by James Hunter
Meanwhile, the frontline troops and skirmish forces would fall back through the gate in a mock retreat—all to make the Imperials think we were on our heels, drawing them into the town where the real slaughter would happen. And as the Imperials surged in, driven by the whiff of victory in the air, the mounted cavalry would storm in from the rear. They’d harass the Imperials with charge after charge, mowing down stragglers and drawing attention away from the supply wagons and siege weapons, which a team of hired mercenaries would target.
Those were the real target. Everything else was just elaborate sleight of hand to draw attention elsewhere. That was the plan, at least.
But with so many moving parts, it was impossible to tell for sure how things would shake out. Any small thing could upset the delicate balance, and with Osmark, there was almost certainly some trick left up his sleeve. I couldn’t worry about that now, though. I slipped over to a closed window overlooking the main boulevard, peeking through the slats as the Alliance troops pulled back en masse. Alliance members broke from their defensive positions along the outer wall, fleeing into the warren of houses, seemingly without rhythm or reason.
Even more of our troops flooded in through the gate, pursued by bloodthirsty Imperials—all cheering madly and brandishing their weapons as they gave chase.
To a casual observer, it looked like a rout. Like the Alliance’s will to fight had fractured into a thousand pieces and everyone was running for their lives. Nothing could be further from the truth. Each one of those people would make their way to predesignated fighting positions scattered throughout the town, ready to stand their ground and give the enemy hell. In no time, the Imperials would swarm the buildings, side streets, and back alleyways, only to find death waiting for them.
The screams started a minute later as a platoon of advancing Imperials charged directly into the large punji pit in the middle of the main street, which had been carefully concealed with a masterful illusion. The whole squad, twenty-deep, toppled into the cavernous hole filled to the brim with bristling wooden spits slathered in Murk Elf poison. The wooden shutters on the two-story home directly next to the pit burst open, and the muzzle of an Arcane Shadow Cannon—part death ray, part Civil War era cannon—poked out.
The barrel of the weapon was aimed down, directly into the mass of dying Imperials. An orb of shadow magic as big as a bowling ball erupted from the contraption’s muzzle, and in seconds, the entire pit was a blazing wall of fire. The screams intensified, the awful noise clawing at my ears before finally going silent, consumed by the crackling of the hungry flames. And then, that sound was lost too, as more explosions and screams ripped at the air.
“Open ’er up!” the surly Dwarf bellowed. The wooden shutters burst outward, propelled by a spring mechanism, as the Alliance fighters in the house surged into action. The Cleric took up a position behind a sandbag barrier in the rear of the room, breaking out into an oddly melodic chant, imbuing everyone inside with a set of priestly buffs:
<<<>>>
Buffs Added
Heavenly Strength: Increase all primary attributes, except luck, by (10) points; duration, 10 minutes.
Divine Elemental Protection: Increase all elemental resistances by 25%; duration, 10 minutes.
<<<>>>
Nice. I triggered Night Armor, surrounding myself with a second skin of shadow power, then cast Shadow Forge for the benefit of the group. Shadow Forge was an active aura that would spread to all the other players in the room, temporarily imbuing their weapons with an extra 50 points of shadow damage and increasing the chance to earn a Critical Hit by 3%.
While the buffs were cast, the Risi tank and the Wode engineer wheeled the Hwach’a up to the rectangular den window overlooking a street packed with charging Imperials overeager to get to the fight. They would regret that soon enough. Not only were we about to open up on ’em, but the wooden shutters on the house across from us flew open too, revealing another crew with yet another Hwach’a. Things were about to get ugly for the enemy troops on the street, totally oblivious to the hurtin’ coming their way.
“Fire in the hole!” the Dwarf barked while moving up to a second, smaller window and drawing a heavy-duty crossbow from his side. There wasn’t really anything for me to do, so I watched in fascination as the engineer raised a smoldering punk and pressed it into a braided fuse protruding from the back of the Hwach’a. The fuse took in an instant, and a heartbeat later, the world exploded with fire, smoke, chaos, and screeches as two hundred singijeon all blasted off at once. The arrows streaked into the crowd, punching through shields, skewering exposed skin, and even puncturing heavy plate armor with ease.
More of the arrows rained down on the onrushing Imperials from the other side of the street, dropping bodies by the score.
Shouts went up as platoon and squad leaders finally realized the threat. But by then, twenty or thirty Imperials were already down on the ground, either dead or writhing in agony as they pulled at a host of barbed arrows peppering their flesh. And our guys were already attacking again. The Dwarf and the Maa-Tál Plague Bringer moved up to the other window and started unleashing a vicious volley of ranged attacks while the Risi and the Wode reloaded the siege weapon with a fresh plate of arrows.
Crossbow bolts streaked through the air, slamming into Clerics and healers, while the Plague Bringer hurled green handfuls of virulent poison and deadly disease. My Plague Burst ability was powerful but inelegant—a meat cleaver instead of a scalpel. This Plague Bringer, though, could unleash infections with a multitude of different horrendous effects. And unlike my ability, they could target enemies only.
The Imperials fought desperately to restore order and muster a counterassault, but by the time they finally got a handle on the situation, the Hwach’a was reloaded and firing again. A chorus of meaty booms shook the dust from the ceiling overhead as the arrows skewered the survivors. And during that time, the Dwarf and the Plague Bringer reloaded weapons or downed Spirit Regen potions, getting ready for the next wave. Honestly, this crew acted like a well-oiled machine. They knew their business and knew it well.
There wasn’t anything for me to do here, so I slipped quietly past the priest, who was still chanting, and down into the escape hatch leading into the tunnels below the town. The sound of cries and explosions chased me into the hole.
THIRTY_
Automatons
I scampered along the passageway, feeling an odd anxiety knowing that above my head was an army of Imperials marching through the streets. Their presence seemed to press down on me, and I idly wondered just how much weight the support struts were built to withstand. The thought sent goosebumps running along my back and down my arms; I knew from personal experience that dying in V.G.O. was traumatizing, but being buried alive in a cave-in, slowly crushed by a thousand pounds of rock?
Yeah, that was a whole different level of awful.
I picked up my pace, racing around bends and turns, idly scanning for the traps scattered around, until I hit the next opening. I clambered up the wooden rungs and into a two-story house, which was set up the same as the first house I’d stopped in. It had reinforced steel doors and walls, plus a sandbag barrier in the back and an emergency exit into the tunnels. The only real difference was that this place had a mystic-looking Arcane Shadow Cannon, instead of the Hwach’a.
The Alliance crew was just as deadly, though: A beefy tank stood guard over the door. A Cleric diligently cast buffs. A mage hurled offensive spells from a window on the left. And all the while, an engineer fired potent charge after charge from the Shadow Cannon. He aimed his shots at a group of Imperials pinned down in the street who were taking cover behind a conjured barrier of flickering blue light. A pair of enemy mages stood at the back of a formation, chanting stoically as the soldiers slowly advanced toward the house behind a wall of gleaming steel shields.
In no time, they’d be in range to start pounding at the door, trying to breach the premises. I grinned in anticipation. Getting
through the reinforced door, tattooed with arcane runes, was going to be a much more difficult task than it appeared on the surface. Alchemic grenades waited in bandoliers at the ready, and a stocky Dwarf prepared to block the breach should the door give way. Despite the encroaching troops, the Alliance members had everything in hand, so I slipped back down into the tunnel and moved on to the next location.
That one, too, was handling business with deadly efficacy and level heads.
For the next ten minutes, I ghosted from position to position, monitoring the progress, getting a feel for how the battle was playing out as I slowly and steadily maneuvered toward the chapel at the western side of the town. That was where Anton and Chief Kolle would be, overseeing the battle, poring over maps, and sending messages. I scurried along toward a shaft of light shining down from up ahead, which marked my destination. My steps faltered, though, as an urgent sending from Devil exploded inside my skull like cannon fire.
Trouble approaches. His voice burned with an edge of concern I wasn’t used to hearing from the Drake. The one you call Osmark—
His words cut off mid-sentence, the sudden silence abrupt and painful. What the hell had just happened? Devil, I sent. Or rather, I tried, but the connection was gone. Lost. Dead. I pulled up my menu, toggling over to my minions. All four of my Void Terror pets were listed in a column; Devil’s name was highlighted in bright red, and next to it was a single word, deceased. Next to that was a countdown timer, spinning merrily away toward zero.
Seven hours, fifty-nine minutes, fifty seconds until I could summon the Drake from the Shadowverse again.
Someone or something had just killed Devil. Wiped him off the face of the map before he could finish warning me about what fresh nightmare was headed our way.
Nikko, I sent instead, calling on the elder chimp. What do you see up there?
There was a long pause, but I knew she was alive and well—at least according to the menu I’d looked at a handful of seconds before. Finally, a reply came. Metal men are flooding into the valley, manling. Approaching the town. The rest of the scourge are retreating. Dropping back into the valley. What—
Her words cut short, and I cursed in frustration as I pulled my menu up again. Just as I’d feared, Nikko, Mighty Joe, and Kong were all offline now, too. Deceased and unavailable for another eight hours. Seriously, what in the hell was happening up there? I needed to figure this out and quick. I shut my interface and sprinted to the far end of the tunnel—dashing up the rungs, my arms and legs burning from the effort—and popped through the floor into a scene of total madness.
It was easy to pick out Anton and the chief, since they were issuing orders left and right, yelling to be heard over the din of the assembled messengers and officers. The chief looked as stoic and reserved as he always did, but one look at Anton told me something had gone wrong. He looked like he was on the verge of a stroke, an aneurysm, and a heart attack all at once. He was the living embodiment of workplace stress taken to the max. I scrambled to my feet, brushed my palms along the front of my trousers, and beelined toward Chief Kolle, weaving through the hustle and bustle of bodies.
“Grim Jack,” the chief said, spotting me almost at once, “we have a serious problem. The Imperials are withdrawing from the city—they’re pulling back into the fields and rallying around the siege weapons and supply wagons.”
“Yeah, I just heard that from Nikko,” I replied, brow furrowed in confusion. “But why? And more importantly, how is that even possible? The cavalry should be hemming them in from the back.”
Kolle shook his head, his face grim, his mouth set into a hard line. “The cavalry is gone, Grim Jack. Wiped out completely. Worse, our foot soldiers are gone too. Most of them dead, the rest fleeing into the woods for cover. The containment net is down. Morgan Sellsword and his men have withdrawn back into the Storme Marshes. We are defeated.”
“No,” I said, rubbing at the bridge of my nose. “No. That’s impossible. We’re slaughtering ’em on two fronts, how could they repel the cavalry? That can’t be right. It just can’t.”
“But it is,” Anton pitched in, running a hand through his long blond hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear. “Apparently, Osmark has a bunch of mechanical shock-troops, all equipped with steam-powered weapons. At least that’s what all the reports say. No one is a hundred percent sure, but whatever these things are, they’ve run roughshod over our mounted division. Obliterated them without even trying. And now the Imperials in Ravenkirk are pulling back, while these things advance into the town.”
No, no, no—this was the worst possible news. “What about the siege engines?” I asked, desperately praying for a good answer. Sure, killing enemy troops was worthwhile, but the wagons and siege engines were the focus. The players would respawn in eight hours, but destroying the siege engines and supply train would cripple the Imperials for weeks, maybe longer. And it would be costly, too, since acquiring the materials for weapons like those wasn’t cheap, and many of the items were damn difficult to come by.
The chief shot me a steely-eyed look, then dropped his face and shook his head. “We’ve damaged some, of course, but not nearly the number we were hoping for. Not if these reports can be believed.” He swept a hand to a nearby table covered in sheets of loose parchment paper. “Osmark seems to have worked out our end goal, and rallied the troops to salvage things before it was too late.”
“Okay,” I said, turning on my heel to pace. “We can still fix this. Where are our War Bands? I don’t know what these machines are, but there’s no way they can stop the War Bands. We’ll crush ’em, then hit the remaining siege engines with everything we have.”
“Grim Jack,” Chief Kolle said, striding across the room and placing a broad, calloused palm on my shoulder to stop my restless movement. “The War Bands are still twenty minutes out, and I’m not sure we’ll last that long. These mechanical minions are marching into town as we speak. It’s possible we won’t be here when the War Bands arrive. This was a worthy plan, Jack, but perhaps it is time to initiate an emergency retreat. Before it is too late for us.
“If we move now, we can disassemble the Arcane Shadow Cannons and the Hwach’a and get them back to Rowanheath. We’ll have to burn the catapults in the western field and detonate the tunnels, but we can still salvage a bit of this from ruin.” He paused, considering me with squinted eyes. “We’ve lost here, Grim Jack. We couldn’t win every battle, but that doesn’t mean the war is finished. This is a setback, nothing more.”
I batted his hand from my shoulder, anger welling up inside me. I refused to believe the words coming from his mouth—we’d worked too hard for this, invested too much for it to fall apart when we were so close to victory. “No,” I said, my voice a harsh whisper. “I’m not giving in, not until I see the damage for myself. Over and over again, people have told me the odds were impossible—I refuse to throw in the towel. But I need to be airborne. Devil’s gone. Dead.” I paused, stealing a look around. “Does anyone here have an aerial mount that can carry two?” I shouted. “Anyone at all?”
A rail-thin Wode with flowing silver hair and a trailing handlebar mustache stepped forward, thrusting his hand into the air. He was older, fifties maybe, and wore rough leather armor—cobbled together from tanned hides—and a vibrant green cloak trimmed in wolf fur. He carried a gnarled staff engraved with glowing blue runes in a thick hand crisscrossed with white scar tissue. At a glance, he could only be a Druid. “I have a winged mount if you need a lift.”
“Grim Jack,” Kolle said, “it’s too late for that. The battle is lost—please, we must retreat if there’s any chance of snatching victory from the jaws of defeat.”
I was already moving. “I respect your opinion, Chief,” I called back over my shoulder, “but I’ll be the judge of that. Everyone, you’re on standby. Prepare for a tactical retreat, but no one moves until I give the order.” I turned my gaze on the white-haired Druid. “We need to go now. Please lead the way.�
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We stepped outside the chapel—Chief Kolle’s silent stare following us through the door—and the Druid ushered me over to a small patch of grass growing next to the cobblestone boulevard. “Just a moment,” the man said, dropping down to one knee on the edge of the road as he fished a small acorn from a fur-lined pouch along his belt. I watched silently, mildly confused, as the man gently ran a thumb over the seed, then pushed it down, through the grass and into the soft earth beneath.
Still, he didn’t speak, instead just holding up a solitary wait a moment finger.
I crossed my arms, panic raging inside me, and watched, suddenly very unamused with how long this whole process was taking. After a second, however, my impatience gave way to genuine curiosity as a green stem sprouted from the earth. A beautiful red flower bud formed on the end, its petals blooming and unfurling in quadruple speed. And as those petals opened, vines poured out from the center of the plant, growing and multiplying at a staggering rate. The vines sprawled out across the street like a Lovecraftian-horror breaking through from a parallel dimension.
As those vines grew and expanded, they morphed, shifted, and entwined. In a handful of seconds, the tiny flower was gone, and in its place was a massive dire wolf the size of a grizzly, but built entirely from a tapestry of living vines, all covered in bright green leaves and a riot of multicolored flowers. And sprouting from its shoulders were massive wings, built from thick tree branches, twisted lengths of foliage, and huge palm fronds, which served as feathers.
