliance insider, operating under deep cover.
“Well, move it along, then,” the guard said, edging over to the side of the road and waving us through. “The new password for next hour is Red-Bird.” He paused, stealing a cautious look left and right. “That’ll get you into the inner area,” he whispered, the sound so low I almost missed it. “Well, don’t just stand there, ya’ dolts,” he boomed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Go get some chow and a bit of shut-eye. It’s gonna be an early day tomorrow and another long hike. 4:00 AM reveille, just came down from the High Command.”
“Phft,” Cutter said with an eye roll. “Maybe the rest of this lot will sleep, but I plan to get three sheets to the wind.” He slapped the man on his shoulder in a show of camaraderie then turned to us. “You heard the man. Go turn in, or get piss drunk. I don’t bloody care.” We filed through the entry point, nervous sweat trickling down between my shoulder blades. But once through, the group scattered like dry leaves in a brisk wind.
Cutter and Amara quickly disappeared into a string of tents leading toward the supply wagons, while the rest of the thieves bolted in other directions. From here, most of us wouldn’t see each other again. Some would head toward the hitching posts and the war mounts. Others would skirt through the warren of tent alleys to the far side of the camp, so they could take out some of the siege equipment. A few more would slip among the campfires, poisoning stew cooking on flames, or planting small alchemic bombs among the officer tents.
Chaos was the goal here.
And once everyone had played their role, they’d pop back into the boggy woods just south of Ravenkirk via custom one-way port-scrolls.
Eventually, I would head toward the supply wagons, if only to make sure nothing happened to Cutter and Amara, but for a moment I just stood there, listening to the click of pots, the crackle of campfires, and the soft laughing of soldiers on their way to war. For the first time in a long time, I was alone. Rudderless in a sea of faces that didn’t recognize me—at least, I sincerely hoped not. Self-conscious, I pulled up my hood a little higher, dropped my face, and quickly moved into a nearby row of tents so as not to draw any unnecessary attention.
At the ridiculously late hour, most of the Imperials were asleep, their tent flaps closed and tied shut. But most was not all. With an army this size, there was always work to do, always watches and patrols, errands and emergencies, plus folks who just couldn’t sleep or didn’t want to. People like Cutter, who were willing to suffer under debuffs for a chance to drink, gamble, and laugh. There were a surprising number of small groups gathered around carefully tended campfires sharing jokes or having a bite to eat after a long shift.
I strolled leisurely, occasionally stopping to listen to the conversations, but never staying long enough to be invited to sit. Some part of me wanted to hate these people. They were the enemy, the folks coming to invade Alliance territory and strip us of the right to be free from corrupt politicians like Osmark and his billionaire cronies, who’d gamed the system. But as I listened, the fire in my belly went from a blazing inferno to a low smolder.
Honestly, they seemed no different than our guys.
Most of them complained about the long marches or reminisced about old times. Better times, back before the asteroid came. Some talked about games. Others, movies. A few even chatted about old books they missed. One fistful of warriors in heavy plate armor somberly discussed the battle not long off. Two were boastful and cocksure—reminding me instantly of Forge and a hundred other guys I knew just like him—while the others were nervous. Fearful, even.
I heard my name come up more than a few times.
About how I’d tamed dragons, and taken unconquerable cities in a day. Apparently, my campaign to create fear and awe was working, but surprisingly that made me feel worse, not better. I knew this was a war and that we needed every advantage to turn the odds in our favor—including fear, intimidation, and propaganda—but these weren’t bad people. Osmark was a crook no matter the motivation behind his actions, but these people were … Well, they were just people. Just trying to get by. To make the best of a difficult situation.
And tomorrow, I’d have to do my absolute damnedest to kill them, including the NPCs, who wouldn’t even have a chance to come back. I balled my hands into tight fists, dropped my face, and shuffled on, suddenly wanting to be away from here before I lost my nerve. I hooked right into a row mostly devoid of people and headed deeper into the camp—toward the hulking tent that had to be the command center. Osmark was there, no doubt, along with his generals, underlings, and fellow faction leaders.
Subconsciously, I knew it was stupid to go there—Osmark would be able to identify me, Anonymous or not—but I went anyway, pulled onward as if by magnetic force. Osmark was probably asleep, I told myself, but I wanted to see him anyway. Maybe I couldn’t hate the people out here, fighting his war, but him? Him I could hate. Him I could fight. And right now, with my resolve shaken and fraying, I needed to remind myself of why this war was necessary. It took me only seconds to slip down the row of darkened tents.
There were a pair of sentries standing watch at the entryway to the tent, but the front flap was open, and I could see warm yellow light spilling out onto the ground.
Maybe he was awake, after all.
I edged closer, absently running my hand over the head of my warhammer.
But then my steps faltered, and the hair on my arms stood rigid as a brassy klaxon rang out in the air. Clang-clang-clang. An alarm.
Was it me? Did someone spot me? I looked left, then right, searching for encroaching enemies, but there was no one. A heartbeat later, a sharp BOOM rose up from the supply yard not far off—the sure sound of an explosive charge. I wheeled toward the noise; a brilliant flash lit up the night followed
closely by another thunderous BOOM. Wagons were burning in the distance, a giant plume of fire and smoke wafting toward the sky.
In a panic, I pulled up my interface and checked the time. No, no, no. That explosion was fifteen minutes too soon, which meant Cutter and Amara wouldn’t have had the chance they needed to get clear of the wagons. Something had gone wrong, though I wasn’t sure what. It didn’t matter, though, not really. My friends were in deep trouble and needed me—that was the only important thing now. I put the command tent to my back, dismissing Osmark from my head, and dashed toward the chaos.
TWENTY-THREE_
Chaos
More explosions ripped through the air from multiple points all over the camp—bright blossoms of light in the night—as the alarm bells clanged over and over again. Men and women scampered from their tents, most blurry-eyed and half dressed, clutching their weapons in uncertain hands. A cacophony of confused shouts followed me as I raced toward the supply wagons: What’s happening? Are we being attacked? What should we do? I ignored them all, laser-focused on the task at hand, and no one seemed to care.
I skittered around a corner, and the supply yard finally came into view.
Boy, was it a mess.
Imperial troops were everywhere, swarming the staging yard like a plague of locust, their weapons drawn, shields up. At least a dozen wagons burned—the wooden sides smoldering, the canvas coverings smoking profusely—and in the center of the blaze were Cutter and Amara. My friends were hemmed in on every side, and fought back to back, her using a conjured spear, him flashing his signature black blades. The pair twirled and moved in a deadly dance, lashing out with brutal efficiency against any Imperial bold enough to get close.
Amara moved like a cobra, working her spear with one hand while simultaneously lobbing strange glass grenades into the masses farther back. Those weren’t part of her class at all, but rather inventions Vlad had cooked up in his alchemy shop. Depending on the mixture within the glass hand grenade, those things could mimic just about any spell. She thrust her spear into the guts of a stocky Dwarven woman, temporarily pinning her in place, then used her body as a shield, before hurling an orb with gray gas into the Imperials directly behind the Dwarf.
The miniature bomb exploded with a soft whomp, releasing a low-clinging silver ground fog. Alchemist’s Toxic Cloud, I knew in an instant as people started keeling over, their eyes bulging while they clutched at their throats, gasping for air. The gas in the orb probably wouldn’t kill them all outright, but it would do in those with low HP, and put a serious hurtin’ on the rest for a few minutes.
Still, despite how well Cutter and Amara fought, they were badly outnumbered, and as the ranks pressed together, tightening like a noose, they’d soon be overpowered. And even though they had a port-scroll, there was no way they could get free long enough to activate it and slip away. What they needed was a distraction, and that I could certainly offer, but I needed to make it flashy.
I faltered for a moment, though, indecision warring inside me. I didn’t want to kill these Imperials. Not really. I didn’t want to fight a war at all, and these people were mostly innocent. They were pawns in something much bigger; pawns who’d been caught up by the manipulation and corruption of powerful men and women with dark, ignoble agendas. Most of them didn’t know why we were fighting or what was on the line. At the same time, I wasn’t going to let Cutter and Amara die—they were my friends, my family, and I’d do whatever I needed to see them get away.
I steeled myself, jaw clenching tight, and ripped the knockoff surcoat free. I tossed it to the ground before throwing back my hood, ensuring my face was plainly visible to anyone looking.
<<<>>>
Personal Message:
Cutter,
I’m about to draw their attention. As soon as you get an opening, I want you back in Ravenkirk, and I want you to drag Amara with you if it comes to that. And that’s not a suggestion, it’s an order.
—Jack
<<<>>>
I jotted off the PM, took one more deep breath, then thrust both hands into the air. I unleashed dual javelins of purple fire into the sky, threw back my head, and cackled at the top of my lungs. Though the Imperials in the yard kept fighting, the majority turned toward me on instinct, drawn by the strange noise and the burst of unnatural light.
“That’s right!” I shouted, killing the flames, lowering my hands, then drawing out my warhammer. “You all know who I am. Grim Jack Shadowstrider. I’m the one who spits in the face of the Empire.” My voice grew in heat and intensity until my words sizzled like a branding iron, fresh from the flames. “I’m the one who refuses to toe the line.” I paused, scanning the crowd, now thoroughly fixated on me. “I tame dragons.” I thrust my warhammer high. “I break kings and topple tyrants. I overthrow cities and make deals with demons. And I have the guts to walk into your camp and fight you all.”
I laughed again, sounding crazy in my own ears, but feeling a strange, heady exhilaration as I thrust my weapon forward like an accusing finger. “If you want to pick a fight with someone, why don’t you try me!”
Power welled up in my chest, surged down my arm, and exploded from the spike protruding from the top of my hammer. Dark energy lanced out, punching a hole in the fabric of reality, and in a flash a sentient cyclone of death and destruction roared into the camp, slamming into the assembled troops. Since V.G.O. scaled monsters and assigned quests suitable to each individual player’s level, it was easy to forget just how powerful I was.
Osmark was a higher level than me by a fair margin, but he was the only player higher than me at the moment. At this point, the level of most average players was right around twenty—though many of the other faction leaders were in the low thirties—approximately half my current level.
And that gap showed immediately.
My spell tore through the Imperial ranks like an Oklahoma twister through a trailer park. Soldiers screamed as gale-force winds picked them up and hurled them through the air like rag dolls. In a blink, a host of armor-clad bodies were raining from the sky, hitting the ground with meaty thwacks, while those who managed to stay on their feet were zapped with devastating bolts of shadow lightning. There were far too many troops for the Night Cyclone to take them all out, but the spell certainly seemed to give it the good ol’ college try anyway.
And whatever troops it didn’t finish off, I intended to. I threw one hand forward, conjuring Umbra Bog from the earth, ensnaring the milling masses in tendrils of inky black energy. Many fought against the writhing strands, and the spellcasters and archers among them started unleashing a deadly volley of steel-tipped arrows and powerful bursts of magic in my direction. I laughed again, triggering Shadow Stride and slipping into the Shadowverse before the barrage of projectiles could even come close to hitting me.
Time stopped with a jerk—arrows, fireballs, and blue ball lightning hung suspended in the air—and I casually strolled toward the ensnared Imperials. I slipped into their ranks, phasing through people as I walked, until I caught sight of Cutter and Amara. My display of maniacal laughter, coupled with my devastating use of Night Cyclone, had been quite the flashy distraction alright. The Legionnaires who’d been closing in on the pair were now focused entirely on me. As a result, Cutter and Amara had managed to slip out of the back and into a relatively safe pocket in between two intact wagons.
Amara was facing the action, frozen with a grimace on her face, her bow drawn and ready. Cutter was frozen with the port-scroll in his hands, one thumb on the verge of breaking the ribbon and activating the portal. Good. Satisfied that they’d make it out okay, I turned my attention on the Imperials.
Yes, Cutter and Amara were safe, so it made some sense to just cut and run, but I was feeling nearly indestructible and high on my own power. We’d come here to throw a wrench in their well-oiled machine, and nothing would throw more of a wrench then a couple hundred dead Imperials. Many of those wouldn’t come back, but even those that di
d would be struggling under the terrible Death’s Sting debuff, meaning they’d be far less effective during the upcoming battle.
Any edge was helpful, and I had an opportunity to make a difference here.
I slipped up behind a Risi Geomancer in heavy armor made entirely from gray stone. Boulders, some the size of my fist, others bigger than my head, hung frozen in the air around him like miniature planets orbiting a man-shaped sun. Sorcerer types were dangerous, but a hybrid class like a Geomancer was even more so. A player like that could cast some crazy spells and buffs while also hitting harder than a pro boxer. I stepped from the shadows in a cloud of swirling black soot and blasted the Risi in the back of the head with my hammer. Rock chips exploded away like shrapnel from the impact, and the Geomancer stumbled forward, hurt but not dead.
Before he could regain his balance, though, I pressed the attack, taking him out at the knees with another vicious blow, then unleashing an Umbra Bolt into his unprotected face at point-blank range.
Even better, I still had another thirty seconds on the Umbra Bog, which meant these suckers were stuck and mostly defensive. I darted into a pocket of resistance, twirling and spinning around struggling bodies, parrying clumsy strikes with my razor-edged vambraces. The whole while, my hammer whirled in tight arcs, smashing and bashing anyone in range. Blood flew and splashed as men and women fell, screaming in pain—and those were the lucky ones. A broken leg or shattered forearm, though painful, would heal in minutes.
Death, on the other hand, was not only painful and traumatizing, but it came with an eight-hour respawn time, a host of nasty accompanying debuffs which lasted for hours, and a loss of all current EXP. At level nineteen or twenty, that could mean losing thousands upon thousands of points, and undoing weeks’ worth of grinding and quests.
