by James Hunter
You have until I arrive at Rowanheath to make up your mind. Surrender publicly to me, make peace with the Empire, and I will pass you by. I’ll even throw my support openly behind you and let you govern your cities with very little outside influence. I said earlier I thought you were smart, prove me right here and take the deal.
—Robert Osmark
<<<>>>
I closed the message with a growl. We were well beyond olive branches, and our inevitable conflict would come much sooner than he could imagine. And if everything went according to plan, he’d be the one bleeding in the dirt. That thought chased me into the dark as I closed my eyes and drifted off.
TWENTY-SIX_
Wake-up Call
A hand landed on my shoulder, rocking me urgently, and a voice cut through the incoherent dreams frolicking through my sleep-addled brain. The voice was vaguely familiar, but the words sounded like utter, incomprehensible gibberish in my ears. I cracked one eye open—harsh light from the window stabbed at my pupil—then groaned, flipping over onto my side. “Go away,” I mumbled, drawing the scratchy wool blanket up higher over my shoulders. “I’ve been asleep for like ten minutes. I’m not ready to get up.”
The shaking came again, this time more insistently. “Sorry, mate,” Cutter said, the words finally sounding like English. “You’ve been down for about nine hours. It’s just after one in the afternoon, and General Caldwell is back with the scouts. And it’s bad news at best. Osmark and the Legion are less than three hours out. They’ll be here by four, and that’s if they don’t pick up the pace.” He shook his head, a scowl stealing across his features. “The raid bought us maybe four hours—I don’t have a clue how that sod, Osmark, got everyone up and moving so quickly, but he did.”
That sure woke me up in a hurry. I shot up and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, leaning back on my hands. “Any word on the Dokkalfar War Bands?” I asked, my mind still hazy, though things were clearing by the second. Unless Chakan had managed to whip the War Bands into a frenzy and drive them through the night, they wouldn’t be here in time. Not if the Legion was due to arrive inside three hours. Heck, even if they managed to get here, they’d have huge debuffs stacked against them.
Cutter pursed his lips into a tight line. “No good, mate. That big bastard Chakan, well he’s doing his damnedest according to Chief Kolle, but he probably won’t get in range until six. Which means we’ll need to hold the Legion for two hours.” He paused, drumming his fingers against his thighs. “Two hours is a long time in a fight like this. It’ll be tough, but we’ll manage. Now come on, you lazy sack, time to get moving.” He hoofed it over to the wardrobe in three quick strides, pulled opened the wooden doors, and hurled my armor at me.
It landed on the bed with a thud.
“And,” he said with a slick grin and a wink, “I even got you sustenance for the road.” He lifted his hands, waving them this way then that—in a blink, a fat cinnamon roll, covered in thick frosting, appeared in one hand, and a large porcelain mug appeared in the other. From the steam wafting from the cup and the aroma invading the room, I knew it was coffee. I had no idea how he’d done his sleight-of-hand magic trick, but then he was the best thief in the Alliance. And in the end, I didn’t care. I was just grateful for the thought.
I hastily slipped from the bed and geared up, then gratefully accepted the breakfast items as we headed from the room and down the stairs, ready to take on the day.
The next three hours passed by in a blur. There were so many things to do, but because the Imperial scouts were out in force, we had to do it all in secret. We inspected the tunnels and moved from house to house and shop to shop, popping in to shake hands and give brief words of encouragement before moving on to the next in line. Though many of the Alliance members looked nervous, our presence seemed to help a little. Most of our important meetings also happened as we stalked through the belowground tunnels.
General Caldwell stopped by for a moment to report before excusing himself. The poor guy was covered in blood, his feathers badly singed—he looked like he could use a week in bed. He wouldn’t rest though, I knew. Not the general. Vlad, Anton, and Chief Kolle also shadowed me at various points, relaying troop placements or bringing up last-minute concerns. Unfortunately, Abby was gone, back to Rowanheath to oversee the defenses there—not having her around stung, but I knew it was for the best.
After all, Ravenkirk was only a stopgap measure in the long run, and we needed to keep focused on our efforts elsewhere.
Out of all my visitors and advisors, though, Vlad’s presence was the most soothing. True to his word, while I’d been snoozing he’d been busy tinkering away on some way to defend against steam-powered machine guns. The very idea seemed absurd to me—how could you fight against an automatically firing Gatling gun?—but surprisingly, he’d engineered a whole batch of metal-corroding acid grenades.
He presented me with glass orbs, each the size of a tennis ball, filled with a sludgy green goo that resembled bog muck. Except he insisted they would oxidize anything metal in seconds, corroding it to uselessness. He hoped. And though the tech was untested against Osmark’s Artificer weaponry, Vlad had nevertheless ordered his crew working through most of the night and morning to produce enough of the orbs to equip every frontline defender with half a dozen of the things.
And me? My inventory was filled with a box of twenty. I had my fingers crossed that I’d be able to teach Osmark a thing or two yet.
Now, all that was left to do was wait for the Legion to show, and it wouldn’t be much longer. A handful of minutes at most. Cutter, Amara, Forge, and I were hunkered down in the Avilynn, biding the remainder of our time, silently surveying the lush field on the east side of Ravenkirk. An odd sense of déjà vu invaded me as we waited for our moment to strike. In many ways, this was almost exactly like our ambush against the Imperial caravan—just on a much larger scale.
There were differences, though.
For one, the Timberland Grove in West Viridia was a far more comforting forest than the dark tangles of the Avilynn. And two, we hadn’t been surrounded by undead then. Even with my sensitive Murk Elf eyes, it was damn hard to pick out Jo-Dan’s troops tucked away in the inky shadows of the forest, but they were there all right. Skeletal faces staring out with crimson eyes. Corpse Hounds waiting with ripping jaws. Hulking Blood Golems flexing bloody hands. Jo-Dan had even kindly sent us the fifteen-foot-tall Franken-Zombie, called the [Ravaging Devourer].
The Devourer was a level boss, and a hard hitter if ever there was one. He waited even farther back—a secret weapon for when the fight escalated.
A quarter mile farther down, the Alliance mounted cavalry waited beneath the canopy, ready to ride at the drop of a hat and drive the Imperials into the deadly clutches of Ravenkirk. The spiderkin were all absent, staged instead in the Storme Marshes on the far side of the clearing, along with most of our foot troops. When the time came, the foot division would circle to the rear, ensuring the Legion didn’t fall back too far. We wanted the Legion in the town proper, where they’d be vulnerable to our forces and deadly traps.
“You ready for this?” Forge grunted, slapping my shoulder and drawing me from my thoughts. “Take a look,” he whispered, gesturing toward the rolling green field beyond.
I stole a quick look from behind a thick oak, surveying the colossal meadow and noting the black tide encroaching along the eastern horizon. Osmark. He and the Ever-Victorious Empire, in all its indomitable glory, carried forward behind a wall of shields and gleaming steel. I glanced up through the leafy canopy overhead and spotted flocks of winged Accipiter scouts scouring the land, looking for signs of our presence.
“Looks like we’re about to get dirty.” He trailed his fingers longingly over the leather-wrapped handle of his hulking battle-axe. “I say good. High time we squared off with these Empire-loving dickheads. I can’t wait to give ’em a taste of ol’ glory, here. Show ’em that freedom is alive and well.”
Cutte
r snorted and rolled his eyes from my other side. “Glad you feel that way, friend,” he muttered, both of his daggers already out and ready. “When the fighting starts, I’ll make sure to stand behind you. You can catch all the arrows for me.”
Amara gave Cutter a flat, chiding stare. “You can stand behind me if you are so afraid.” She cocked an eyebrow at him—just a fraction of an inch, but noticeable. “I’ll protect you from the bad men.”
“Har, har, har,” Cutter mumbled. “We’ll just see who racks up the most corpses. I’ll bet you fifteen gold I get more confirmed kills than you.”
“Only fifteen?” she replied, clearly unimpressed. “I will bet thirty, and—should you win—I will even permit you to take me out in celebration.” A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips. “You have not seen the way Dokkalfar women celebrate. You will be lucky to survive.”
I blocked out all three of them as a cold chill raced along my spine. The Legion was so close now, but this was the most dangerous phase of the plan. The part where everything could go sideways.
Ravenkirk was not a fortified city by any stretch of the imagination, and right now our people were sitting ducks, ready to be blasted from existence by Imperial siege engines. The giant grassy field in front of Ravenkirk was an ideal spot to make camp, though. If we could draw them in that far unnoticed, then between our mounted cavalry and hidden foot troops, we’d hem them in and force them to fight in close, where we had the advantage.
But it would only take one careless player to give us away and ruin everything before we even got the ambush off the ground.
I waited, muscles tense, as the minutes crawled by and the first Imperials started to trickle by our position, tromping through the grass, leaving broad swatches of flattened vegetation in their wake. At first, it was a trickle, but then more and more tromped by—most on foot, though some on horses and more unconventional mounts—in a constant stream, all headed for the town. They talked lightly, laughing and joking, no one paying any real attention to the trees or even the grass underfoot.
It was the epitome of cockiness, or maybe complacency, but it also made a certain sense.
Had we ambushed a few of their supply caravans? Sure. But no one would be crazy enough to try and take on the entire Legion without a fortified wall to fight from the top of.
Still, it wasn’t until the supply wagons, siege weapons, and camp followers started to roll in that I felt some of the tension in my shoulders drain away. That was it then; they were too far in to pull back without massive casualties, especially when our troops started flooding into the valley from the rear. We could wait a little longer, but at this point it would gain us nothing. I took a deep breath—time to move. Instead of launching an Umbra Bolt into the air to signal the raid, I quickly pulled up my interface and sent out the first in a series of predrafted Regional Messages, ready and waiting on standby:
<<<>>>
Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk
Alert!
The Imperial Legion has crossed the threshold, all Alliance members prepare for phase one operations to commence in 30 seconds. You all know what to do, let’s give ’em hell!
—Faction Commander, Grim Jack
<<<>>>
A beat later, the message was gone, distributed to every Crimson Alliance player in the Ravenkirk region. I closed the interface and wheeled around, staring at Forge, Cutter, and Amara in turn. “This is it,” I said solemnly, nervous sweat making my palms slick. “It’s make-or-break time. Please be safe out there, guys.”
“Don’t worry about me, friend,” Cutter offered with a wink. “I’m the best damned thief and cutthroat in Eldgard. They won’t see what hit ’em. And as for these two”—he waved toward the others—“well, death won’t put up with Amara, and Forge … he’s just too ugly to kill. His mug alone will have the Imperials bolting for cover.”
I offered him a tight-lipped smile—feeling a giddy anxious energy building in my belly—and headed deeper into the tree cover. About ten feet back, I spotted Devil’s sleek form coiled at the base of a giant oak with huge spreading boughs, hidden entirely from the sky. Perched on his tail, like a trio of pigeons loitering on a telephone wire, were my Void Watchers. Nikko, Mighty Joe, and Kong. The three winged apes grinned at me in unison, their violet eyes burning brightly in anticipation of the mischief.
Time to play, I sent to the whole crew while hauling myself onto Devil’s back with fluid, practiced ease.
Will we get to kill things this time? the Drake sent, his lips pulled back in a cruel snarl, revealing far too many teeth.
Don’t worry about that, there’ll be more blood than even you can stomach.
Challenge accepted, he replied coolly, stretching his legs as he stood. He quickly moved into a sinuous gait, carving his way through the forest and toward a small clearing not far off. I caught a glimpse of skeletal forms all huddled around the hulking Ravaging Devourer as though they were an honor guard in service to a king. In a blink, though, the dead were gone, and we charged into the clearing. Devil leaped into the air, his leathery wings unfurling and stretching wide, catching a stiff gust of wind.
I hunched forward, low against the saddle, reins held in a death grip as we punched through the canopy like a battering ram.
TWENTY-SEVEN_
Opening Salvo
We burst through the treetops, but we weren’t alone. Oh no. My three chimps had taken to wing themselves and circled around Devil and me like a trio of moons, ready to strike at anyone who came too close.
But there were also a multitude of other winged forms emerging from all across the valley; some exploded from the dense foliage of the Avilynn, others took to the air from the dark tangle of trees in the Storme Marshes to the south. Even more hovered in the air over Ravenkirk. Most of the fliers were Alliance Accipiter Scouts—all clad in crimson-leather armor to mark them out to the anti-air troops below—though there were more than a few players on flying mounts as well. A Rune-Lord in black plate mail rode a midnight black Pegasus. A beautiful female Arbormancer sat astride the back of a winged serpent made of vines.
I only had a second to survey the landscape before the screaming started, though.
The Imperials below were scrambling like mad, many focusing skyward, thrusting fingers at our airborne troops while platoon commanders and squad leaders hastily barked out directives, trying to bring order to the frenzied chaos. I grinned, knowing it was far too late for that. They’d crossed the threshold and were past the point of no return, now. They were in the kill zone, and while the Legionnaires stood down there, staring up at us like wide-eyed newbs, the miners and warriors in the meadow were preparing their assault.
I pulled open my Faction Inbox and dashed off the next predrafted message in the queue while simultaneously lifting my hands high into the air and unleashing a salvo of brilliant purple Umbra Bolts.
<<<>>>
Regional Faction Message: Ravenkirk
Alert!
Net and trenches, you’re up. Make ’em pay for every inch. No retreat, no surrender.
—Faction Commander, Grim Jack
<<<>>>
I closed the interface, feeling a flush rise into my cheeks as I glanced to the east.
Though the Imperial Legion was easily twenty thousand troops strong, they’d already moved into the heart of the grassy valley leading into Ravenkirk, leaving their rear exposed and unprotected. We weren’t ready to attack yet—to push them into the city—but we wanted to make sure there wasn’t an easy path to retreat. I caught a flash of movement as giant ballista bolts exploded from the Avilynn tree line on the far end of the valley, arcing gracefully through the air and into the Storme Marshes trees on the other side of the immense meadow.
And not just one or two bolts, but fifty, all fired in perfect unison.
Attached to each of the meaty bolts was a strand of glimmering gossamer silk, which trailed from the end like a giant fishing line. In truth, the strands were all part of a giant
net, carefully crafted by a team of alchemists, spiderkin, and seamstresses. The silk itself was a reinforced version of the nearly indestructible material I’d used to take down the dragon known as Arzokh the Sky Maiden. Once deployed, the strands would anchor to the indomitable trees of the Avilynn on one side and the twisted oaks of the Storme Marshes on the southern side of the valley.
Together, they formed a silken wall, thirty feet high, which would prevent the Imperials from retreating. A few of the nimbler players could slip through, but the wagons and siege engines would never make it out. Not without hacking through the strings first—which wasn’t possible—or unmooring them from the trees. But we had a whole platoon of hidden Dokkalfar Rangers scattered through the forests to ensure that didn’t happen without a bloody fight.
And the net was only the beginning.
I flicked the reins and wheeled Devil around, staring down at the panicking Imperials. Some had spotted the glistening gossamer net, but while the lowly officers tried desperately to figure out what to do, how to respond, who to fight, the ground beneath their feet exploded in ten-foot-high flames. Huge trenches, all carefully hidden by carpentry and Arbormancy, crisscrossed the entire valley. Over four hundred yards of deadly pits, chock-full of combustible alchemic ingredients, all went up at once.
Massive columns of unnatural, alchemic flame roared, burning men and women alive—flash-frying wagons loaded down with supplies, and scorching more than a few of the bulky siege engines pulled by giant steam-powered contraptions of metal and gears. The unexpected attack was devastatingly effective, cutting through their numbers, but even with the extraordinary damage and casualty rate, they still outnumbered us ten to one. And now they were starting to break into well-rehearsed formations, hunkering down to defend themselves while the bigwigs strategized.
