Restrictions: None
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He read and reread the message, then pored over it for a third time just for good measure.
It didn’t technically say that Roark had to jailbreak the sorcerer, only free him and return him alive to the mainland. By those parameters, Roark could just pay the rog’s fines and have him released legally. With the gold he and the citadel were making griefing every day, coming by the money would be no issue. The handing over of the fine, however, would prove to be a bigger problem. Rebel_of_Korvo’s sudden reappearance after supposedly dying in Chillend would certainly draw attention from the strict record-keeping olms who ran the Legion of Order. The same went for Zyra, Kaz, and Variok. What Roark needed was someone the Legion didn’t recognize to act as the go-between.
“Griff,” he said, snapping his fingers. He stood up, dusting off the seat of his threadbare prison-issue pants. He turned to Kaz and Variok. “We need to get back to the citadel.”
A soft feminine moan made the hairs on the back of Roark’s neck stand up. He’d almost forgotten that Zyra hadn’t woken from the poison yet.
At his feet, the hoodless Reaver brushed her wet snowy white hair out of her face, then shoved her fists over her head and stretched like a waking feline. Though her ringlets were dripping and bedraggled by the ocean water, and her recurved onyx horns stuck up from them like bits of driftwood caught in foam, Roark couldn’t take his eyes off her. He got to see her face so rarely that he didn’t want to look away. Soon, the smooth curve of her chin and those long eyelashes would be again hidden away in her assassin’s hood.
Zyra blinked her mismatched purple and green eyes languorously and smiled up at him.
“Sleep well?” he asked, infusing his tone with enough sarcasm to turn aside any suspicions that he’d been admiring her.
Slowly, her brows furrowed with confusion.
“Why aren’t... I thought...” She shook her head and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Must have put a little too much Haint Orchid in that batch.” She glanced around as if checking that they were all there. “I see everybody drank their poison like good little Changelings.”
“We did,” Roark said. “That Sleeping Death was a stroke of brilliance, Zyra.”
Her shoulders hunched up a bit at the compliment, and Roark had the impression of a cat being rubbed against the lay of its fur. He smiled to himself.
“What’s next?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard, popping to her feet.
“We need to get back to the Cruel Citadel,” he said. “I’ve got a job for Griff, and once that’s taken care of, we should largely be in business.”
They made their way down the beach to the lighthouse. Not far inland lay a little fishing village named Prol, where Roark proceeded to sell off the handful of potions and odds and ends he hadn’t had to hand over to the Legionnaires before entering Chillend. With the gold he got in return, he bought a portal scroll, which zipped them right back to their set respawn point—in his case, the throne room of the Cruel Citadel.
Griff was glad to see them back, but the grizzled old weapons trainer’s gruff smile and handshake was nothing compared to Mai’s joy. The moment they stepped into the kitchen, the buxom cook threw herself into Kaz’s enormous arms, weeping with relief that he’d made it back alive.
“Kaz is fine,” the Mighty Gourmet said soothingly, patting her blonde hair and hugging her to his chest.
“Yes, well,” Mai mumbled, regaining some measure of her poise. “Sure’s happy I am that you’re back.” She smiled up at him. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about some bread in the larder.”
Kaz frowned, confused, then all at once his features lit up with understanding.
“Oh, bread,” he repeated, winking very obviously. “The bread in the larder! Kaz forgot about that bread. He and Mai should go look at it immediately.”
Zyra, who’d traded away a few of her more common potions for a plain leather hood in Prol, turned her shadowed face Roark’s way. They both had to stifle a bout of childish snickers as the Mighty Gourmet and the buxom cook slipped out of the kitchen arm in arm.
When they were gone, Zyra announced, “I’m heading to the lab to put on some real armor and burn this trash.” She beckoned to Variok. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can put your things until the settlement’s up and running.”
Roark turned to Griff. “Are you up for another mission?”
“Got to keep the blood pumping somehow,” the grizzled skill trainer said. “What’ve you got in mind, Griefer?”
THAT NIGHT, KAZ AND Mai threw a raucous feast in celebration of their new merchant and imminent settlement. Apprentice chef Changelings scurried around trying to keep plates and flagons full, while an ecstatic Variok drank and haggled with Trolls looking to sell their share of the griefing loot. Considering all the griefing the citadel was doing these days, there was a significant amount of loot to go around, and since none of the Trolls had ever bartered in the marketplace, Variok was having the time of his life. “A heavenly paradise,” he kept muttering under his breath. Mac and Zyra played their accustomed game of catch, the Young Turtle Dragon romping around the ceiling gulping down morsels the Reaver threw to him.
Roark let the happy chaos unfold around him, draining his ale whenever Zyra goaded him to drink and enjoying Kaz’s excitement over the new dishes he and Mai had prepared for the meal. Things like Biscuits and Gravy of Surpassing Stamina and Spiced Rum Cake of Invigoration.
But throughout it all, part of Roark’s mind was elsewhere, focused on an inevitable point somewhere in the future. He had made up his mind not to take any of the Trolls from the citadel with him when he returned to Traisbin—assuming, of course, he managed to find his way back—and he wouldn’t change it. He couldn’t drag Kaz or Zyra down to the grave with him. But that smile as she woke from the Sleeping Death, as if she’d just been wrapped in the arms of a lover, kept playing in his head.
He wished Griff was around to offer his advice. But when the grizzled old trainer had heard that they had another potential skill trainer for the settlement, he had taken off for Frostrime immediately, saying he didn’t want to wait for something bad to befall their sorcerer.
After spending even a short time in Chillend, Roark could well understand the sentiment.
The night wore on without any answers. In the wee hours of the next morning, Trolls began to wander off to their floors to spend the rest of their drunkenness in a more familiar setting—or to take their shifts at griefing. Always more griefing to do, even in the heat of a victory celebration. Variok announced his intention to retire before walking out deep in discussion with a pair of Thursr Elementals over magical weaponry. Finally, Kaz and Mai left together, forgetting to make up an excuse this time, and Zyra and Roark were left in the throne room alone.
She was still chucking scraps up to Mac as if she hadn’t noticed yet that they were the only ones there. Her face was hidden in the shadowy depths of her hood, her recurved onyx horns poking up through the slits he’d tailored for them. With those holding the hood in place, there wasn’t even a small chance it would accidentally slide back and reveal anything.
As if she could feel his eyes on her, she turned and met his gaze.
“Care for a turn?” she said, holding out a biscuit. “I think Mac’s just playing with it now, but he’s still catching it.”
“I miss being able to see your face,” Roark said, startling himself. He didn’t think he’d had that bloody much to drink. He tried to come up with a way to turn his slip into a glib joke, but couldn’t. Worse yet, he couldn’t seem to shut his mouth. “It’s been less than a day, but I wish I could see it all the time.”
Zyra froze. The damned hood cut him off from any indication of her thoughts.
“I know you don’t like what you see there, but I think you’re beautiful,” he said.
Seven hells! Had someone given him a babbling potion?
On the ceiling, Mac chi
rped, irritated to have his game of catch interrupted. Zyra launched the biscuit to the Young Turtle Dragon with more vehemence than required.
“What good is beauty?” she asked, her voice dripping with disgust. “It doesn’t kill your enemies or intimidate anyone into doing what you want. It’s worthless.”
Roark raked his hair out of his face. “Hells, you’re infuriating. And I’m saying it wrong. I don’t know how this is supposed to go.”
Her hood canted slightly. “How what is supposed to go?”
“I don’t know,” Roark said, frustrated. “I’ve wanted nothing but to kill the Tyrant King for so long that it’s hard to remember how to want anything else... You don’t understand why I can’t take you back to Traisbin with me. It’s not because I don’t need your help, and it’s sure as bloody hell not because I don’t want you around.”
“You need someone paranoid around who can protect you from your own cleverness, Griefer, someone to mount heads on pikes so everyone knows who the Dungeon Lord is around here.” She poked him in the chest, her poison-laced claws thudding against his dark leathers. “You need me.”
“Exactly,” Roark said. “That’s why I can’t take you with me.”
Zyra threw up her hands.
“That doesn’t make any sense!” She got up and stalked toward the door.
It was slipping away, Roark realized. Whatever nebulous idea he thought he’d been close to explaining was disappearing, and his chance to make her understand was vanishing with it.
Panic sent signals to his muscles, forcing him to his feet before he decided to move. His head spun a bit as he caught up to Zyra, but his hand was steady as he grabbed her arm.
She whirled on him, gleaming onyx claws extended. He steeled himself for the Death Scratch, but she didn’t attack.
Roark swallowed hard. “I’ve never wanted something as much as I do you. Not even revenge.”
Gradually, Zyra’s claws retracted.
“But I don’t know where that leaves us.” Roark sucked in a lungful of air and blew it back out. “Because I still have to go. And I can’t take you with me because I can’t lose anyone else I need. Not forever-dead, not again.”
Moving faster than his buzzing mind could comprehend, Zyra grabbed him by the back of the neck and crushed her lips to his. She tasted like cold ale and sweet poison, and all he could think was Soft, she’s so soft.
But by the time his hands got the message to reach for her, the hooded Reaver was pulling away.
“Why do you think I want to go with you, you idiot?” Her toxic claws trailed down his jaw, scratching thin, burning lines into his skin. “I can’t protect you if I’m not there.”
She slipped out of his grasp and disappeared into an inky puff of black smoke. She flickered into sight ten feet from the doorway. Roark tried to tell her to stay, but it seemed that the message to shut up had finally closed his mouth and he couldn’t reopen it. Zyra disappeared into the shadows again, and this time she was gone.
Roark stared at the empty doorway. She would be in the laboratory. If he went after her, if he kissed her again, if he could show her instead of trying to tell her...
Eight hundred pounds of Young Turtle Dragon slammed down onto the table to Roark’s right, sending plates, scraps, and flagons flying and startling Roark out of his fancies.
Mac chirped, blinking his big eyes slightly out of time with one another, and butted his scaly head against Roark’s arm.
Roark chuckled and scratched the silly beast, slapping him affectionately on the shell.
“What we need, mate, is a few rounds of hero-killing.”
Life’s a Grind
GRIFF RETURNED TWO days later with Yevin in tow. The rog magic trainer looked a sight more impressive in his silver-starred azure cloak and sorcerer’s robes than he had in the threadbare prison-issue rags. Over the next few days, the other skill trainers Griff had recruited filtered into the citadel one by one. And just like that, they had done the seemingly impossible: assembled all the pieces for a mob settlement, save for one. A charter. Naturally, with all the base requirements met, Roark wanted to craft it immediately, but Griff stopped him.
“No offense, Griefer, but you’re not exactly the top of the food chain. If ya found this settlement, then invite a bunch of other Dungeon Lords in, every one of ’em at the top level of their Evolutionary path, they’ll eat ya alive.” The grizzled weapons trainer sized Roark up with a skeptical eye. “How many levels have you got to go before you reach yer top Evolution?”
The advice grated on Roark’s nerves—he was a man of rash nature and not prone to patience—but he had to admit that Griff had a solid point. Though taking another dungeon by force wasn’t practical, especially for him, it was possible. And if he invited a mass of potential enemies into his midst, it could quickly lead to the downfall of his short-lived regime. Considering just how paranoid, power hungry, and bloodthirsty some Dungeon Lords could be, perhaps waiting until he had a tad more power was the smart play.
In truth, he really wasn’t far from his final evolution. With the Experience from completing the Variok and Yevin quests, the constant influx of points from the Dungeon Lord’s Tax, and the Curse Chains Roark had been feverishly crafting on everything he smithed since returning from Chillend, he had been gaining levels like mad. Currently, he was sitting at level 32 and still a Defiler. He checked the Troll Evolutionary Paths in his mystic grimoire, rubbing at his chin as he looked over the various branches.
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“FOUR,” HE FINALLY ANSWERED, shutting the book.
Griff sucked his teeth thoughtfully.
“When you found this mob settlement, an announcement’s gonna go out to all a’ Hearthworld with yer name on it, and right behind that’s gonna be your level. Now, I ain’t sayin’ you have to put it off until after your final Evolution, but if you don’t, you’re gonna be fighting mighty hard to correct any assumptions the Dungeon Lords make from seeing ‘Roark the Griefer, Jotnar Defiler - Level 32’ instead of ‘Roark the Griefer, Jotnar Infernali - Level 36.’”
Roark sighed and raised his hands in surrender. “You’ve sold me,” he agreed reluctantly. It was only a handful of levels, but it could mean the difference between their allying with him or joining Lowen. “My father used to say the only way to gain a treasure worth keeping is with sweat and hard work. No shortcuts.”
He looked to Mac, who was curled up in his seat on the throne.
“What do you say, Mac?” The Young Turtle Dragon’s head lifted and he blinked sleepily at Roark, scratching at his beard with one clawed forepaw. “Want to try out that maneuver we’ve been practicing against some live heroes?”
With an excited chirp, Mac launched himself off the throne and bounded—well, waddled quickly—out the throne room door, his claws clicking on the stone.
Several hours later, Roark, Mac, Kaz, and Griff were scattered around the incoming portal plate in the Keep’s foyer, neck deep in pale elves.
[MILFenwyn], a pale elf in with bloodred hair and matching robes launched Incendiary Lava Blast after Incendiary Lava Blast at Roark. He threw up an Infernal Shield spell, the violet barrier protecting him from the exploding molten rocks and their shrapnel. Not deterred, MILFenwyn snapped her hands out straight, then slashed them through the air at descending angles.
A sound like ripping metal rent the air, and slices appeared in Roark’s Infernal Shield. Suddenly holding it together was draining his filigreed purple Magick vial at twice the rate it should have.
With a flick of his wrist, Roark dismissed the shield. MILFenwyn hurled a wrist-thick column of red fire at him, but Roark pulled his body out of line, letting it slip by harmlessly. Spell book levitating above his left hand, he cast a hasty fireball, which slapped against her shoulder, erupting with a blinding flare that did little real damage, but which did buy him a moment to maneuver. He slipped right, planted one foot, and lunged pie’ fermo, his sword flashing.
MILFenwyn backpedaled, narrowly escaping Roark’s Slender Rapier. But mid-backstep, she stumbled, her eyes going wide and her arms wheeling for balance. It was too late. She tumbled backward over an invisible obstacle, landing on her hands and knees, hair in her face.
Roark thrust his sword toward her, but instead of impaling her, he cast Infernal Torment, channeling the energy down the length of his extended blade; she threw up one hand at the last moment, encasing herself in a brilliant glowing red sphere ten feet across. The plum-colored flames zinged along the surface of the shield—crawling, searching, hungry—but couldn’t find their way in.
MILFenwyn jumped back to her feet, one hand maintaining the red shield.
“Oh yeah, take that, loser,” she sneered.
Roark laughed. “Enjoy your respawn.”
Her bloodred brows knit together, creasing her pale forehead.
Mac dropped his camouflage just inside her shield, opened his beaked maw, and belched green-laced acid flame. MILFenwyn screamed as the deadly emerald fire ate through her hip and thigh, taking a good chunk of her abdomen as well. Her red Health bar plummeted and the shield dropped. She threw lava, fire, and rock spells at Mac, but he just pulled his head most of the way into his shell, rolls of neck fat protecting him from her best-aimed strikes, and kept blasting her with those green-edged flames.
Meanwhile Roark slipped up behind her and impaled her on his Slender Rapier. The last of MILFenwyn’s Health drained away and she dropped to the flagstones, dead, a look of shock tattooed onto her face.
Mac popped back out of his shell and trotted over to Roark, his spike-studded snapping turtle tail slapping against his shell with happiness.
“I’d say we’re getting quite good at that,” Roark said, giving the beast a quick scratch around the beard. MILFenwyn was the eighth hero who’d fallen for their trip-up attack. It was proving quite effective. Since most shield spells seemed to encompass quite a large area, but didn’t exclude foes, Mac could simply hide inside their guard, biding his time for an opportune moment to attack.
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