by James Hunter
And then there were no more words, just a playful giggle as she pushed me onto my back and swung up on top of me, legs straddling me at the hips …
TWENTY-FIVE_
Legion of the Vale
The chirping of a morningbird’s song woke me up.
I grimaced as I cracked one eye and noticed a beam of sunshine poking in through one of the round windows flanking the front door. Holy crap, my head felt like someone had used it for target practice on the shooting range. That berry wine didn’t taste like alcohol at all—certainly nothing like the rice wine, Law-jiu, the Murk Elves drank—but boy did it pack one helluva punch. I hadn’t been this hungover since my time in Ankara when Hakim, the potbellied owner of the Lucky Rooster, had thrown us a party after completing a near-impossible heist.
Disgruntled, I scooted over toward Abby so the blasted sunbeam wasn’t burning the retinas right out of my head. With a wince I pulled up my interface, earning myself a trio of notifications. I groaned, though it served me right for not checking before getting plastered at that party.
<<<>>>
Skill: Bladed-Weapons, Dagger
Skill Type/Level: Active / Level 2
Cost: None
Effect: Increases bladed-weapon damage by 7%.
<<<>>>
Skill: Medium Armor
Skill Type/Level: Passive / Level 10
Cost: None
Effect 1: 25% increased base armor rating while wearing Medium Armor.
Effect 2: +6% additional increased base armor rating for every piece of Medium Armor worn.
<<<>>>
Subspecialty: Champion of Order
Ability Type/Level: Passive / Level 5
Cost: None
Effect 1: All Champion of Order-based skills and abilities are increased by 2.5% per Champion of Order Level (Current Level 5: 12.5%).
Effect 2: Luck stat increases by one point for every (2) Champion of Order Levels (Current Level 5: +2 to Luck)
Effect 3: You have (1) unassigned Divinity Point
<<<>>>
I scanned the notices—another level as Champion of Order was cause for celebration even if I felt like the inside of a trashcan—then dismissed them with a flick of my hand. With that done, I checked the time, 6:56 AM. So early, but there was no way I was going to get back to sleep, not with the splitting headache digging icepicks into my brain. So instead, I took the time to handle some housekeeping business. First, I toggled over to my Active Effects Screen:
<<<>>>
Current Debuffs
Entwined Fate: You have been cursed by Sophia, Overmind of Order and Balance! Your life has been tied to Traveler Robert Osmark’s. When he dies, you will automatically die. Duration: this effect lasts until Sophia lifts the curse.
Shared Trauma: You have been cursed by Sophia, Overmind of Order and Balance! Your well-being has been tied to Traveler Robert Osmark’s. When he suffers a Status Debuff, you automatically suffer the same penalty until the debuff expires or is removed.
Hangover: You drank too much and slept too little; as a result, you have a hangover. Mild confusion and disorientation; duration, 1 hour. Mild head pain and light sensitivity; duration, 3 hours.
<<<>>>
Yep. Hungover, just as I’d expected. For the thousandth time, I wondered what kind of twisted, demented jerk would purposely add a feature like that. I mean, the Devs of V.G.O. literally had the option to create the world to their liking, and some troll still thought it was funny to include hangovers. Maybe once things were settled with Osmark and we were back in Eldgard, I’d ask him about it. It was always possible he knew who was behind the obvious design flaw—if so, it was possible I could track that person down and sucker punch them in the teeth on pure principle.
Now that would be an epic quest worth undertaking.
Next, I pulled up my Champion of Order Skill Tree:
I looked over the options available to me, lingering for a long beat on the right-hand path—Scales of Harmony and Word of Order. Scales of Harmony was a buffing aura that would give me and my team a passive advantage when fighting against the forces of Thanatos and Vox-Malum. Plus, it had a unique feature that would come in handy once we got back to Eldgard—if we got back to Eldgard. It allowed me to continue earning levels as Champion of Order for dispatching regular Vogthar troops. And as for Word of Order, well that looked like one mean ol’ spell that could absolutely smack the crap out of any Evil or Holy aligned creatures.
I wanted both. Unfortunately, my gut told me that the real goal was to unlock Avatar of Order as quickly as possible, and for that I needed to unlock Mass Heal first. Reluctantly, I dropped my point into the cleric ability, then read over the description:
<<<>>>
Skill: Mass Heal
The world of Eldgard is a hard, dangerous place—red in tooth and claw—but as Champion of Order you can tap into the power of Sophia to restore your party into fighting shape in an instant. Remember, though, there is no such thing as a free meal, and Balance always has its price.
Skill Type/Level: Spell/Initiate
Cost: 350 Spirit
Range: 20 Meters from caster
Cast Time: 5 seconds
Cooldown: 20 minutes
Effect 1: Instantly restores the Health of all party members to 75%!
Order’s Cost: Absorb wounds. Your Health drops by 50% of its current amount!
<<<>>>
Good enough. I closed out of the screen and turned toward Abby. She was lying on her side, back to me, snoring softly. As disgruntled as I was about being awake, I didn’t want to inflict that same torture on her. After all, she’d downed even more of the berry wine than I had, and she only weighed half what I did. She’d need all the shut-eye she could get. Silently, I slipped out from beneath a fuzzy cotton blanket—instantly regretting it as the prickly bite of cool morning air met my skin—and shrugged into my armor.
I stared at her sleeping body for another second, just enjoying the sight of her, lovely and at peace, before creeping out the door and into the early morning of the Vale.
I was entirely unprepared for the hustle and bustle engulfing the sleepy little town, which wasn’t actually sleepy at all. Everywhere folks were moving, working, preparing. Satyrs labored at the defenses, fixing the damage from the air raid the day before, while others slaved over bulky cookpots, brewing honeyed oatmeal, the steam curling up in the brisk morning air. More were busy with the chores of the day: tending the gardens or working at looms and forges. Most surprisingly of all, however, were the men and women lining up in the courtyard where folks had been dancing and celebrating only hours before.
At least a hundred of them, all packing rucksacks, strapping on finely made leather armor or inspecting their weapons—everything from crossbows and short swords to stout staves and the scythe-like swords I’d seen the Ningyo use back in the Cove. The same kind of blade that now rode my belt. Most were solemn-faced and quiet, though a pair of Gnomes sparred with short swords, their movements slow and playful. I’d seen a war camp often enough to know that was what I was looking at.
These weren’t just guards preparing for a new day; no, these folks were preparing for the battle of a lifetime.
I made my way between a pair of houses, through a swath of grass, and to the camp.
I noticed a canvas tent had been set up near the looming central tree, the fabric curtains pulled back to reveal a loose semicircle of men looming over a squat table covered with maps and papers. The mayor stood in the center, his arms folded, a bulbous pipe poking out from between his lips as he nodded. On one side were Ari and Amara, on the other Osmark and Jay. Cutter was nowhere to be seen—not surprising considering the hour and the fact that Cutter hated bureaucracy, work, and meetings in equal measure.
“Ah, there you are, Jack,” Osmark said as I cut through the rough formation of warriors in the square. “I wasn’t sure where you and Abby had slipped off to, but I didn’t want to disturb you two—especially considering how
much you drank last night.” He tapped his temple, a not-so-subtle reminder that he would be suffering under the same Hangover debuff I was. He dropped his hand and motioned toward a hammered silver teapot, steam wafting from the spout, and an empty porcelain cup, about two sizes too small. “Grab a cup. It will help.”
I poured myself a cup and took a long sip, surprised by the slightly bitter bite of black tea. Not nearly as good as the Western Brew coffee I could get back in Eldgard, but the aroma was comforting, and it was still a lot better than nothing. A notification screen popped up a second later:
<<<>>>
Buffs Added
Black Vale Tea: Restore 75 HP over 30 seconds. Increase Health Regen by 15%; duration, 30 minutes.
Caffeinated: Base Intelligence increased by (5) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Vitality increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes. Base Strength increased by (3) points; duration, 30 minutes.
Where there is tea, there is comfort. Where there is tea, there is hope.
<<<>>>
I smiled, enjoying the warmth of the liquid sluicing down my throat and hitting my belly, then dismissed the notice and jotted off a quick note to Abby.
<<<>>>
Personal Message:
Abby,
Hate to wake you up, but there’s something important going on over near the town square. Planning meeting, I think. Get over here ASAP. Love you.
—Jack
<<<>>>
I closed out my interface and turned back to the assembled crew. “So, what in the heck is all this?” I asked, waving toward the milling mass of Vale folk in the square.
“Reinforcements,” Osmark said as though it were the most self-evident thing in the world.
“The mayor and the village elders have decided to accompany us, Grim Jack,” Amara offered, shooting Osmark the nastiest of nasty looks. Regardless of what had passed between Osmark and me, clearly Amara still wasn’t a fan.
“’Tis true,” the mayor piped in, talking around his pipe. “After those creatures descended on our town and took our children, we decided we couldn’t let you go it alone. This is our responsibility as much as it is yours, Champion. So, we will fight.”
“Wait, hold up,” I said, raising a hand in protest. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is going to be?” I cocked an eyebrow at the mayor. “So far, we’ve barely made it out of these missions by the skin of our teeth, and the final fight against Vox-Malum is going to be way harder. Crazy harder. I mean this with all due respect, but if you come with us, some of you will die. Heck, maybe all of you will die. Stay here and defend your town. Let us do this.”
“Oh, and what if you fail?” the mayor replied, voice level and even. “This is our land, outsider. The Vale is our home—those were our children who were taken. So what if you fail, eh? The children, they told us what the Elemental Architect said. The threats he made. If you fail, Vox will descend on us. He will wipe us out, murder us as we cower in our homes. We stand a much better chance of success by combining our forces. And with all due respect, you don’t get to decide what’s best for us—what we live or die for.”
He fell quiet, sharp eyes flaying my soul as he gently puffed on his pipe, dual streams of white smoke trickling from his nostrils.
The quiet was interrupted by the crunch of gravel and heavy breathing as Abby rushed up, deep bags under her eyes, her hair frizzy and mussed. She looked like she’d just woken up with a hangover. “What did I miss? What are we doing?” she croaked, wincing against the glare of the early morning light.
No one answered, all eyes trained on me. What are we doing? those gazes asked. Would I put up a fight, maybe draw a line in the sand? I glanced over my shoulder, eyeballing the men and women preparing to defend their home, knowing at least some of them would die and that there would be no respawn for them. Maybe it would be the balding Gnome with the potbelly and the wispy beard, or the fresh-faced, female Satyr with a lute hanging from her belt. A bard, and barely old enough to have her own place.
I turned my back on them, pushing down a gnawing bead of worry. The mayor was right. Just because I was the Champion of Order didn’t mean I had a right to forbid them from fighting for themselves, for their home, for their values—no matter how stupid I thought the idea was. That way lay the same tyranny Vox-Malum was guilty of: crushing free will.
“Hello?” Abby said, waving a hand. “What did I miss? What are we doing?”
“We’re about to find out,” I finally replied. “Osmark was just getting ready to fill us in on our plan of attack.” I scooted over and motioned her toward the table.
“Right,” the Artificer said with a small dip of his head, picking up as though my little standoff with the mayor had never happened. “Based on the information Queen Sapphira provided us, the third pillar is located here at the Grim Vault.” He jabbed at a huge hand-drawn map, stretched out across the table, each corner pinned down by a steel dagger. “The Vault is located on the edge of the Burning Expanse, which is good for us, since there happens to be a little-known mountain pass that will drop us right on his back stoop.”
“And what kind of opposition do you expect to find?” Abby asked, snagging my half-full cup of tea and taking a sip.
“That is hard to say,” the mayor replied. “We know Vox-Malum will be there, but no one is quite sure what he is capable of. I should expect you, Champion”—he nodded at me—“will have to take him down. But if there is one thing we are quite sure of, it’s that he will not be alone. Assuming the pillar’s effects have taken hold … Well, we’ll be forced to contend against the Flame Salamanders of the Burning Expanse, not to mention whatever other nasty surprises the Lich Priest has in store for us. It will be ugly, that much I can tell you true. So, how shall we proceed then?”
I was expecting everyone to turn to Osmark, but instead their gazes landed squarely on me, expectation and anticipation burning in their faces.
“This is your show, Jack,” Osmark said, gesturing toward the map with one hand.
I cleared my throat and hunched over the table, scanning the map. “Alright. Here’s what I think we should do …”
TWENTY-SIX_
Battle Lines
Nearly five hours later, just short of noon, we found ourselves crouching behind a jagged mound of boulders, staring down onto the plains of the Burning Expanse. Above us, the blistering orange sun beat down like a molten hammer. The journey had been brutal—we’d already lost five of the Vale’s warriors, and we hadn’t even faced off against the Lich Priest. The Thralls dwelling in the verdant swath of jungle bordering the jagged mountains didn’t screw around.
A wide variety of corrupted creatures dwelled in the dense foliage, but the worst were the Spriggans.
Nasty creatures that looked like centaurs, their lower bodies were that of a moose, their upper bodies humanoid, crafted from trees, rocks, and bits of moss all held together by ancient magic. They moved as silently as wraiths and blended in better than chameleons ever could. I shuddered at the thought of them. Shuddered at the mutilated corpses they left behind, strung up from the trees, loops of gut hanging down like crepe paper. Our party was looking a bit worse for the wear, but we were in the home stretch.
Despite the difficulties of the jungle trek, we’d found the mountain pass, and from there it had been smooth sailing. Below us, a barely visible path snaked down the face of barren black rock, dead-ending at what could only be described as a lava field. The earth was devoid of life and vegetation—as dead as the jungle had been alive. Just cracked hardpan, gray ash, and slowly moving rivers of red and orange magma. Scattered across the barren landscape were angular slabs of obsidian quartz jutting up like rocky fingers.
A desolate place, though oddly beautiful and orderly in its own way.
The real sight, however, was the night-black ziggurat scarring the landscape.
A massive stone pyramid, at least a hundred feet tall, and built entirely from carved slabs of the obsidian quartz dotting the
valley. A square entryway, large enough to admit a herd of elephants, was set into the front of the temple-turned-tomb, though a giant set of stone doors was shut tight to the world. To either side of the entry were stairs, carved into the stone, rising toward the top of the ziggurat, where the prize waited: the final Necrotic Pillar burning with otherworldly light like a jade sun.
So close. Yet I’d rarely felt so uncomfortable.
There was no one down there. Not a soul. No sign of Vox-Malum. No enthralled minions standing between us and our prize. No giant, crab-clawed champion of fire waiting to mop the floor with us.
“Well, this looks like the biggest con this side of Eldgard,” Cutter said, echoing my own uncertainty. “Back in Rowanheath, if you saw an alley as empty as that”—he waved toward the barren valley—“it was a sure sign there was a crew getting ready to swoop in and rob some dumb mark blind.”
“Right?” I replied, brow furrowed in concern. “It’s got to be an ambush. Has to be. No way would Vox let us just waltz in willy-nilly with zero opposition.”
“Agreed,” Osmark replied, pulling out a brass telescoping spyglass. He lifted it to his eye, lips pursed. “This reminds me of the Drowned Temple. Same play. There’s at least five hundred yards of open terrain between here and that pyramid. I’m not sure how our Lich Priest friend is hiding his forces, but that’s a killing ground as sure as the sun is bright. Any thoughts?” He glanced at Jay, Amara, Ari, and the mayor in turns.
“Perhaps we should pursue a stealth approach,” Amara offered, idly grinding the tip of her obsidian spear into the gritty earth. “That or an air raid. The pillar is out in the open, so we could lay siege to it without much trouble.”
