by James Hunter
Making sure they couldn’t run.
“Burst, burst, burst!” I called out at the top of my lungs as my left hand whipped through the air in a complex series of gestures: flick, twirl, snap, fingers splayed out, hand curling into a fist as raw power trickled into my palm. My warning call carried in the air, repeated over and over again by retreating Alliance members eager to clear the zone.
Plague Burst didn’t discriminate between friends and foes.
A rancid yellow fog—thick, billowing, and positively toxic—bled from the air, swirling around the invaders, clawing ferociously at any exposed flesh, and digging into open mouths and nostrils. The trapped warriors fought against the dark tendrils of Umbra power rooting them in place, desperate to get away, but their struggle was fruitless. Many dropped to their knees, hands wrapped around throats as they gasped like fish stranded on land. The cloud dissipated a few seconds later, the area now safe, though my Spirit meter continued to plummet as the lingering Plague debuff chewed through enemy hit points.
I smiled, a cold vicious thing. I’d seen some spectacularly cool class kits in VGO—some rarer and more powerful than my own, like Vlad’s Alchemic Weaponeer Kit—but I still thought the Shadowmancer was about as wicked as they came.
The Alliance members, retreating a moment before, reversed course, charging the dying Black Legion troops with weapons raised, screaming defiant war cries the whole time. I sprinted forward, happy to join them, unleashing Umbra Bolt after Umbra Bolt as I ran, raising my warhammer in preparation for battle—
A thunderclap split the air as a wave of terrible heat and gale-force wind blasted me from my feet, scorching my armor and knocking a fifth of my HP off in a single go. I flipped ass over teakettle and landed on my side with a thud, my body aching, my skin raw and tender like I’d been flash-fried. Holy crap, what the heck was that? I coughed and blinked sporadically against a purple afterimage temporarily burned into my vision, before slowly sliding up onto my elbows. I froze—half of the siege weapons were gone. All that remained was smoldering timbers, twisted, red hot metal, and piles of gray ash.
And the warriors manning the contraptions?
There was no sign of them at all. Even their corpses had been eradicated, wiped away like a smudge on the mirror.
For a long beat, the battlefield was as silent as a graveyard, interrupted only by the whistle of the steady breeze blowing across the grass and the crackle of burning timbers. Then a cheer went up from the wall, hoots and hollers oddly out of place against the backdrop of carnage. “Fire,” Xiu yelled, his clipped Chinese accent easy to identify. I watched, dumbstruck, as a pair of ballistae bolts streaked toward the remaining siege engines. These new bolts, which had to be Vlad’s javelins, didn’t look all that different from the old bolts: basically giant wooden arrows, though these sported blunt silver tips carved with intricate runes that burned with golden fire.
The few Imperials manning the remaining mangonel---s abandoned the wooden contraptions without a thought, sprinting for the hills as fast as their legs would carry them.
They didn’t make it far.
The javelins landed with the force of a bomb blast; a cloud of dirty golden fire mushroomed into the air accompanied by a plume of black smoke climbing lazily into the sky. A blast wave rippled out from the detonation site, hurling debris and tongues of flame in every direction. The fleeing Imperials were roasted alive, their screams barely audible over the clamor of the blast. This time, I conjured a protective dome of twisting purple light, saving myself from the assailing wind and relentless heat.
I stared at the devastation through squinted eyes. I guess the javelins worked.
With a groan, I gained my feet and took a quick survey of the battlefield. The siege engines were gone, destroyed beyond recovery, and most of the Imperials were either dead or severely wounded. Devil, thankfully, had retreated from the siege weapons and was busy snacking near the base of Rowanheath’s formidable wall. I sighed, blew my cheeks out, and rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes. I needed a bite to eat and a break. Needed it badly. I whistled to Devil, who glanced up at me with annoyance etched into the lines of his scaly, terrifying face.
He had part of a Risi’s arm dangling from his lips like a spaghetti noodle.
Time to get back to the Keep.
He grunted noncommittally at me, smoke trailing up from his nostrils in displeasure, then finished off the dangling arm with a disgusting chomp. He swept his massive head around the field as he ambled toward me, pausing now and then to take another bite here or there, before finally allowing me to clamber up into my saddle. He gave one last reproachful look at the body-strewn wasteland, a forlorn growl building in his chest, then broke into a quick trot, building up speed as his wings pumped, generating huge gusts of air which flattened blood-coated grass. After a few thrusts, we were airborne, rocketing into the sky.
“Good work, Xiu,” I shouted down at the commander, shooting him a thumbs-up as Devil and I streaked by, bound for the Mystica Ordo and a one-way port skip back to Yunnam.
TWO:
Set Course
The sun was dipping below the tree line, painting the sky with fat fingers of pink and gold, when I finally ported into Darkshard Keep. I pressed a hand to my gut as a grumble of hunger burbled up and out, reminding me that my last meal had been a spit of roasted rat well before noon. All I wanted was a mug of ale, a heaping plate full of something hot—it didn’t even matter what—and an opportunity to relax for a few hours. Fat chance of that happening, though. Despite a long, tiring day on the wall and winning yet another skirmish against the Imperials, my work was far from done.
Heck, these days, my work was never really done. I had a faction to run, which meant reports to file, briefs to hear, decisions to make, fires—both metaphorical and often literal—to extinguish.
I sighed as I threaded my way through the crowds near the stone port pad, all waiting to head from the Darkshard Keep into Yunnam proper. I kept my head down and my hood up since there’d be less of a chance of someone spotting me; at this point, any moment to myself was something to cherish. The Keep grounds had changed a lot over the past week. The rubble formerly littering the area was completely gone, the foliage—assorted trees, vines, and hedges—had been painstakingly trimmed back, and a host of exotic swamp flowers and shrubs had been sculpted into pristine gardens by a handful of hardworking groundskeepers.
I ambled past the barracks—a boxy, three-story stone monstrosity with terraces running along each floor. My gaze momentarily lingered on a group of squealing children racing over green grass in a frantic game of tag. One boy, little more than a toddler, clapped frantically as he ran in circles while an overgrown Dread Hound—two hundred pounds of black fur, yellowed fangs, and hellfire eyes—chased along, its great tongue lolling out in what amounted to a doggy smile. Another kid, a little Dawn Elf girl with pigtails, leaped over one of her friends, a Risi boy of maybe twelve, before turning a cartwheel and streaking off to one of the manicured gardens.
I glanced up.
A knot of adults watched on from the terraces above, leaning against the stone railing, smiling. I grinned too, my sour attitude improving just a hair. There was a surprisingly high number of children who’d made the transition, and even more surprisingly, the game had spawned custom children NPC companions for each of them. I wasn’t sure what would happen to them—would they grow or would they be kids for all eternity?—but for now, it made me happy to see them. Kids, running around in the green grass, carefree despite the fact that the world had ended a week and a half ago.
Maybe there was some hope.
I dropped my head and trudged into one of the shanty towns, weaving past the sprawl of bulky leather tents and through the graceful archway connecting to the Keep’s inner courtyard. The Keep’s courtyard—a giant slab of ancient, weathered stone—sat empty, but several of our new training areas were bustling with activity: Men and women scuttled along narrow beams or climbed swaying cargo
nets on the new Agility Course. Meanwhile, the clash of steel, followed by cheers and jeers from onlookers, rose up from the Melee Combat Arena off to the right.
I ignored them all and beelined toward the weather-beaten steps leading from the courtyard into the Keep. The Darkshard Keep stood in stark contrast to the castle looming high above Rowanheath, carved into the cliffs above the city. Instead of hard lines, gray stone, and high walls built for war, Darkshard looked like a Buddhist Temple plucked out of a bygone era. The place was all rounded edges, flowing curves, elegant spires, and artfully carved stonework depicting fantastical beasts and epic battles from long, long ago.
Once I’d made it up the stairs and through a pair of double doors big enough to admit a herd of wild elephants, I pulled up my user screen and scrolled over to the Keep’s interface. I could do all kinds of things from there—summon guards, oversee the Keep’s defenses, upgrade structures—but what I really wanted was the internal port feature, which we’d added as soon as we had the points. The Keep itself was a sprawling place with rooms upon rooms to explore or get lost in, and the Command Center sat at the tip-top of the highest turret on the premises.
The view was to die for, but the climb up the stairs might actually kill.
“Command Center,” I muttered, pressing my eyes shut as I activated the Keep’s teleporter. The world shivered, shuddered, shifted, and suddenly the clamor of voices washed over me as the floor reeled below my unsteady feet. I wobbled for a moment, pressing a hand against my queasy stomach as I waited for the surge of vertigo to pass, then cracked my eyes open. The sprawling entryway was gone, and the octagonal Command Center sat before me. Flickering firelight, from both the stone fireplace at the far end of the room and an elaborate chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling, filled the room with a warm glow.
The place, as always, was busy and buzzing with life and restless activity. Players from a host of different IRL nations dawdled around the room in small pockets, speaking in muted conversational tones as they pored over reports or discussed camp operations. As usual, I felt a flicker of guilt looking at them—they were all better at this than me. We had attorneys, doctors, professors, former military officers, even a smattering of politicians. Any of them should’ve been in charge of the Crimson Alliance, yet for some reason, they were following me. Well, me and Abby.
Mostly Abby.
Sure, I came up with plans and saw they got carried out, but Abby was the brains behind the operation. She was the elbow grease that kept everything running along, nice and smooth. Or as smooth as an upstart rebellion could be, anyway.
I untied the velvet rope cordoning off the telepad and quickly scanned the room: Abby sat hunched over a sprawling table, her hands planted on the dark wood, her brow furrowed in thought as she studied a leather-bound ledger filled with reams of hastily scrawled parchment. She was a beautiful woman, Abby. Short and perfectly curvy with dark skin and a pile of intricate brown curls. Chief Kolle, the leader of the Ak-Hani clan and our Murk Elf advisor, flanked her on the right, while Anton Black—a former tax accountant from the UK and now our Chief Logistics Officer—stood to her left.
“I just don’t understand what they gain,” Abby muttered, poring over the ledger. “It just doesn’t add up. They’ve got to be losing money with all of these pointless incursions. It’s not like they even come close to breaching Rowanheath.”
“Oh, they’re hemorrhaging money,” Anton replied, nodding vigorously, his blond hair bobbing. “Moving that number of troops and supplies on a consistent schedule can’t be cheap, plus it must be costing them a fortune in missed quests and dungeon raids. And they accomplish nothing. Nothing.” He shook his head, dumbfounded.
I slipped past a pair of bulky Dwarves—heatedly discussing the finer points of Mine-Craft and ore deposits—and plopped down in one of the padded leather chairs edging the bulky table.
“Jack!” Abby said, her face lighting up with a smile. The smile slipped after a second, her nose scrunching up in distaste. “God, you look terrible.” Her gaze swept over me, pausing on the bloodstains decorating my armor and splattered across my hands and face. “Tough day?”
“They brought siege weapons this time. Big ones. Still not enough to break our defenses, but it’s getting worse. I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up. I mean the faction is growing, sure, but not fast enough to sustain this kind of pace. Even with the rotations, our guys on the wall are getting tired—I can see it in them. They’re pulling twelve-hour watch shifts five days a week, and on top of that, most have died multiple times already.” I reached up and tapped a finger against my temple. “It’s messing with their minds.”
“And that,” the chief interjected, leaning forward, his hands resting on the table, “is what the Imperials are accomplishing. We’ve been looking at this from the wrong angle. They are not seeking to take Rowanheath—their numbers tell us as much. Rather, their goal is to crush our will to fight. And though it may be costly to wage such a war, it will prove to be far costlier to us in the long run. Now, aside from what Grim Jack has already mentioned, I want you two”—he paused, staring at Abby and Anton in turn—“to think, really think, about what else they’ve achieved.”
Abby and Anton were both silent for a beat, sharing sidelong glances at each other like schoolkids who’d been called out by a particularly demanding teacher. “Well, it’s costing us significantly in trade,” Anton eventually answered, his words slow and thoughtful. “With the constant siege, caravans from other cities haven’t been able to get through, which is a serious blow to Rowanheath’s economy. Food and basic goods will get more expensive, which can’t be good for morale …” He trailed off, anxiously running his hands over his silky robes.
“And, I suppose, it’s costing us a ton in terms of quests, too,” Abby offered. “Our defenders are leveling up from the battles, but with the demanding watch shifts, they don’t have the kind of time they need to complete quests. Not to mention, killing Imperials earns a bit of coin but no loot. I mean, a lot of those guards don’t even have their Specialty classes yet, which means they’ll eventually be at a disadvantage against the troops the Empire is sending our way.”
“Now you begin to see,” the chief replied sagely. “They’re not trying to eradicate us—which is consistent with what Grim Jack told us of this Osmark’s offer. They’re trying to bring us to heel, like a hunter breaking a war hound. Moreover, this Osmark is appeasing the various Imperial-aligned factions in the process. This is not a war of physical domination, it is a war for the mind, for the heart.” He thumped a fist against his chest.
We were quiet in the wake of his words; in fact, I noticed the whole room had fallen silent, all the various pockets of conversation cut short as everyone eavesdropped.
Abby stood, arms folded, a frown glued in place. “If you’re not a faction officer”—she stared daggers around the room—“or the chief, please leave.” Her tone stated plainly that prompt compliance was expected. It took only seconds for the chamber to empty, people breaking for the exit in a barely controlled panic, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Abby rounded on me, her frown turning into a heavy scowl. “Okay, Jack, we need to do something different. I know you don’t want a war, I know you want to trust Osmark, but this isn’t—”
I cut her off. “You weren’t there, Abby. You don’t know,” I said, recalling my strange encounter with Osmark after the battle for Rowanheath. “I don’t want to be ruled over by a tin-pot dictator any more than you do, but Osmark made some good points. I mean, he did save us all. Obviously, he made a few of the deals that were unethical, but if he hadn’t done that, we’d all be dead, Abby. Dead.” I slammed a hand down against the table, envisioning a tsunami of fire washing over the world. “Besides, what about all of the travelers from places like China or Saudi Arabia? Osmark’s right, a lot of those people wouldn’t want what we have to offer. Maybe there is some way we can make peace with the Empire.”
“Attacks every sing
le day? That isn’t peace, Jack,” Abby said. “Osmark’s playing you. He’s just trying to get inside your head, in the same way he’s using this siege to get inside the heads of every faction member we have.”
I waved her objection away. “Eldgard revolves around conflict—the Overminds demand it. Osmark already told me he’d send some token forces against us. None of this is a surprise to me. Besides, they’ve focused solely on Rowanheath. Just look around, Abby. Things have never been better in Yunnam. The economy is growing. We’re recruiting more people every day. We haven’t seen an Imperial in the swamp in a week.”
“This is true, but for how long?” the chief asked, his rough voice brimming with concern.
“How long what?” I snapped back, too annoyed, tired, sore, and hungry to be diplomatic or tactful.
“How long before his benevolence lapses, Grim Jack? Right now, we exist at his mercy. But what if that mercy should fail? We have a saying among the Dokkalfar: ‘never trust a fat crocodile.’ This Osmark, he may have a full belly now, but eventually he will be hungry again, and then he will turn his jaws on us.”
I stood up, feeling the weight of uncertainty press down on me, and began to pace, the sound of my boots absorbed by the thick carpets underfoot. I was reluctant to admit it, but Osmark had shaken me during our brief encounter. Carrera was scary, sure, but he’d been scary in the way a rabid pit bull is scary: all muscle and rage, but nothing else. Osmark was different, though. He was smart—-smart enough to envision Viridian Gate and see it through to completion despite all of the obstacles stacked against him. He’d offered me the semblance of a truce, but he’d made it clear what would happen if we pushed back too hard …
