The Knight Thursr’s enormous chest inflated with pride, his eyes glimmering, a lopsided smile on his face. “What must Kaz do? Just tell him, and no matter how dangerous, he will see it done.”
“You’ll be the chief diplomat for the entire Cruel Citadel,” Roark said. “You’ll visit the other Dungeon Lords, tell them about the marketplace we’re setting up and all the benefits it will bring them, and convince them to ally themselves with us.”
“Talking? To Dungeon Lords?” Kaz deflated, folding in on himself. Massive though he was now, Roark could see the frightened Changeling he’d been little more than a month ago. “But wouldn’t Roark be better at that? Kaz is no good with words. If Roark wanted Kaz to feed the Dungeon Lords, it would be different.”
Roark put a hand on Kaz’s shoulder and looked his friend in the eye. “Two reasons it has to be you, mate. One, the other Dungeon Lords will expect me to send a runner, just like Azibek always used to communicate with. We need to play to their expectations now to get them to trust us. And two, I need to run the citadel and put things in order so that Griff and Mai can keep it from falling apart while we’re gone rescuing Variok. Besides, you won’t be alone.” He reached down and scratched Mac on his serpentine bearded jowl. “Mac, you’re going with Kaz. Protect him.”
The scaly beast chirped and bumped his shoulder against Roark’s leg, nearly knocking him over, then crossed the floor to take a place at Kaz’s side.
Kaz frowned, huge lower lip sticking out in a pout. “All right. Kaz will do it. For the citadel. For Roark. For the salt.” It was the most uncertain Roark had ever heard the Knight Thursr sound, but he had no doubt Kaz would deliver. The Thursr had never let Roark down, not once, and he was loyal and dedicated to a fault.
“Thanks, mate.” Roark clapped Kaz on one massive shoulder. “You’ve got the hardest job of all of us, but you’re the only one I trust to do it.”
Assignments given, Kaz, Mac, and Griff headed for the staircase to the first floor, while Mai wandered away to find her apprentice chefs. Roark simply stayed where he was for a long beat, kneading the back of his neck and rolling his head on his shoulders, trying to work out the tension. Trying to found a settlement with the possibility that Lowen could attack at any moment constantly in mind had him wound tighter than a spring-loaded spear trap. A headache had begun to creep in at the base of his skull as well.
He didn’t really feel like going to the smithy without Mac tagging along, but a few rounds of griefing wouldn’t go amiss. He might not be able to kill Lowen—yet—but he could kill something. That would have to be good enough for now.
Beneath the Hood
ROARK CONJURED AN INFERNAL shield just as [Pun_Guy69], a level 30 Arcanist, hurled a dazzling blue-and-white spell at him. The light hit the violet barrier, knocking Roark back a few paces, then exploded into a rain of crackling sparks. Roark dropped the shield and countered with a blast of Infernal Torment. Plum-colored flames burst from the Arcanist’s flesh as the Jotnar spell seared him from the inside out. As the last of the red in his Health bar disappeared, Pun_Guy69 howled with an eerie combination of agony and delighted laughter.
He dropped to the floor dead, a grin on his face.
Roark scowled. This madness was becoming more and more common in the highest-level heroes he fought. Many of them were simply thrilled to be griefed by Roark and in no way shied away from showing it, even in the throes of death. It was madness and made no sense whatsoever. Why in the bloody hells would they seek death at his hands? There was no Experience in it for them, and more often than not they lost their weapons, armor, valuable items, and gold to his looting.
A warbling war cry rose behind Roark as [CleverGurl]—a level 27 Death Paladin—rushed him, legs churning, weapon raised and ready to kill. He spun away from the insane Arcanist and met the Death Paladin’s glowing green battle-axe with a glancing parry from his Slender Rapier of the Diving Falcon. Though it was nearly the size of a zweihander now, the rapier was no match for the weight of her axe, nor the momentum of the swing. The slender blade gave way under the onslaught of the heavier weapon, and the axe slammed into Roark’s hip with a meaty thump.
Roark cursed as the blow buckled his leg and spun him a half-turn; a jag of hot pain sprinted along his limbs, but he managed to keep his feet. Such was the power of a Soul-Cursed Jotnar.
Roark wasn’t the only one who’d taken damage, however. The Hex-Aura he’d cursed himself with had dealt .5 x the Death Paladin’s level in damage to her as well, eliciting a cry of pain from CleverGurl and a boisterous cheer from the crowd of watching Trolls.
PunGuy69 and CleverGurl were the last of a high-level party of eight heroes, and though the small band of Thursr Knights and Reaver Shamans griefing with Roark had fought and killed their fair share, they had slowly fallen back to observe with gleeful pleasure as he finished the final two. Roark was more than a mere Dungeon Lord now, he was their champion. A symbol that they could do more, be more, than they had before. And seeing him hew down tyrannical heroes only served to reinforce that narrative.
CleverGurl backpedaled and gave another singing shout. Green fire shot down from above and the burning spheres enveloped two of her fallen comrades—a Fire Warden and a Berserker Druid. The reanimated corpses rose, groaning, from the floor and advanced on Roark with lurching steps, flaming twin sais and staff raised.
“Clever,” Roark admitted, dipping his chin at the Death Paladin. She couldn’t attack him herself without taking damage, so instead she’d found a way to attack him using someone else.
The Death Paladin shrugged, looking pleased with herself. “It’s not just a randomly generated gamer tag.”
The Berserker and Warden picked up speed, their groans becoming howls of rage as they drew nearer.
Roark added his Outstanding Kaiken Dagger to his off hand and raised his rapier to a defensive bastarda guard. The reanimated Warden threw himself into a spin, stabbing at Roark with one flaming sai after the other.
Roark turned his body to minimize the target and pressed forward pie’ fermo, parrying the thrusts with swift fendente cuts. Several slashes landed on the Warden’s hand and bracers, laying both open, and the Hex-Aura went wild dealing back melee damage, but the moving corpse showed no sign of pain or slowing his attack.
A moment later, the Berserker Druid’s staff caught Roark in the back of the head. He cursed and spun, swiping his Kaiken Dagger downward and catching the staff midswing between his dagger and hand. The Berserker groaned louder, still trying to batter Roark with the staff.
“You’re not the brightest reanimated corpse in the graveyard, are you?” Roark asked, imbuing his words with Infernal Temptation, a spell that coaxed creatures and heroes with less than half Roark’s Intelligence into serving him. Without looking, he whipped a mandritto tondo at the Warden—the slight resistance of flesh let him know he’d made contact—then thrust it upward in an ascending imbroccotta, the blade sinking half its length into the Berserker’s rib cage. “And your Death Paladin friend is too clever by half, sending someone like you to finish the job she couldn’t.”
The Berserker stopped trying to brain him with the trapped staff and stared, mouth agape, as if waiting to hear more.
One of the Warden’s sais sank into Roark’s shoulder, stealing a hefty tenth of the red liquid from his Health vial. Lightning fast, Roark twisted his torso and sunk his Kaiken Dagger into the Warden’s throat. The sphere of green winked out and the Warden dropped to the ground.
Roark turned back to the Berserker, who still seemed to be entranced by his words.
“CleverGurl got you and your friends killed once, mate, and now she’s trying to get you killed a second time,” Roark said, his voice smooth and pleasant despite the sai still sticking into his back. “Don’t let her do this to you. Kill her before she has the chance to kill you again.”
Slowly the Berserker nodded, revelation dawning on its face. It turned away from Roark and broke into a lumbering run toward the De
ath Paladin.
CleverGurl scowled and began another singsong shout, but the Berserker swung his staff at her before she could finish the spell. She leapt backward and swatted the incoming staff away with her battle-axe. While she was distracted, Roark bent and hurriedly scribbled a hex on the stones of the floor.
[Would you like to Hex this surface? Yes/No?
Note: For every Hex you inscribe, Cursed! will extract a share of your Infernali Magick equal to your Enchanting level x .5 your character level.]
Roark selected yes. This time his filigreed Magick vial appeared, the purple liquid inside dipping. Right away, his Magick-Regen went to work refilling the lost liquid.
On the floor, the hex took and the inscription glowed wine-purple, shifting into a series of sharp, angular runes and stretching to fit the space. Amethyst light flared around it, then the whole thing faded, almost invisible unless you were really looking for it.
Across the room, CleverGurl finally finished her shout, dismissing her Infernally enslaved corpse servant. The green sphere around the Berserker shattered and he dropped to the floor, dead once again.
Now at less than a quarter of her full Health, the Death Paladin raised her battle-axe high and sprinted toward Roark, a war cry on her lips.
Roark raised his rapier and dagger in a clear invitation and stood his ground.
The moment her heavy plate boot slammed onto the rune he’d engraved, it exploded, taking her with it. Pieces of the Death Paladin rained down in a shower of gore, body parts, and heavy armor.
The watching Trolls let out a raucous bellow, leaping up and down and clapping wildly. And to top it all off, an ascending chime rang through the room.
[LEVEL UP!]
[You have 10 undistributed Stat Points!]
It was his second level since beginning griefing that afternoon, and though he was still seven levels from his final evolution, Roark felt much better than he had. There was something freeing about spending a day mindlessly fighting for your life.
His personal mystic grimoire appeared unbidden before his eyes, open to his character page. Roark distributed his stat points, this time leaning heavily on Intelligence. Infernal Temptation had done a good deal of the work for him this time, but if he had a higher Intelligence, he could enthrall the minds of more and more intelligent heroes and creatures.
╠═╦╬╧╪
╠═╦╬╧╪
WITH THAT DONE, ROARK closed his grimoire. Immediately, a scrap of parchment crammed with writing took its place.
╠═╦╬╧╪
World Stone Pendant
Durability: Indestructible
Level Restriction: 1
Property: Soul-Forge – Imbue the undead with life and will.
Current World Stone Authority: Greater Vassal 3/6; Lesser Vassal 49/100
Property: Glamour Cloak – Use arcane power to disguise your appearance even to the keenest of eyes. Cast 1 per day; duration, 3 hours.
Property: Transmute Energy – Meld and merge the primal energies and magicks in the world around you to your will.
Property: ???
Property: ???
Property: ???
The World Stone can bend, shape, and distort reality, allowing the bearer the power of Creation and Life itself ...
╠═╦╬╧╪
Intriguing. The memory of the Tyrant King’s ability to cast any spell he wished without following Traisbin’s basic requirements for magick returned to Roark. Perhaps Transmute Power was how Marek had done it. It certainly bore a bit more exploration.
But not while he was surrounded by Trolls who would lose their newly acquired levels if the magick backfired and killed one of them.
Roark dismissed the parchment to find that the Death Paladin’s corpse had reformed on the floor—all the better for griefing. Roark helped the Trolls loot it and the rest of the heroes, then marked their locations and respawn time for further exploitation. That done, he left them to wait for their next band of heroes and headed for the Keep, a bounce in his step. He was more than a little excited at the prospect of new magick and the accompanying abilities that might come with it. Any little edge could spell victory for him and the downfall of Marek and his lickspittle cronies.
He’d intended to head to his study straight away and spend some time experimenting with the new World Stone spell, but soon found himself lingering outside the closed door to the Alchemy laboratory.
From inside, he heard the clink of glass and sizzle of a concentrated open flame, followed by a delighted laugh. Roark grinned. The first time he’d shown Zyra her lab, she’d been as excited as a street urchin with her first ever gift. Such a departure from the cagey, acerbic assassin he’d come to know.
Roark was busy, true, but hearing that laugh, he simply couldn’t help himself. He gave a quick rap with his knuckles, then opened the door and entered without waiting for an answer.
There was a flutter of hurried movement, but by the time Roark’s eyes focused, Zyra was doing nothing more than holding a vial of some vibrant green liquid up to catch the oily torchlight from a nearby sconce.
“How went the griefing, Dungeon Lord?”
“Well enough.” Roark nodded at the potion. “What are you making?”
Her hood fell back an inch as she cocked her head, studying the potion. A sliver of sparkling midnight chin appeared. Though Roark had seen Zyra’s face once, he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the tiny revelation.
“Nothing interesting,” she said. “Just trying out a new poison mixture.”
“To become a Master Alchemist?” Roark asked.
She set the poison on a table behind her with a dozen other vials.
“It counts toward the total number of hours I’ve brewed and the ten thousand potions I need to make to become a Master, but new mixtures aren’t technically required.” She shrugged one shoulder. “It was fun, though.”
“What poison isn’t?” Roark teased, hiking himself up onto a relatively clear space on an otherwise full workbench. “How many hours and potions do you have left before you level up?”
“Sixteen more hours brewing and one thousand nine hundred eleven potions.” She rounded the table and went to a shelf along the far wall, bending down to select ingredients.
Again Roark caught himself staring. This time he hurried to look away before Zyra stood back up and turned around.
He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “You mentioned needing some rare ingredients.”
“The shell of a Rock Wyvern Egg and the petals of a Haint Orchid,” Zyra replied, straightening up and bringing the selected vials and bundles of herbs back to her worktable. “The Orchid should be straightforward enough, but the Rock Wyverns only nest on sheer cliff faces of the Star Iron Hills—which are really more like mountains.” She began stripping the leaves from a bundle of dried herbs and dropping them into a mortar. “I’m not certain I can climb the faces and get the egg while fighting off the Rock Wyverns. I’ve read that they’re quite deadly, and I have no experience with mountains.”
Roark’s ears perked up. “I grew up in the mountains, you know. I could go with you and keep an eye out for danger while you got the egg.”
Zyra stopped picking leaves off the herb. Though he couldn’t see her eyes within the shadows of the hood, he could imagine their mismatched purple and green depths studying him as she had the poison just minutes before.
“I did it for Kaz during his gourmet quest,” Roark said, shrugging as though it were nothing. Contrary to his cool exterior, however, his heart was thumping like mad. “You can ask him for my references if you’re skeptical that I’m up to the task.”
“It’s not that,” Zyra said, her voice strangely soft. Almost pensive. “Sometimes I forget that you lived a whole life before you were a Changeling.”
Roark smiled. “And you’ve spent your whole life here, fighting to survive in the shadows. What was it like?”
“What were your mountains like?” s
he countered.
“Snowy, cold, covered in rock fall.” Though he hadn’t run along the paths or climbed the walls of the mountains of Korvo in twenty years, his favorite hides and scrambles glowed in his mind like a comforting fire on a stormy night. “The perfect place for a child to play.”
“You sound sad,” Zyra said. “Do you miss them that badly?”
Roark opened his mouth to answer, then stopped and considered the exact nature of his melancholy.
“It’s more that I suspect I won’t see them again,” he said after a time. “When I return to my world, it will be for a tyrant’s head, and even if I succeed, his followers will never let me escape alive. Hells, a good number of them are so fanatically devoted to him that they tracked me here in spite of the risk.”
“Or they’re so frightened of him,” Zyra said.
Roark sneered. “Then the self-serving cowards deserve whatever happens to them when he tires of their sycophancy.”
Suddenly, Zyra’s hands flew back into motion, plucking at the herbs, snatching up the pestle, and grinding the leaves to a dust. Roark couldn’t see her expression, but the pestle was crushing down much harder than he would have guessed necessary for dried plant matter. When he finally realized why she might be angry, he could have kicked himself.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you’re not like them. You didn’t know there was another way to live, so you did what you had to do to survive. And you left Azibek’s service as soon as you spotted the better option.” He tried smiling at her. Seven hells, this was not going at all well. “Even if sometimes you’re not sure I truly was the better option.”
“Only because you’re insane,” she muttered. Still, her sharp motions smoothed and slowed. After a moment, she asked, “You hate this tyrant enough to cross dimensions to kill him?”
Troll Nation Page 6
