Viridian Gate Online: The Jade Lord: A litRPG Adventure (The Viridian Gate Archives Book 3)

by James Hunter

  “Honestly, I cannot fathom why anyone would build a city out here,” Cutter continued. “I mean there aren’t even any roads. How do they trade, eh? The city planner should be summarily executed for being so awful at life. I mean really, the guy had one job. One.”

  “There is no city,” Amara said, offering the thief a steely-eyed glower. No one could do a steely-eyed glower better than Amara. “Perhaps it was once a part of a city, but no more. You know little of our people, but the six clans are deeply divided. Hostile, even. The Dark Conclave convenes on neutral ground—a sacred place, revered by our people—the final resting place of Nangkri, the Jade Lord, and many more of our sacred ancestors. Come, this way. It is not far now.” She guided us around a thick copse of palm trees, ducked beneath a tangle of low-hanging vines, then stepped aside, giving us a view of a swampy pit filled with brackish bog water covered with floating sheets of emerald moss.

  Out of the waters rose a curved mound like a small island, which looked almost like a natural feature. Swamp grass, lush and green, and a handful of stunted trees, intermixed with a spattering of brightly colored jungle flowers in vivid blues and reds, dotted the mound. Obviously, though, this was far more than just some natural hillock rising up in the otherwise flat marshes. This was a temple, though an old one, long abandoned. Stone statues of somber-faced Murk Elves, beaten down from long years of wind and rain, jutted up from the stagnant pool, while a stone doorway sat nestled into the side of the hill.

  There was a set of cracked and lopsided steps leading from the doorway into the bog water, which suggested that whatever this place was, it hadn’t always been submerged.

  “Gods, this is where the Dark Conclave meets?” Cutter asked with a disapproving sniff. “What in the hells do you have against comfort? Sure, you’re backward mud-people, but how about a tavern next time, eh? Someplace with a hot fire and something good to eat. Did you ever think the reason you’re so hostile to one another is because everyone’s wet, sweaty, and hungry? I’d be in a bad mood too if I had to battle past a horde of mushroom-covered jungle apes every time someone wanted to throw a get-together.”

  Amara moved in a blink, shoulder-checking the mouthy thief hard enough to send him flying forward, straight into the fetid water. “Oops,” she offered, face flat and deadpanned as she slung her slender arms across her chest. I sniggered while the chief simply watched on, smug and satisfied, his hands laced behind his back. Cutter emerged from the water a second later with a gasp, lifting his arms in disbelief as water ran off him in sheets.

  “What in the bloody hells is wrong with you?” he hollered before sweeping the wet hair from his eyes.

  “I slipped,” Amara replied with an unapologetic shrug, “much like your tongue.”

  “I’d leave those waters quickly if I were you,” the chief said with a quirked eyebrow. “There are giant moat leeches in there.”

  Cutter scrambled out of the rank water, cursing under his breath, as the rest of our small party scrambled across a set of stone lily pads, up the tilted steps, and through the stone entryway inset into the hill. Chief Kolle took the lead from there, ghosting into the darkness, leading us down a musty stone passageway, the floors damp, the air musty, the ancient walls covered in mossy growth and budding mushrooms. The passageway was unnaturally dark, lit only by a handful of flickering torches.

  The ground sloped steeply down, curving off to the right before snaking sharply left and ending at a spiral staircase, which drilled through the stone and deep into the earth like a corkscrew. It took us a few minutes to descend, everyone silent and watchful, only the sound of clomping feet, dripping water, and labored breathing to be heard. Eventually, the staircase let out into a cavern, which couldn’t possibly fit inside the sloped mound I’d seen protruding from the boggy swamp outside. Everything about the place was impossible.

  A wide clearing, covered in lush grass and blooming flowers, sat directly ahead; in the middle was a cozy campfire, burning brightly against the dark. Trees and craggy rock formations stretched off in the distance, while a gently burbling waterfall carved through the rock face on the right, trickling into a clear pond filled with brightly colored fish. The cavern walls reached up, up, up, and the ceiling—if there was one—was too high above to see. Just blackness, punctuated by shimmering specks of light like stars on a cloudless night.

  Cutter whistled softly as he spun in a slow circle taking it all in. “Holy bollocks,” he said, an atypical awe touching his words. “What is this place? How is this even possible? Are those …” He faltered, squinted, and craned his neck forward. “Are those stars?”

  The chief shook his head. “Chips of raw swamp diamond. This is one of the few places in all the Storme Marshes where they can be found. Very rare. Very valuable.”

  “Diamonds, you said?” Cutter replied while dollar signs practically flashed in his eyes. Amara gave him a hard, disapproving stare, to which Cutter simply raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Just making small talk is all.”

  “Daughter. Cutter. You must wait here,” the chief said, gesturing toward the low-burning fire. “But be warned, thief, do not venture far from the light of the fire.” He took a quick survey of the unnatural underground forest. “There are many dangers here for the unwary. The ancestral spirits of our people haunt this grove—no outsider is safe amongst the sacred trees. Stay with Amara and remain in the light.”

  He paused and turned to go, a hint of worry lingering in his eyes, but suddenly, Amara was by his side, one hand clamped down over his forearm. “Are you sure this is wise, Father?” she asked, her voice pitched so low it was almost impossible to hear. “I have a bad feeling about this. You know the Conclave will be displeased by his presence.” She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. “They could levy sanctions against the tribe. Against you. They could even …” She left the rest unspoken.

  The chief smiled at her and placed one comforting hand over the top of hers. “All will be well, Daughter. There is no reward without risk and no change without challenge. Without change, however, only stagnation and death waits. This is a thing you know well—a thing we all know.” He carefully dislodged her hand. “This way, Jack,” he said to me, nodding at a small path snaking away from the clearing and through a spattering of trees before disappearing behind a small ridge of stone.

  I gave the gang a small wave goodbye, then slipped forward, trailing after the chief, taking great pains to stick to the dirt path. After only a few minutes, the light from the campfire faded and died along with the muted voices of our friends, leaving us in a tense silence and a perpetual twilight, broken only by the soft light from the diamonds far overhead. The path wound and curved its way deeper and deeper into the cavern, constantly and inevitably veering into the heart of the forest.

  The trees here were towering, ancient things, hung with strings of moss and dotted with somber purple flowers and patches of red-capped mushrooms. From what I could see, there was no wildlife of any sort, and yet, something—or maybe several somethings—seemed to dart from tree to tree and shadow to shadow just out of sight. Only a flutter of movement, but enough to leave me feeling supremely queasy and unsettled. I clenched the head of my warhammer in a white-knuckled grip, waiting for everything to go sideways. “Is there something in the forest?” I asked the chief at a whisper. “Like maybe something we should be worried about?”

  He glanced back at me, eyes flat, face solemn, and simply raised a hand as though to say, now is not the time or the place for such questions.

  After another few minutes, the path hooked left, cutting through an especially thick cluster of trees before opening up on an impressive glade. Grass, so vibrant it glowed with spectral light, carpeted the ground, while flowers ran amok, the colors so bright, the petals so pristine, they hurt to look at. A ring of stone archways, each composed of colossal gray slabs covered with swirling runes, encircled the little clearing, instantly bringing a fantastical version of Stonehenge to mind. In
the center of the clearing sat another fire, burning in ghostly shades of violet.

  Seven great chairs—heavy wooden things, edged in gold—surrounded the unnatural flames; five of them were occupied by robed figures with heavy cowls pulled up, covering their faces. Behind and just to the right of each robed figure stood another man or woman, all Murk Elves, all of different classes—one clearly a Shadow Knight, another a Shadowmancer like me, a third a Plague Bringer, but all clearly Maa-Tál—and all staring at us with flat faces and cold, scrutinizing eyes.

  “Welcome, Jack,” the chief said in a reverent whisper, “to the Dark Conclave.”

  SIX:

  Dark Conclave

  The robed figures stood as we entered the clearing, dropping their cowls to reveal a trio of women and a pair of men, all with weather-beaten, gunmetal gray skin and violet eyes. They were old, all at least as time-worn as Chief Kolle, and a few were downright ancient. Though I’d never seen or met these people before, it was safe to assume these men and women represented the other Dokkalfar clans inhabiting the Storme Marshes. Chief Kolle dipped his head respectfully, padded over to one of the empty chairs, slowly—almost leisurely—took his seat, then motioned for me to stand behind him like the other warriors present.

  “I am Chief Dao, the First-Seat of the Conclave,” one of the female chieftains intoned formally. She was a squat sparkplug of a woman with a square chin, a mass of wrinkles, and shoulders as broad as any man. “Be welcome, Chief Kolle of the Ak-Hani. Be welcome, Grim Jack Shadowstrider.”

  “No, there should be no welcome for them,” a man, sitting directly across from us, said with a sneer. “Why make us sit through this mummer’s farce? The Ak-Hani have opened the Storme Marshes to outsiders.” His face—flat and crisscrossed by a pair of deep, but long-faded, scars—puckered in distaste or maybe outright revulsion. “They’ve betrayed our people. Allowed outsiders into our lands. Brokered deals and made alliances with creatures of the deep bog, like the Spider Queen.”

  He paused, letting the accusations linger in the air. “And now?” His voice rose, sharp and angry. “Now the Ak-Hani commit sacrilege. Disgraced Kolle convenes the Conclave and brings this, this”—he waved dismissively at me—“this dàang taao, this Lost One, into our sacred place? No. I reject this. Kolle and the Ak-Hani clan have betrayed us. Betrayed our principles. Our people. Kolle’s face should be lowered—he should be removed from his seat and cast out from among the people. It is only right.” Finally, the man fell silent, absently adjusting his robes.

  Chief Kolle simply waited, arms folded, as a heavy and uncomfortable silence settled over the clearing. After a moment, when no one else spoke, he stood and scanned the faces around him. “If you are done, Chief Sakal,” he said, voice neutral and flat. “Let me start by saying, I understand that many things have changed since this man, Grim Jack”—he glanced over a shoulder at me—“entered our lands and territories. We have indeed accepted him in as one of our own, and many more outsiders besides. We have also allowed the Crimson Alliance to use Yunnam as their faction city. Yes, we have even made a compact with the Spider Queen of the deep bog.”

  He paused for a moment, lips pursed, jaw clenched. “And Yunnam has never been so prosperous,” he finally finished. “Our economy flourishes. Our clansfolk prosper as never before. Our city swells with trade and riches and progress. This is the way forward for the Dokkalfar. The only path in truth. For five hundred years we have hidden in our swamps, leaving the outside world to fend for itself, and we have the Viridian Empire as a result. Perhaps, had we done more then—made hard choices, fought for Eldgard, built more alliances with Outsiders—we wouldn’t be in the situation we are in now.

  “Maybe you, Chief Sakal, wish to remain insular and disconnected from the rest of the world, but me and my people? We do not. Moreover, it is only a matter of time before someone forces the issue. There is a new emperor, a cunning and dangerous man named Robert Osmark, and soon he will come for us. With the Wodes firmly under heel, he will turn his expansionist army on our kith and kin. It is certain. So yes, the Ak-Hani have changed. Improvised. Adapted. But, we have not betrayed our ancestors—and I have proof of this. Evidence that this is indeed the will of the Ancestor Spirits, which is why I’ve called this assembly.”

  “So you say,” Chief Sakal replied, eyes narrowing, chin raised in defiance, “yet I see no proof. Just this filth who defiles this Conclave with his pres—”

  “Enough,” the squat woman, Chief Dao, interjected. “You’ve said your piece, Sakal. Everyone here knows there is no love lost between the Lisu and the Ak-Hani. Your words, your accusations, fall on unsympathetic ears. And do not forget, I am the first of this Conclave and I will hear Chief Kolle out.” Sakal stared daggers at her, a subdued grimace loitering on his face, but then he nodded and sat like an unruly toddler begrudgingly sent to time-out.

  “Now, Honored Kolle,” Chief Dao continued, “I will hear you, but many of the things Honored Sakal has said ring true. You have even admitted so with your own mouth. There have been many, many changes in Yunnam, and yet this Conclave has been consulted precious little in the process, and now you break with tradition completely by bringing this Lost One into our holy place? We are owed some explanation, I think. You say you have proof that this is what the ancestors would want, so I would see it. Let us judge the weight of your claim. What proof do you have?”

  The chief turned toward me and smiled. “Now is the time, Grim Jack. Show them.”

  Hesitantly, I skirted around the chair and moved into the center of the grassy ring, letting the warmth from the violet burning fire wash over me. I shuffled from foot to foot, glancing at each of the faces around me, seeing suspicion or outright hatred in most of their eyes. At last, I cleared my throat, pushed back the hood of my cloak, and pulled the Jade Lord’s crown from my head, holding it up in one hand for everyone to see. For a moment, everything was still—expectant—then the violet light from the fire fell on the helm and the knots of polished jade began to glow with a brilliant, ghostly light.

  A collective round of muted gasps went up from the assembled onlookers.

  “By all the old gods,” Chief Dao gasped. “No. It cannot be … The Crown of the Jade Lord. Found?”

  “A forgery,” Sakal hissed, his eyes bulging, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “It must be. Must. Be. Our Exalted Ancestor, Lord Nangkri, would never bestow one of the sacred artifacts on this Lost One. Impossible.”

  “It’s no fake,” another chief—this one an ancient man with a wispy beard—replied, his eyes fixed on the crown. “It burns with the ancestor fire, we can see it plainly with our own eyes. After five hundred years of shame and silence, the Jade Lord reveals himself again.”

  “Where did you find this thing, boy?” Sakal asked, his angry gaze landing on me like a hammer blow.

  “I recovered it from the corpse of a Dark Priest of Serth-Rog in the Plague Tunnels beneath Rowanheath,” I replied slowly, picking up steam with every word. “I was told to bring it here, to the Dark Conclave, and ask about the Downfall.” The chieftains stole sidelong glances at one another, as though they weren’t quite sure how to proceed; meanwhile, the armor-clad Murk Elves behind them shifted and swayed on edgy feet, adjusting weapons or needlessly straightening cloaks and tunics.

  “We shouldn’t speak of such things,” Sakal finally said, “not in this place. It is ill-advised and disgraceful.”

  “And yet he needs to know,” Chief Kolle replied, “if he is to embark on the quest and seek out the remaining artifacts.”

  “The fact that we need to tell him at all,” Sakal said, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs, “is proof that he isn’t one of us. That the quest should fall to another.”

  “Even so,” the matronly Chief Dao replied, holding up a hand to halt any further objections, “he is here. And, like it or not, he has the crown, so he deserves to know. Honored Anurak?” She dipped her chin toward the ancient beanpole man, who’d spoken
up earlier about the authenticity of the crown. The elderly chieftain, stooped with age, stood and shuffled forward, pulling a small leather pouch from his belt. He moved to the edge of the fire before coming to a herky-jerk stop, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the flames.

  With deliberate and practiced ease, the ancient chieftain opened the pouch, dipped his fingers in, and pulled out a pinch of dull-gray sand, which he promptly tossed into the flames. The powder, whatever it was, went up with a blinding flare, releasing a billowing smoke cloud into the air. Instead of dissipating, however, the smoke began to swirl and move, to twist and take on a new shape, until the hazy image of a man hung above the purple fire. A tall Murk Elf, with broad shoulders, decked out in dark, heavy armor, wearing the same crown that now sat in my hand.

  “Long ago,” Anurak said solemnly, “in days long forgotten to men and faded into the stuff of legends, the six named clans of the Dokkalfar—the Ak-Hani, the La-Hun, the Lisu, the Karem, the Chao-Yao, and the Na-Ang—lived under the banner of the Jade Lord, ruler of the Nangkri Dynasty. The Jade Lord, Nangkri, had six brothers, who ruled over each of the clans.” The smoke shifted, the conjured king breaking apart as six other Murk Elves—each hazy and indistinct—took form. “Those days were the height of our glory, back before the Empire and the Wode incursion. Back when the People of the Marsh ruled half of Eldgard. Everything up to the Tanglewood, near Harrowick.

  “We were united, then: one people, with one heart and one purpose, ruled by the greatest king to ever live.” The stooped chieftain paused, his eyes staring through the smoke and flame as though he were seeing into a different time. A better time. “Then Arzokh the Sky Maiden came. A monstrous Dragon Queen from the Frozen Wastes far to the north.” The six smoky brothers swirled and vanished, reforming and spreading into a monstrous scale-covered body with huge wings and fang-studded jaws larger than a T. rex’s. An eye, big as a dinner plate and reflecting the green firelight below, regarded me coolly.