by James Hunter
That was my new Umbra Bolt effect in action, right there. I felt absurdly happy at the small victory.
I didn’t have time to gloat, though, because the pair of fire-wielding mages had retreated to the rear of the hasty formation, while a pair of horrifying Rat Kings blundered toward me, beef-slab arms outthrust, lips pulled back in ferocious snarls. Pound for pound, the Rat Kings were the toughest mobs I’d fought in V.G.O. so far, and I wasn’t even remotely interested in trying to go toe-to-toe with them. They were simply too fast, hit too hard, and could take far too much damage. So instead, I launched into Shadow Stride. The Shadowverse exploded around me in all its monochromatic glory, and the monstrous Rat Kings ground to a halt, only inches away from mauling me.
I slipped behind one, dropped into Stealth, took a few practice swings with my hammer, then emerged back into the real world. The Rat King before me spun wildly, confusion etched into the lines of its fur-covered body, but it was already too late. I smashed in the side of its neck, stacking both Savage Blow and Black Caress into a single, focused blow. Combined with Backstab, those attacks landed for nearly 700 points of damage: the monster Rat didn’t stand a chance. My warhammer ripped through its throat and sent its stumpy, hideous head sailing into the air like a ghoulish pop fly.
The sight was ugly, brutal, and disgusting, but also strangely satisfying.
A flash of light on the right caught my eye—a nasty fireball was streaking my way. I spun and threw out a hand to conjure my Dark Shield, expecting to feel the cold tingle of shadow power rush out of me like hurricane winds … Except nothing happened. I hadn’t been paying attention; my Spirit bar was flashing on empty after all my spell-slinging, and I didn’t have the juice for anything else. I sighed as the undead mage’s fireball smacked into my chest like a jackhammer, hurling me across the hall. My back smashed against the wall and I crumpled to the floor, wheezing for air as tendrils of sooty smoke wafted up from my armor.
I hastily fumbled a Spirit Regen potion from my belt and downed the vial, feeling power immediately wash back through me. But in the time it’d taken to drink the concoction, the remaining Rat King had slipped up in front of me: its huge claws flashed out. I got one gauntlet up in time to prevent the creature from removing my face, but the talons still sliced into my arm, leaving deep, painful furrows behind. I swore and scrambled to swing my warhammer, but the Rat King was already clutching at its neck. A bright red line had appeared almost miraculously across the front of its throat.
Cutter’s grinning face popped up a second later; he held up a dagger dripping with blood.
The Rat King took one staggering step back, then dropped to the floor, taking a last hitching breath before dying. Cutter offered me a hand, which I gladly took, and pulled me upright. I quickly scanned the hallway, expecting to see more zombies rushing toward us, but they were dead. Everything was dead. Between me and Cutter, there wasn’t a monster left standing. Heck, there wasn’t a monster left twitching. Meanwhile, Vlad was hunched over a zombie, carefully rummaging its corpse.
“Everyone okay?” I asked as I idly wiped away a bit of gore that had splattered onto my cheek. Gross.
“Fine,” Vlad called, glancing up as he moved on to another corpse, this one riddled with Cutter’s new shadow blades. The Russian’s expression was frozen somewhere between bliss and greed. “These creatures”—he swept a hand toward the dead—“they carry silver—no measly copper coins. Real silver. And the loot.” He shook his head.
“Already I’ve discovered a Fine Dagger with a +2 to Intelligence, and some Good Quality Light Armor—all much better than anything I’ve seen so far.” Vlad grinned, then faltered, as though realizing he hadn’t waited to divide up the drops, which was a pretty big taboo in gamer circles. “Apologies,” he said, standing. “Please, you and your companion did all the heavy lifting. This”—he gestured toward the remaining corpses—“is yours.”
I hesitated for a second. Getting loot was the best part of playing games like this, but he needed this stuff way more than I did. I grimaced and shook my head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. I’ve already had more than my fair share of lucky breaks. Why don’t you take this stuff?”
Vlad stared at me long and hard—weighing my words, looking for some trap—then he simply shrugged and set back to work. Clearly, this was a guy who understood the expression don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.
It took another couple of minutes to finish going through the dropped items. I used the time to grab a quick bite to eat, earning myself the Well-Fed buff—an essential, considering all of the negative debuffs I still had working against me. Once Vlad was finally done, we moved on, heading ever deeper into these god-awful tunnels.
TWENTY-SEVEN:
Gentleman Georgie
Another hour and a double fistful of mobs later, saw us to an ancient stone doorway, set into the time-worn rock at the end of a broad tunnel. An intricately carved demonic visage protruded from the surface of the door like a cancerous growth, while pulsing runes ran along the edges of the doorframe. For a time, everyone just stood there staring at the unsettling bas-relief. The carving boasted deep-set eyes, meticulously crafted from emerald, cruel lips pulled back from wicked fangs, and curling ram’s horns sprouting from the sides of the demon’s misshapen head. It almost radiated a foul miasma of death and decay.
A bloody handprint marred the creature’s forehead, asking to be touched. To be opened.
I knew I was looking at Serth-Rog, the Daemon Prince of Morsheim, the prime evil hellbent on murdering the world—transforming the grassy plains into rolling deserts, draining the crystalline lakes until they were only barren craters in the ground, and nuking the forests until nothing but burnt husks remained. Those awful green eyes were a dead giveaway. I pulled up my interface map, and—surprise, surprise—a small dot marked the entrance as the Forgotten Temple of Serth-Rog. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind: this was the door to the boss room.
Gentleman Georgie and his crew of top lieutenants were on the other side of that door.
In order to win the help of the Smugglers Guild, all we needed to do was waltz in there, mop up the bad guys, collect whatever loot there was to earn, and hightail it back to Yunnam with our new Alchemic Weaponeer in hand. All simple, in theory. Except, I had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t be quite so easy. No, that awful face staring at me from the door seemed to promise this was going to go badly.
“Well, it’s not going to open itself,” Vlad said from behind me.
I shifted awkwardly, moving from foot to foot, then cleared my throat and nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. We just need to get in there and do this.” I faltered for a moment, then turned to face my teammates. “I’ve got a sinking feeling this might not pan out so well. If things look like they’re going to go sideways, I’ll stick behind and cover the retreat. You guys just focus on getting clear, and Vlad”—I jabbed a finger at the Russian—“leave the fighting to us. Your only job here is to get the ingredients you need to complete your quest. We’ll take care of everything else. Everyone got it?”
A round of muted nods followed.
I turned back around, took a few calming breaths, steeling myself for whatever we might find, then inched up next to the door and did what seemed natural: I placed my palm onto the bloody handprint marring the demon’s forehead.
Heat exploded beneath my sweat-slicked palm followed by a flare of iridescent light as the world spun, twirled, and vanished around us. My stomach shot up into my throat as the ground dropped out from under me, and then darkness was whipping past me and gale-force wind beat against me as I fell. The stupid demon door was a port-hub. I’d heard about them on the game wikis—they were unique transport artifacts which allowed a dungeon’s final room to be perfectly tailored to unique players and quests. Port-hubs basically made it possible for an infinite number of potential “Boss Rooms” to exist at the end of any particular location.
It made perfect sense that the Devs would drop one in
a popular location like the Plague Tunnels.
Off-key chanting and sooty orange firelight exploded around me as I crashed into rough stone. My knees buckled from the abrupt impact, and a wave of wooziness and vertigo washed through me, but I kept my feet through sheer force of will. I pressed my eyes shut to dispel a bout of nausea, and after a second the feeling fled. Finally, I cracked my eyes and stole a quick glance to my left and right: Cutter was reeling drunkenly from the fall, and Vlad sat on the ground like a crumpled soda can, but they’d both managed to make it.
I quickly turned my attention on the torture chamber before me—a room which reminded me of the dungeon I’d ended up in after first entering V.G.O. The same dungeon where I’d met Cutter and the dying Murk Elf Shaman who’d set me on this whole crazy path.
Hulking iron cages, covered with spots of rust, lined the left wall, housing a handful of prisoners, all of different races. Many bore fresh lacerations and fading scars; all of them looked emaciated and sleep deprived. A series of rudimentary wooden tables lined the far wall, and strapped to those tables were bodies. Corpses, actually, since none of them seemed to be alive. Thick stone columns, pitted and worn from age, held up a vaulted, cathedral-style ceiling, and the walls were absolutely studded with skulls. Cavernous eye sockets stared at us from a thousand—or even ten thousand—bone-white faces. Weighing us. Warning us. Pleading with us.
Turn back now, those dead, empty stares seemed to say. Run before it’s too late.
But it was already too late for us.
We were in too deep and we needed to face Georgie if we wanted to fulfill our mission and win over the smugglers. Besides, we’d already attracted the unwanted eyes of the cultists loitering around the room. There were four thieves sporting creased, black-leather armor and dark cloaks which hid their faces. My eyes flickered past them, noting the gleaming blades tucked into their belts, before moving on to a small group of robe-wearing priests chanting in an alcove at the far side of the room.
A huge circular symbol, all sharp lines and jagged edges, had been painted onto the floor with what looked like blood.
The priests slowly marched around it, eyes fixed on the floor while they waved their hands overhead in a series of elaborate and well-rehearsed gestures: wrists flicking, fingers dancing, hands swaying rhythmically to some unheard melody. Magic—obsidian and angry—swirled around the assembled priests in a cloud; tendrils of greasy power wafted out, caressing the circle like the fingers of a patient lover. This whole scene was new to me, but I’d played enough RPGs to know a summoning ritual when I spotted one.
These guys were no doubt calling up some Lovecraftian horror-show from the darkest regions of Serth-Rog’s realm, Morsheim.
“Cutter,” a voice boomed out, as warm and welcoming as a hot cup of coffee. “It’s so good to see you’ve found your way back into the fold.” One of the hooded thieves shuffled forward, pulling down his cowl to reveal a middle-aged man with wavy black hair, a thin mustache, and an utterly disarming smile. This guy was one part politician, one part suave riverboat gambler. Unlike the others present, he wore a fancy black-and-gold doublet and knee-high leather boots, and had a slim golden rapier at his side. He looked more like a European nobleman than a typical cutthroat.
“I was going to find you,” the man said, swishing forward a few steps, then laying one hand on the hilt of his weapon, “but then you slipped off before we had a chance to speak.”
“Cut the horseshite,” Cutter said, stepping past me as he pulled dual daggers free and gave them a nervous spin. “Everyone here knows you’re not Georgie. You might look like him, but you’re not. Georgie wasn’t what anyone would call a good man, but he’d never get mixed up in something like this—it’d hurt his bottom line too much. Now,” Cutter snarled, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I want to know where the real Georgie is. I want to know what you’ve done with him, and I want to know what this”—he gestured around the room with the gleaming tip of his dagger—“is. What kinda black magic are you about, eh?”
Not--Georgie smiled and placed one hand against his chest, as though offended by the accusation. “Cutter,” he said reproachfully, canting his head to one side, “I can quite assure you, I am the real Georgie. Everything that I was, everything that I am, is all still right up here.” He reached up and tapped at his temple. “We’re all the same,” he said, spinning slowly, waving at the other thieves. “All of your brothers and sisters are still here. We have the same names, the same faces, the same skills. Even the same memories. Why, I remember when you were still a young lad—this was right after your father passed—and I took you in and gave you your first blade. Do you remember what I told you then?”
“The world is a hard place, boy,” Cutter replied slowly, the words barely more than a whisper.
“And the only one you can trust is you,” not-Georgie finished, before winking. “That’s right, boy. I’m still me. Not even black magic can change that. And as to what all this is … Well, this is progress. This is the future. A new order is coming, and I’ll be there to see it ushered in, bright and bold.”
“Bollocks,” Cutter replied, taking another menacing step toward the Cutthroat King. “Don’t forget, Georgie, not so long ago, I was in a cell just like that”—he jerked his head toward one of the cages on the left—“waiting for one of those Black Priests to carve me up. To hollow me out. I’ve seen what goes on in places like this. The people that survived, they weren’t the same, not by a country mile.”
“It is true, not all survive the Remaking,” not-Georgie replied with an unconcerned shrug. “But those that do, are improved a thousand-fold. We’ve been granted strength and powerful new abilities—rewards for becoming thralls of the Dark Master.”
“Is that so?” Cutter said, voice oozing sarcasm. “There’s another saying you were fond of, Georgie. Nothing in this world is free—one way or another, there’s always a price to pay. So what’s the price, eh? Where’s the hook?”
The man grimaced, his face screwing up in annoyance. “The price? An inconsequential thing, lad. Your soul is all. The Remaking rips out that meaningless shard of spirit and replaces it with the essence from one of the long-dead Vogthar. The original inhabitants of these lands, which our Wode ancestors so callously murdered. Their souls are trapped in the eternally frozen tundra of Morsheim with our glorious Lord, Serth-Rog. But with this”—he pulled a black dagger, which radiated cold death, from a sheath at his side—“we can rip the soul from one body, send it on to Morsheim, and then invite a new host in. It sounds costly, but I can assure you, for men like us, it’s hardly a loss. Your soul is already such a withered and pitiful thing, you won’t even feel it pass.”
It was odd that he was spilling the beans like this—it had the ring of a villain monologue and I had to wonder if it was some sort of in-game, scripted event. I glanced back at the priests: their chanting had increased in pitch and intensity, building to a fervent crescendo. To an inevitable climax. Either this was a scripted event … or they were stalling for time.
“You’re a monster,” Cutter said, interrupting my thoughts, “and that means something coming from me. Georgie wouldn’t want to live like this, and I intend to see him put to rest good and proper, just the way he deserves.” Without hesitation, the scrappy thief darted forward, slashing wildly with his blades, a sudden tornado of steel and red-hot fury.
But Gentleman Georgie was awfully quick—before I could even blink, he had his rapier free and was fending off Cutter’s attacks, parrying and feinting, his movements precise and economical. I didn’t know much about sword fighting, but it sure looked like Georgie did.
“Leave this one to me, but get the others,” not-Georgie hollered at his lieutenants, before making a lightning-fast thrust, which Cutter narrowly avoided. “And whatever you do, protect the ritual, we need more time!”
The other thieves broke into action, charging Vlad and me en masse.
“Go get your quest ingredient,” I hissed, grabbing
the alchemist by the shoulder, then rudely shoving him toward a series of rickety wooden shelves on the right, loaded down with moldering old books, piles of raw ingredients, and glass test tubes just waiting to be taken. Whatever he was looking for had to be over there. I turned and bolted toward the oncoming wave of leather-clad bodies, warhammer raised in one hand, an Umbra Bolt forming in the other.
TWENTY-EIGHT:
Bloodletting
I lashed out with Umbra Bolt, staggering a beanpole with a pockmarked face and a slim blade. Purple shadow slammed into his chest and clawed its way up his skin and into his eyes. He shrieked, then, in a fit of confusion and rage, he spun and threw himself at a stocky man circling to my right. The two went to the ground in a tangle of limbs, blood flying as blackened steel flashed out. Boy, was I loving that new Umbra Bolt feature. True, the confusion didn’t last for all that long, but it was grade-A for causing distractions.
With the two thieves frantically wrestling on the ground, each fighting for dear life, I spun left just in time to catch an incoming blade on the shaft of my hammer. I parried the strike with a flick of my wrist and shot forward in a blur, dropping my weapon low, then swinging up with a brutal uppercut which smashed into the thief’s chin and sent him sailing, his arms and legs pinwheeling madly. In a single fluid motion, I spun right, smacking away another incoming dagger thrust—courtesy of Pock Mark, who’d finally recovered from my Umbra Bolt—with my bracer.
I offered him a nasty grin as I stepped through and planted an elbow in his neck while simultaneously triggering Black Caress.
Savage Blow was tied to my Blunt Weapon skill, which meant it could only be used in connection with my warhammer, but Black Caress had no such limitations. Any weapon—even a fist or an elbow—could be super-charged with that ability. Violet fire erupted from my forearm, searing the thief’s skin like a hot fire poker, earning me a nice critical hit in the process, while sweet life flowed into me. The man dropped his blade and staggered back a step then two, clutching at his ruined throat, fighting for air while his eyes bulged. I swung my hammer in a wide arc and planted the spiked end directly into his temple, killing him on the spot.
