by James Hunter
TWENTY-THREE:
Changes
After a brief round of goodbyes, I ambled through the Keep and into the courtyard, staring around all wide-eyed and mystified. Wow, what a difference ten hours could make. The grounds were still run down, sure, but the place already looked completely different. Transformed. The inner wall surrounding the Keep now stood strong and proud, the stones gleaming and clean, free from decay or black water stains. The inner guard towers were operational as well, each manned by hulking stone Keepers to boot; they even sported strange, stationary blasters.
Arcane Shadow Cannons if I didn’t miss my guess completely.
Aside from schematics, this was my first time seeing the cannons, and they were awfully impressing. Bulky things, which burned with a shadowy fire. They looked like the illegitimate child of a Civil War–era cannon and a Tesla Death Ray. I approved wholeheartedly.
A lot of the debris and rubble had been cleared away, while the vines and trees had been trimmed back into something that almost looked orderly. Most surprising of all, though, was the sheer number of people. Not twenty-four hours ago, this place had been a ghost town, home only to a deadly demon that would rip the arms and legs off any unwelcome intruder. And now? Now people of every assortment fluttered around the grounds, talking, training, building, working—even at this ungodly hour. They were everywhere.
Impromptu tents had cropped up, and a few rough wooden structures littered the grounds.
I needed to get down into Yunnam, so I cut through a row of shanty tents—big canvas things built of tan leather and crude stitching—and headed for the port pad, located in the outer courtyard. I weaved my way through a few more lean-tos, keeping my head down, but nodding politely at the people I passed. It took me a few minutes, but eventually, I emerged from the tent city and skirted around the outside of the barracks: a boxy, three-story stone structure with folks loitering along terraces jutting from each floor. The port pad, an elaborate metal circle, carved with intricate runes and inlaid directly into the earth, was just next to the building.
Unfortunately, there was a line of people, fifteen deep, waiting patiently to hitch a ride into town.
Some Wode mage, clad in brown beginner robes, stood near the pad, lazily waving people through, his eyes glazed over in boredom. Probably just some lowbie recruit, stuck pulling a combination of guard duty and crowd control. I sighed, went to the back of the line, crossed my arms, and tapped a foot impatiently. I endured in silence for a few minutes, but the line was moving at a snail’s pace, and finally I got fed up and slipped to the front. I really didn’t want to be some kind of entitled jerk, but I needed to find Cutter ASAP—everything was riding on the Smugglers Union, and we didn’t have a ton of time.
Besides, technically I owned this property. I didn’t want to lord that over anyone, but at the same time, I figured it probably afforded me a fast-pass at the very least.
Some hulking, armor-clad Risi near the front eyed me making my move and pivoted out of line, maneuvering until he was firmly in my way. He was a big, beefy guy with tree-trunk arms and a thin Mohawk racing down the center of his head. He was built like a post-apocalyptic brick shithouse and looked like he belonged in one of those classic Mad Max flicks from back in the day. In V.G.O., you couldn’t tell someone’s level at a glance—that info was private, which made PvP a particular challenge—but his shoddy, rust-speckled armor and dull, low-quality axe told me he was still a lowbie.
The Risi grunted at me and dropped one hand to the head of his axe blade, clearly trying to intimidate me. “Hey, pal,” he said, voice guttural and unfriendly, “everyone’s in a rush, but we all wait our turn. Fair and square. That’s how this whole thing works.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you—” I started. Before I could finish, however, the Risi interrupted me.
“Nope,” he grunted with a shake of his head. “Everyone’s got excuses, and I don’t have a mind to hear ’em. Now, I don’t want to get in a knock-down-drag-out with you, bub, but you ain’t cutting me.” He paused, glancing around. “You ain’t cutting none of us. So get back in line, unless you have a mind to lose a few teeth.” He reached out a ham-hock hand and gave me a gentle shove in the chest. Not enough to hurt me, but enough to warn that there’d be consequences if I didn’t listen.
Unfortunately, touching me like that on the Keep grounds seemed to be the absolute worst possible thing to do.
Two pillars of molten fire erupted on either side of me as a pair of stony Keepers materialized from the ground. In an eyeblink, one of them had the meathead pinned in a tight bear hug and was hefting him into the air like a naughty toddler. Poor guy looked like he was about to swallow his tongue from the shock. I felt genuinely bad for him. He was a little pushy, true, but he was just trying to keep things fair. In a way, that’s what this whole faction was all about: fighting back against a bunch of unfair, elitist bullshit.
“It’s cool,” I said, eyeing each of the disgruntled Keepers in turn. “Please put him down, we were joking around. A little roughhousing between friends. Just drop him and go back to doing whatever you were doing before. I’ve got this.”
The Keeper holding the man aloft growled, a deep rumble in his chest, but he did drop the Risi as instructed. Then, showing a remarkable degree of intelligence, the Keeper snarled at the warrior—the warning clear—before turning and shambling back toward the Keep with his buddy, leaving the line of onlookers at the pad in shocked silence.
The Risi stared at me for a long moment, then glanced away, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot. “You must be some kinda bigshot, then?” he asked.
“Faction Leader,” I replied softly. Everyone in the line seemed to wince and groan in unison.
“Figures,” the big man said, resigned, his giant frame wilting. “I always do this,” he muttered before reaching up and thumping his skull with a fist the size of a dinner plate. “It’s my temper. Couldn’t keep a job back in the real world. I get a new chance here, and what do I do? Pick a fight with the boss on day one. Idiot. Idiot.” He shook his head, shoulders slumped in defeat. “I’ll just get my stuff and go.”
“What?” I asked, dropping a reassuring hand onto his shoulder. “No, don’t do that. You were trying to do the right thing—I can respect that. You don’t have to go.”
“Really?” he asked hesitantly, glancing at me through heavily lidded eyes. “You mean it?”
“Yeah,” I said with a forced chuckle. “Don’t sweat it. We’re all in this thing together, man. What’s your name, anyway? Where you from?”
“Jack Forge,” he replied, his voice suddenly firmer, more sure, “but people, well they just call me Forge. Used to be with the Second Battalion Second Marine, outta Lejeune. That was ’bout ten years back. I’m in construction now. Down in Texas. Well”—he paused and pressed his eyes shut—“well, I used to be in construction. Before the end, I mean,” he finished weakly.
“Forge,” I said, “mind if I ask you a question?”
He shifted uncomfortably again, as though he were afraid my lenience was all some ruse, and I was now about to bring the hammer down on him. Still, he reluctantly nodded.
“Why’d you join this faction?” I asked. “You’re a Risi, and clearly a warrior, so it seems like the empire would’ve been a better fit.”
The man squinted at me, his lips pulling back into a frightful sneer, revealing a pair of sharp fangs jutting from his lower lip. “Not on my life,” he replied, then leaned over and hawked a loogie onto the grass. “Bunch of cocksuckers if you ask me. Absolute turdbaggery, what that Osmark fella did. I’m an American, and I don’t truck with no empire.” He imbued the word with absolute scorn. “Why, we broke away from kings and empires back in 1776, and I’ll be damned if I give all that up to follow some tech billionaire who thinks he’s got a divine mandate to rule. I’m no slave. You folks seem to be against what he’s about, so here I am.”
He ended his little spiel with a shrug, as though t
o say what else could I have done.
I offered him a lopsided smile.
Back IRL, I’d known more than a few people like Forge—down-to-earth, levelheaded folks who weren’t afraid to work hard or stand up for what they believed in. It was good to see some of that spirit still alive and kicking despite everything that’d happened. “Well, I’m Grim Jack,” I said, offering him my hand. He accepted my proffered limb and pumped hard enough to leave my shoulder aching. “And you’ve got a place here, Forge. We need people like you. People who are willing to buck the system. That’s all of us, am I right? Now I’m really sorry, but I have to get to Yunnam—our future depends on it, but I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
“Thank you,” he said awkwardly as I pried my hand away and stepped onto the port pad. “If you ever need someone, I’m your man. I’m the toughest sumabitch in Bell County, and I’ve got your back, Jack.” He offered me a terrifying grin that made me think he probably was the toughest SOB in all of Texas. Period.
I nodded politely as the pad engaged with a blinding flash.
In a wink, I found myself on an identical metal ring down in the center of Yunnam, not far from the chief’s towering, moss-covered tree. Forge. I’d have to tell Abby to keep an eye out for him, see if there wasn’t something we could do for him. I put the man from mind as I made my way through town, asking sleepy-looking residents about Cutter, until I found him in a new area that the clansfolk were calling “the training ground.” Really it was just a shallow pit the size of a basketball court filled with gritty, gray swamp sand. Almost unbelievably, Cutter was marching around the pit’s edge, shouting at sixteen or so lowbie Rogues training in the dirt.
He watched them fight through squinted eyes, his hands laced behind his back. The pose reminded me of my dad, a former Marine and Drill Instructor. My dad made us clean house once a week—an event he endearingly called field day—and when I was done, he’d inspect my room with that same scrutinizing look plastered on his face.
“Adjust your blade, boy,” Cutter barked at one of his new recruits, his voice sharp and unwavering. Very out of character. “You want it parallel to your forearm for that maneuver.” He moved on to the next trainee in line, shouting about sloppy footwork, before laying into the next recruit about shoddy dagger technique. I knew from experience that Cutter was a good teacher—he’d trained me in the art of Stealth and had shown me the ropes of basic fighting—but this just didn’t seem like him.
I noticed Amara standing in the deep shadow of a nearby building, arms crossed, watching our resident Rogue work. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, her head canted slightly to one side, a look of not-quite-admiration lingering on her face. She had issues with Cutter, but watching her watch him … I couldn’t help but think maybe she also sort of liked him. Or at least respected him. I edged up next to her; she was so absorbed in scrutinizing the training session that she didn’t even notice my presence until I was leaning against the wall right next to her.
“Amara,” I whispered, trying not to startle her.
She jumped a little anyway, shaking her head, then turning a frosty glare on me. Her features softened a bit when she saw it was only me, and the sneer on her lips slipped away. “Oh,” she said, “it’s you. I thought for a moment it was another fool Rogue, come to try their luck at pickpocketing me. Cutter”—she nodded at the man—“has tasked all the new recruits with trying to steal a token from my pouch. A great feat of skill, he calls it.” She almost sounded pleased. “It has not ended well for any of them, but Cutter seems to find it vastly amusing nonetheless.”
“I can’t believe he’s training people,” I murmured, leaning up against the wall, watching him pace back and forth, correcting technique with every pass.
“It is strange,” Amara agreed after a lapse of silence. “Most times, he is so lazy. So arrogant. So brazen and disrespectful. Yet at other times, there are glimpses of something else. Of someone else. Of a man with honor and resolve and great skill. He confuses me. He is driven by a nature which I cannot wrap my mind around—very different from Baymor or any other Dokkalfar I have ever met.” She pressed her lips into a humorless smile, eyes squinted as though, if she just looked hard enough, she might be able to make sense of him.
Cutter was making another round when he glanced up and noticed me and Amara hiding out in the deep shadow. “Alright,” he shouted, “that’s enough for tonight, class. It’s been a long bloody day for all of us. You lot are far from trained, but hopefully you should be able to keep from stabbing yourselves. Good work, now go get some rest. But shower first—you all smell like the inside of an old boot.” With that, he turned and beelined toward us.
“Amara,” he said with a crooked grin. “Hope the trainees haven’t been too much trouble.”
She stared at him, face flat and unamused. “No trouble for me,” she replied, completely deadpan, “though the next one to try to pickpocket me is going to lose a finger instead of merely having it broken. Now, if you’ll excuse me—there are fortifications to see to yet.” She gave me a polite nod and Cutter a scathing glower before strutting off and disappearing around one of the stilt houses.
“Helluva woman, she is,” Cutter said, staring after her.
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Be careful with her,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone more terrifying. She’ll break you in two.”
“Not terrifying,” he muttered absently, “fiery. I admire fiery.”
I snorted. “You’re something else, you know that? And what was all that with the recruits? Since when did you start caring about people? Or helping them?”
“Helped you, didn’t I?” he shot back with a shrug. “Besides, I’m just tryin’ to do my part. And, they’re good blokes, most of ’em. Couple of sods, but mostly good. Awful Rogues, though. Tripping all over themselves. Couldn’t pick a lock to save their lives. Embarrassing, really.” He frowned and shook his head.
“Yeah, but babysitter just doesn’t seem to fit you,” I said, shooting for lighthearted.
“Look, let’s not make this weird, alright?” Cutter replied, sour as a lemon. “My old man passed away when I was a wee lad, and Gentleman Georgie, well he took me under his wing and showed me the ropes when no one else would. So now, I have a certain soft spot for wayward misfits like that bunch there. It’s the same reason I helped you out in the first place—because you were a hapless loser. So there it is. I’m a bit of a bleeding heart. Now, lay off or I won’t tell you about the Thieves’ Guild.” He paused and cocked an eyebrow at me. “You do want to know what they said, right?”
“Tell me,” I replied, suppressing a laugh. To think, Cutter wasn’t all about money, women, and booze after all. There was something legitimately decent hiding beneath his rough edges. Eldgard seemed to become a stranger place every day.
My good mood quickly vanished as Cutter started to spill the beans on Rowanheath’s most illustrious and clandestine organization.
Apparently, there were serious complications revolving around an outstanding quest I had regarding the guild’s unofficial leader, Gentleman Georgie. It looked like, if we wanted any help from the guild or the Smugglers Union, we were going to have to solve the mystery and put things right. Worse, due to quest restrictions, Cutter and I were going to have to do it alone. With a sigh, I pinged Abby, letting her know what I’d found out, then we set off in search of one of those new transport specialists.
TWENTY-FOUR:
Thief in the Night
We ported to a little one-horse, Wode town called Kaldalen, about two hours south of Rowanheath. A tiny place of maybe three hundred residents with dirt streets, wooden houses, and thatched roofs, all surrounded by grassy plains, a spattering of pine trees, and domineering mountains cutting across the darkened skyline to the north. An idyllic place, taken straight off a Swedish travel brochure.
We’d wanted to port directly into Rowanheath, but unfortunately that option was no longer on the table. Since al
l members of the Crimson Alliance were now classified as Imperial enemies, we couldn’t directly teleport into any city owned by an Imperial faction. A nasty fact we’d learned from one of the magical transport specialists Abby had managed to poach for our cause. It was severely inconvenient, but it was also something of a relief, since that meant none of Osmark’s goons could just appear inside Yunnam and unleash havoc wholesale.
We weren’t completely out of luck though.
Any non-faction-controlled city, regardless of “allegiance,” was fair game for porting and trading, and there were loads and loads of those littering Eldgard’s countryside. In terms of defense, I’d even say we had an advantage over the empire, since there were a comparatively small number of cities in the Storme Marshes, and none of them were close to Yunnam. If the Imperials wanted to sack our town, they’d have to trek all the way through the Marshes with their force; I almost laughed at the thought of someone trying to push a siege tower through the dense forests and murky bogs.
The trek up the North Road took us twice as long as it should have since I still had the crippling pain from Death’s Sting to deal with. I had to stop, rest, and eat every mile or so, otherwise my legs would simply give out and refuse to work. I’d be limping along okay one minute, only to find myself facedown on the gritty road the next. On the plus side, by the time we did finally trudge up to the gates of the Rowanheath, Death’s Sting had worn off, taking the godawful pain with it. I still sported the debuffs from Death’s Curse for another four hours, but so long as I could walk and fight, I considered it a win.
Rowanheath’s fortified defensive wall—an enormous thing, which formed a giant horseshoe across the front of the city proper—gave me a small pause though. For a long beat, I just stood there staring up at the giant Keep looming high above the city, framed in by a series of treacherous mountain peaks. The place was a hulking monstrosity: all hard lines, gray stone, high walls, and domineering circular turrets carved directly into the mountain face itself. It wasn’t a place designed for beauty, it was a place designed for war. Designed to repel enemies and withstand a prolonged siege.
